Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fiddleford sat in his old car, staring down at the memory gun resting in his lap as he had so many times before. Its cold glassy and metal structure glinted under the faint light of the fading sun, his reflection wavered on the barrel.

“Reckon this is the only way t’ save him from himself,” he muttered, forcing a chuckle that came out strained and hollow. This wasn’t the first time he’d thought about using the memory gun on Ford, hell, this wasn't even the first time he was gonna use it on him, and with that thought came the all-too-familiar sting of dread and shame.

“Erase Bill Cipher... erase all of it.” His words muttered to the nothingness seemed to disappear into the cold air, offering little comfort. He wasn’t exactly sure what Bill Cipher was, but whatever he had glimpsed through the portal had left a mark on him deeper than any nightmare, he still wasn't sure of what he saw, he couldn't remember correctly. There was also this memory, about the tapestries of triangles and prisms that Ford had scattered all over the cabin, they had always sent a chill down his spine, but seeing the real deal in the void beyond the portal? Nothing could’ve prepared him for that. He’d tried to forget, tried using the memory gun on himself, but the memories seeped back through the cracks, haunting him when he was alone. The thought of the portal was all too consuming, he knew that against his will, he will soon remember what was on the other side of it.

His grim thoughts came to a jarring halt as the car lurched to a stop, tires grinding against the snow that had piled up thick at the end of the road. The cabin loomed ahead, dark and weathered, half-buried in the icy quiet. It had been weeks—maybe months—since he’d last been here. He’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t return, that he’d head back to Palo Alto, back to his wife and kid. Ask for their forgiveness and hope they accepted him back. That had been the plan. But here he was, standing at the doorstep of the past.

He pushed open the creaking door, the silence of the cabin settling around him like a shroud. “Stanford?” His voice echoed in the empty space, swallowed by the shadows. “I came here t’ have a word with ya.” But the only response was the soft, ghostly creak of the door behind him.

The inside of the cabin was a battlefield—papers, books, and strange specimens littered the floor, as if a tornado had swept through. An old tape playing on the tv showed a video of Stanford laughing histerically and scattered polaroids lay amidst the mess, most showing Stanford acting in the same erratic way. It gave Fiddleford the creeps, what the hell had gotten to his friend? The poor light made it hard to make out the details, but the glint of red in some of those pictures was saying more than enough. He tried to flick the light on, but was still met with darkness. Had Ford turned off the generator? Nothing seemed to work.

As he ventured deeper into the cabin, the sensation of being an intruder gnawed at him. The absence of life in the once-bustling place unsettled him. The only proof of Ford’s existence was his research papers and clothes strewn across the floor. Fiddleford picked up one of the shirts, the fabric stiff and stained. A sickly, metallic scent hit him—blood. It reeked like the slaughterhouses back home, like the hogs he used to butcher. The realization crashed over him, sending his mind spinning with dread.

"Where are ya, Stanford?" he whispered hoarsely to the empty rooms, panic rising in his chest. "Where could ya be?" He clenched the gun around his hand, he had to find him. Whatever happened when he wasn't around, was no good. He had to check the basement. The portal room.

He hurried down into the shadowed depths of the cabin, bursting into the portal room with his heart hammering against his ribs. His breath caught when he spotted a figure slumped on the floor.

“Stanford? Is that you?” His voice broke, panic clinging to the edges. But as he looked closer, something was wrong. The man’s hair was too long, his clothes grimy and stained with sweat. Had Ford truly let himself go this much?

Stepping closer, Fiddleford caught sight of a burn on the man’s shoulder—angry, red, and infected, the symbol etched looked familiar. The face of this man was eerily similar to Ford’s, but something was just... off. It was different enough to make him question if this truly was the man he knew. One, two, three, four, five....five fingers

"Who... who are you?" Fiddleford demanded, as he stood up straight, his voice shaking as he aimed the memory gun.

The stranger's head jerked up, revealing eyes swollen with tears. “He is gone... my brother... is gone, it's all my fault.” His words came out in a broken, desperate rush, a rush that somehow still managed to make the sound reaching his ears take an eternity, his whole body trembling as sobs tore through him.

Fiddleford faltered, the gun dipping in his grip as confusion replaced the fear in his chest. “Wait... yer brother? Yer brother as in Stanford? Stanford Pines?” The desperation in the man’s voice stirred something in him, a recognition of pain.

Stan's eyes widened "You know him?" The man’s eyes went glassy, tears trailing down his cheeks, and his body seemed to fold in on itself, collapsing to the floor as if he couldn’t carry the weight of his own sorrow.

Fiddleford stood frozen, the chill of the portal room seeping into his bones, the memory gun heavy in his hand. He had come here to find Ford, but instead, he had found a ghost of a man who seemed just as lost as him.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford’s breath fogged the cold air of the basement as he knelt beside Stanford's brotther collapsed form, he had yet to ask for a name. He started to prod at the man with the memory gun, careful not to trigger it.

"Hey" another prod "Hey wake up"

Dear God, did he really faint? Heaven take some pity on this man, always getting involved in trouble with the Pines. He kept his position there, knelt beside him. Great, yet another problem to his list.

Too late to back track and with some pity at heart he hoisted the man up, noting how light he felt despite his thick frame, exhaustion having sapped his strength.

“Come on now, we ain’t stayin’ down there,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the nearly unconscious man draped over his shoulder.

He struggled with each step, it was a far from graceful process, this man might be light but his limbs kept getting stuck in each broken step of the stairs. Wait, broken? Oh heavens, now he will have to take a look at that in the morning.

He kept on dragging Stan out of the basement and up to the dimly lit main room, courtesy of the shining moon for the light still didn't work.

Fiddleford carefully laid Stanley on the old couch, his eyes falling on the wound that marred Stan’s shoulder. The angry red mark and the symbol burned deep into his skin, made Fiddleford’s stomach lurch with a memory he’d fought hard to bury. It was part of the portal machinery, a symbol that Fiddleford knew all too well but couldn't remember from what specific part. Was it the motor? The control panel? Maybe from the portal itself. Well, it didn't matter anyway.

He shook off the creeping thoughts as he stood, leaving Stanford's brother in the couch. He went to the bathroom cabinet where he found a first aid kit. It was new when he had bought it, but now half the things were missing, even the stitch and needle. Whatever, he had to work with what was available. He took the half empty bottle of rubbing alcohol, Iodine and a cloth. There was no tape or bandages in the first aid kit, guess he would have to stick to just cleaning the wound. Better than nothing.

He approached the man in the couch, cloth damp with alcohol.

“This is gonna sting like the devil, but you’ll have to bear it,” he muttered, pouring a bit more alcohol over the rag and pressing it firmly against the burn. The man flinched, a sharp gasp escaping his lips, but he didn’t pull away. The harsh sting of the alcohol, brought the man to reality for a second. The first sign of awareness he’s shown since collapsing. Fiddleford seizes on this, trying to coax him back to reality. “C’mon, stay with me, fella. I need ya to focus. Tell me what happened, tell me where Stanford is,” he urges, his voice wavering between frustration and desperation.

The man's reactions where slow and disoriented—he’s wasn't fully conscious yet. His lips trembled, forming half-words about “the machine” and “Ford’s gone,” but he doesn’t make much sense.

Fiddleford’s urgency only grew. He keept pressing the alcohol-soaked cloth against the wound, hoping the sting will snap Stanley out of his shock, even if it hurts. Stanley only recoils into the couch and keeps on muttering nonsense, some sobs escaping through.

Is at that moment that Fiddleford realizes he pushed way too hard, both figuratively and literally. He removed the cloth and tried to shift the mood that he set.

"Hey hey, maybe you could tell me yer name?"

"Stanley..." Was all that the man said before falling back into his shocked state

Fiddleford realized he wouldn't get a word more out of "Stanley", so he worked quickly, cleaning the wound with steady hands, though his mind was far from calm.

"Let's get ya fixed up and straight to bed" he tried to lift the man again, but this time it was more difficult, almost as if he was making himself heavy on purpose.

“Damn it, don’t you shut down on me now,” Fiddleford muttered.

He watched Stanley's face, now slackened slightly as exhaustion took over. Fiddleford tried hauling him up again, this time successfully, guiding him toward the hallway, aiming for Ford's room. “We’ll talk ‘bout this in the mornin’, but for now, you need some rest.”

As they reached the doorway, though, Stanley suddenly pulled back, digging in his heels. “I can’t... he’s still here...” His voice was barely a whisper, but the weight of his words was heavy with grief. “That’s his room... I don’t deserve it. He doesn't, he doesn't... He doesn't deserve this" murmurs kept on falling from his lips.

Fiddleford frowned, studying the haunted expression on Stan’s face, and then nodded slowly. “Alright then. Let’s get you to the spare room.”

He led him down the narrow hall to the room where Fiddleford had stayed during his early days working on the portal. As they crossed the threshold, he tried to ease Stan onto the bed, but the man’s hand shot out, gripping Fiddleford’s arm with desperate strength. “Please... don’t leave me alone,” he whispered, his voice breaking. The grip was tight enough that it would leave a bruise, and Stan’s eyes were wide, reflecting a fear that Fiddleford had only seen in wounded animals. That face that looked all too similar to Ford’s held him in a spell that forced him to stay.

Fiddleford hesitated, but knew all too well the answer, feeling the weight of that plea sink into his chest. He could’ve told Stan he needed to sleep it off, that they’d figure things out in the morning. But something in the way the man clung to him—like a lifeline—struck a chord. With a reluctant sigh, he eased down onto the bed beside him, letting Stanley curl against his side.

“Alright, alright, I’ll stay,” he muttered, adjusting his arm around Stan’s trembling form. The sobs that wracked the man’s body were quiet but fierce, shaking both of them with the force of emotions held back for far too long. Fiddleford held him close, the heat of Stan’s tears soaking into his shirt, and felt his own thoughts swirl with unanswered questions and the lingering chill of the portal’s dark shadow.

For tonight, though, he focused on keeping the man beside him steady, offering a bit of warmth in the cold, dark cabin. As Stan’s breaths eventually slowed, falling into the rhythm of sleep, Fiddleford found himself staring at the ceiling, wondering just how deep those wounds of the past would run before they could heal.

Chapter Text

Stanley woke up to a disorienting warmth beside him, contrasting with the cold shiver that ran up his spine. The last remnants of sleep slipped away, replaced by a jolt of fear. There was a body next to him—who was beside him? The urge to look behind his shoulder was there, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Yet there was still a glimmer of hope, maybe the body beside him was just a customer and the past three days had been a dream. Maybe the whole fight was a nightmare he had, a weird one but it wouldn't be the first nightmare he had regarding his brother.

His heart raced as he took in the unfamiliar room, shadows lurking in the corners and the faint light filtering through the window, dust floating around and shinning by the dim sun that threatened to rise. Through the window he saw the snowy forest and his car parked, next to it, another car. It wasn't a dream, the man beside wasn't a customer, and whatever the fuck had happened, he did not get paid for it.

Instinct kicked in, and before he fully comprehended his actions, he sprang up, pinning the man beside him down by the neck, gripping one of his wrists tightly.

“Who are you?” Stanley demanded, his voice a harsh whisper filled with adrenaline. Eyes narrowed and fierce, mixed with fear and something akin to anger

Fiddleford stirred, blinking awake, he tried to move but the hand on his neck pressed even more, his eyes widening in surprise. “Hey, hold your horses! Back off me, Stanley!” he exclaimed with a slighly hoarse voice, be it from the pressure or from just waking up, God would know. He attempted to shake off both the man on top and the sudden panic.

Stanley’s grip tightened once again, more firmly, confusion and anger battling within him. “How do you know my name?”

Fiddleford let out a frustrated sigh, and, did he just roll his eyes? “God, and I thought I had memory problems.”

“What do you mean by that?” Stanley pressed, his heart and mind racing

With an exasperated breath, Fiddleford began to explain. “You fainted last night. I found you in the basement, and you were... well, a mess.” he gave Stan a look, almost scanning his whole body which made Stanley feel more vulnerable.

Stanley’s brow furrowed as he recalled fragments of the previous night. This man knew Ford and clearly had some personal connection to him “And how are you related to Ford?”

Fiddleford’s tone turned a bit defensive. “We were partners.”

Stanley’s eyes narrowed, a bitter smile creeping onto his face, almost mockingly. “Didn’t know my brother was that kind of man.”

Fiddleford shot him a dry look. “Lab partners,” he clarified, his voice a blend of annoyance and amusement.

“Oh” Stanley replied, the weight of the misunderstanding beginning to dissipate slightly. He retreated the hand on the man's neck and wrist, letting his whole weight sit on top of the man. Practically straddling him.

“Now, can you back off me?” Fiddleford said, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “You’r' a lot heavier than you look, and I can barely breathe here!”

Stanley blinked, the adrenaline of the moment fading. Realizing the absurdity of the situation, he shifted back to the other side of the bed as he tried to process what he just learned and the man he’d just met.

Fiddleford rubbed his neck with an exaggerated wince, throwing Stanley a sidelong glare. “Ya always greet folks like that, or am I just special?” he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Stanley only returned the glare back “Some gratitude, huh? After I hauled you upstairs and made sure you didn’t freeze your behind off.”

Stanley’s jaw tightened, a flicker of guilt crossing his features as he watched Fiddleford tend to his neck. He crossed his arms defensively, trying to regain control of the situation. “I didn’t ask for any of that. Didn’t ask for your help either.”

Fiddleford let out a dry laugh, the sound grating in the chilly morning air. “Yeah, well, you were too busy dying in there to ask for anything, weren’t ya?” He shifted to sit up against the headboard, keeping one hand on his sore neck. “Now, don't take me for a douchebag, I get you had a rough...." Fiddleford looked at him once more, from head to toe "well a rough year it seems" Stanley seemed offended by the comment and was about to reply back but Fiddleford stopped him. "Like I was saying, I get you probably had it rough but I need to know where Ford is"

Stanley tensed at the mention of Ford, his expression hardening. “None of your business, alright?”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, unamused. “Oh, it’s not, huh? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure it became my business the moment I had to drag your sorry hide outta the basement while you kept on whinning about Ford being gone”

Stanley’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, struggling to find a balance between defensiveness and the creeping guilt at Fiddleford’s snarky remarks.

Fiddleford let an exasperated sigh escape, a hand going to remove his glasses and rub his eyes "He is my friend, ya know? I'm concerned about him" Fiddleford said suddenly, that caught Stanley off guard, the man seemed to finally leave his high pedestal and snarky remarks. "I haven't seen him in a while..." Fiddleford started to play with his thumbs, picking at the skin.

Once again Stanley was about to speak but Fiddleford cut him off with a huff. “Ford ain’t been tellin’ me much of anything lately...or ever, I'm just concerned about him. He always got me getting worried about him one way or another" he laughs dryly

"Back in college he would stop eating and sleeping just to study" he laughs again, this time there's a hint of happiness mixed with melancholy. This faint display of emotion is soon dissipated as he stands up from the bed "That’s why I’m askin’ you, what exactly happened down there. I came all the way here to talk with Ford and he is nowhere to be seen"

He looked at Stanley and he met Fiddleford’s gaze, seeing genuine curiosity and maybe even concern.

"Well, I guess you deserve an explanation after all" Stanley said, barely a whisper.

Stanley shifted uneasily, avoiding Fiddleford’s direct gaze as the weight of the conversation began to bear down on him. His heart pounded harder in his chest, the edges of his thoughts fraying as memories of that night clawed their way back into the forefront of his mind.

He rubbed his hands together, suddenly aware of the cold sweat forming on his palms. “The portal... Ford, um” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to mask the emotion creeping in.

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, staying quiet but watching him with a sharp gaze that made Stanley’s skin prickle. The man had a way of being irritating even when he wasn’t saying anything.

Stanley’s fingers twitched, restlessly tapping his knee as he continued. “We—uh—got into a fight. I tried to stop him from... from going through with... whatever that was. I don't know how to explain it but he was out of his mind!" Stanley exclaimed and raised his arms "He even pointed at me with a crossbow when I got here" that comment earned a concerned look from Fiddleford "Once we got to the huh..portal room? Basement? Well, Things got... messy.”

“Messy, huh?” Fiddleford echoed, his tone tinged with disbelief. “Looks like it was a bit more than messy.” Once again this man seemed to want to push Stan to the edge of exasperation.

Stanley’s jaw clenched. He felt the familiar heat of frustration rising, but it was dulled by the gnawing guilt gnashing away inside him. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he muttered, his voice rough and faint. His hands, now balled into fists, pressed against his legs, as though grounding him. “But he wouldn’t listen. He never listened to me.”

He stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose expression had softened slightly, curiosity creeping but being conscious enough to not press the matter too soon. Stanley could tell he was waiting, expecting more, but the words clung stubbornly in his throat, weighed down by regret.

“The portal—I didn't know that would happen! It just turned on and, and" he began to hyperventilate, Fiddleford will think he did all of that on purpose, he will think he tried to kill his own brother. Oh Moses, if only he hadn't come to Gravity Falls, Stanford would be here, if he hadn't broken his stupid project Stanford wouldn't be in Gravity Falls at all either, he would be far from him living his best life if only he hadn't been born, if only— his train of thought came to a stop after he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He forced himself to continue "The portal activated....I didn't see the security line, I didn't even know that would happen when I pushed him”

At that Fiddleford's hand gripped him tightly

"Stanley, what do you mean by that?" Fiddleford's face was coming apart, his brows furrowed and a clear fear settled in his eyes at the implications of Stanley's words.

He felt his chest tighten, the memory of that fight swirling around him—Ford’s accusations, the punches thrown and the bitter words exchanged.

“He floated and got sucked into the portal” he said all too fast to be understood but Fiddleford was able to pick up the words well enough.

Fiddleford’s eyes widened, finally piecing together the gravity of the situation. “So that’s why Ford’s gone? He is...on the other side?” he asked quietly, he already knew the answer, it was just a question that he needed to let out. "Oh Lord"

Stanley couldn’t answer right away. His fists clenched tighter as he stared blankly at the floor, eyes burning. “Yeah,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I pushed him. And he’s gone.”

A sob he couldn't contain slipped through "It's all my fault". Fiddleford remained still, not sure what to do, he just muttered some type of reassuring words to get the man to calm down.

"It’s not just your fault, Stanley. We all know Ford can be reckless, but this... this is a whole different level." Fiddleford tried to look at Stanley in the eyes but the man kept his gaze fixed on the floor. "We’ll find him, we'll find how to bring him back, alright? You and me. But we need to stay focused and think clearly. Just, just give me a second to —uh— think, yeah" His words came out more like a slur, the shock getting to him. His whole body felt all too light, soon his hand left Stanley's shoulder, and he left the room, needing air to process what he had just heard.

Stanford, his friend, was on the other side of the portal, and he wasn't alone, he was with Bill Cipher.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford pushed the door of the cabin open, going straight to the porch, letting the cold morning air greet him with a harsh chill. The snow-covered trees stood tall and silent, barely moving and so calm, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of thoughts in his head. His fingers trembled from the cold as he fumbled with the cigarette pack in his coat pocket, finally pulling one out and lighting it with a small flick of his lighter. A quick smoke would help him ease the mind.

The first drag brought a rush of warmth that coursed through him, settling the nerves that had been tightening since Stanley’s confession. He wasn’t quite sure how to process it—Stan, Ford, the portal—it all felt too heavy, too much to bear. And oh, there also was the revelation that Ford had a brother, a twin brother at that. This man spoke close to nothing about his personal life, they had been friends for years yet never heard of a brother aside from Shermie, and he barely ever heard of him.

Those thoughts kept disrupting his quick smoke break, he was here to try and relax a bit but the frustration kept seeping through, dear God, Stanford was quite a tool. He took another drag, and let the smoke out, letting it swirl up and blend with the crisp air, his mind began to drift again. He leaned against the wooden railing, letting his eyes close for a moment. The sound of the wind hitting the trees reminded him of simpler times—before the madness of the portal.

His mind wandered back to the early days with Ford. Those long nights working in the lab, bent over research papers, discussing the impossible. He smiled faintly as he remembered the excitement in Ford's eyes whenever they discovered a new anomaly. The way they would talk about such creatures with excitement barely contained, finding traces of oddities that no one else seemed to notice. Once they had gotten lost while trying to find the hide of the unicorns. They had been reckless, going deep into the woods and getting lost into the night. But that thrill, that camaraderie, made it worth it. Ford had been more than a lab partner to him—he had been his best friend. He was even more than that even though he did not want to admit it. They had been unstoppable back then, a team chasing the wonders of the world, they could've have it all.

Another drag of the cigarette, this time he felt the bitterness of the nicotine in his tongue. There were also the not so great memories, although he couldn't quite picture them, the memory gun had done a number on him. He had brought it upon himself.

As he stared into the white blanket of snow that covered the grass he remembered last Christmas. It wasn't a really great memory to be honest, it had been the start of his problems with Emma. He had forgotten to bring her a gift; of course, he had forgotten to give his wife a gift but was able to get Ford two handmade gifts. The cigarette between his fingers got crumpled as his hand threatened to close into a fist.

"Oh darned thing..." He muttered as he pulled a new cigarette out.

Back then, he tried to blame this lack of a gift on his memory problems. He always did that to scurry away from any problem. Yet in the solitude of the woods, he found himself reflecting about his actions. He did forget about giving his wife a gift, but he knew he could have done better, he knew he could have left a note, a reminder, like the thousands he had in his room. Maybe even buy something in a near shop once he realized he came empty handed, he could have asked for forgiveness, treat her to a meal in that fancy Italian restaurant she liked. Yet he was a coward who decided to go back to this damned place. He came back to the cabin, back to Ford.

Such an idiot he was to come back again and again. Over and over, he found himself trapped in the same situations, maybe he never got to learn about his mistakes because he kept on erasing everything distasteful from his life.

He took a short drag from the cigarette, inhaling the smoke and letting it barely escape from his lips that remained slightly open, the cold chapping them. Well, maybe this was all his fault after all. He brought everything upon himself, he was truly an idiot to follow Stanford here.

He looked at the trees covered in the so white snow and remembered how he made snowmen with Stanford. A small chuckle came out of him, well, maybe last Christmas wasn't all too bad. It certainly had it's moments... He thought to himself, exhaling another puff of smoke.

But as the portal project progressed, things changed. Fiddleford could still recall the first time he’d questioned Ford’s obsession with the project. At first, it was small things—Ford staying later at the basement, refusing to listen to concerns about safety or sleep. But then it became more...concerning for lack of a better word. Ford’s insistence that they were on the verge of something monumental, how he kept forcing cup after cup of coffee and how his pupils even seemed affected by this. His eyes were yellowing sometimes, barely looking human and his attitude somehow got even more insufferable.

"Maybe I should have stayed with Emma,” he thought out loud, fingers still shaking slightly. “But damn it, Ford needed me." Or that's what he thought.

Fiddleford had tried to keep up, but the deeper they went, the more his gut twisted in unease. The research had been groundbreaking, sure, they had created a rift between dimensions and he was witness of what was on the other side. But as everything kept advancing in this well set and unstoppable pace, the more Fiddleford became unsure of the project and well, Ford, oh Ford… Ford was blind to it. His ambition eclipsed everything else, not even seeing Fiddleford shake in his arms got him out of working in this portal. He didn't need anyone to continue his research, he didn't need Fiddleford.

The cigarette was almost finished by now, Fiddleford looked out at the sky, now streaked with pale morning light. His breath came out in clouds, mingling with the smoke. “Maybe I should’ve stopped him sooner…” The thought lingered, gnawing at him. "I should've erased his memories when I had the chance"

The cigarette burned down to the filter, but Fiddleford didn’t notice. His thoughts were tangled with what-ifs and maybes. He remembered their last real conversation, when Fiddleford had finally voiced his fears about the portal before it's activation, Ford as always, had just dismissed him—brushed him off like an annoying fly. It had stung then, but now it cut deeper. Knowing that even after the incident, Ford couldn't seem to care less about his safety or sanity.

“I could’ve done more,” he muttered to himself, flicking the spent cigarette into the snow. His hand reached for another before he even realized it, lighting it with trembling fingers. “I should’ve done more.” His words seemed to catch in his throat, he kept on dwelling on such stupid feelings.

He sighed, smoke curling from his lips as he stared out into the snowy expanse. Hours could’ve passed, and he wouldn’t have noticed. The cigarette in his hand was nothing more than an excuse to stay out there, in the biting cold, away from the memories that lurked inside. Away from the all too familiar face that somehow belonged to a complete stranger.

As the cold seeped into his bones, Fiddleford’s thoughts circled back to Stanley. That poor bastard. He didn’t envy him one bit, whatever he had gone through seemed no fun and the fact that Ford was on the other side of that portal because of him— Well, poor soul, Ford got him tangled in this mess too.

With a final drag, Fiddleford put out the cigarette, watching the smoke dissipate into the cold air.

He knew he had to go back into the cabin, face the man in there. However there was also the option to leave everything behind, go back to his wife and kid, live a simple yet peaceful life and forget everything. He still was on time, he could let everything else go to hell and escape before he got dragged there. He could also spare Stanley, erase his memories about Stanford, and free him from the guilt. It didn't sound like a bad idea. He gave a little approving hum to himself as he let his mind fantasize about such an idea. The memory gun was just within reach and if he was fast enough Stanley wouldn't notice him.

His breath hung in the air, thick as the clouds of his breath formed and dissipated into the morning chill. The cigarette had done little to warm him, it did clear his mind a bit, but its heat was barely enough to thaw the cold biting at his fingers.

Well, he had been out long enough and he could hear Stanley walking across the shack. He could not keep fantasizing about such twisted ideas, he'll have to face this problem sooner or later. Tightening his coat, Fiddleford headed back inside. A long day was ahead of him.

Chapter Text

Stanley paced back and forth in the cramped cabin, the floor creaking under each step. He threw a glance toward the door, the faint light from outside streaming in through the edges. Fiddleford had been gone for what felt like hours, leaving Stan alone with his thoughts—something he didn’t appreciate one bit.

He dropped down onto a rickety chair, rubbing his hands together to distract himself from the icy air seeping through the cracks. He should buy some gloves once he gets some money. Maybe try to turn the heater on. He tried to distract himself with mundane thoughts, but he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting back to the previous night—how he’d clung to Fiddleford’s presence like a lifeline. A hot wave of shame rushed through him as he remembered himself, pleading, practically begging Fiddleford to stay. He winced at the memory, a deep frown etching into his face. He could almost hear his father's voice mocking him, calling him soft, weak.

Stan fought the urge to punch the table, or himself, clenching his fists tightly instead. That vulnerability, that desperation he showed, it was everything he’d tried to bury. Sure, he was in a state of shock and out of his mind but he was a grown man. He thought he’d left all that softness behind long ago when he left home.

Home... Could he truly call that place home? Don't get him wrong, he had quite nice memories and was fond of the place, of the warm sun and salty air that came from the beach. Yet he couldn't really call such place a home, he never felt at complete ease there, he felt like a stranger. Always shoved near the frame of the pictures, always getting the seconds of his brother, always being a failure to everyone around him. No matter how hard he tried, he was never able to be enough, for anyone, or himself. Just look at him, the good for nothing Stan pushed the good at everything Stan to his possible death.
His mind circled back to Ford everytime he tried to think of something else, the shame and embarrassment from last night was no rival to this, the familiar pang of resentment stabbed at him. Ford, always the genius, always the one with a future. He hadn’t thought twice about dragging Stan into his mess, hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him the whole story before sending that cryptic postcard. Stan’s hands curled into fists again, his knuckles whitening. What kind of brother leaves you in the dark, then expects you to come running to the middle of nowhere? What a brother he turned out to be...but he could say the same about himself, he was the one to push Ford into the portal.

Now he needed help from..., wait, what was his name? Well, from the man outside, to bring his brother back. For the first time in a while he wasn't left to his luck, or so it seemed.

Back in the streets Stan struck out on his own, scraping by with odd jobs and scams. He never asked for help, never relied on anyone. He didn’t need to. At least, that’s what he told himself.

But now? He let out a frustrated huff, glancing toward the door again. Now he did need help. Not in the way that kept creeping into his thoughts late at night, when he wondered what it’d be like to have someone actually stay. No, this was about the portal. That damned portal that had swallowed up his brother. He wasn’t about to admit he couldn’t handle it alone, but deep down, he knew that this stranger was his only chance of getting through this mess.

Stan ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends as if he could yank the thoughts out of his head. He couldn’t shake the bitterness of it, the way needing someone else felt like a betrayal of everything he’d tried to become. But he didn’t have a choice. He’d tried to understand the notes, the calculations scrawled in Ford’s barely legible handwriting, but it was all Greek to him. The last three days had been a torture, he barely looked after himself, he hadn't even eaten. Ford didn't seem to eat apparently because both the fridges and pantries were empty, except for the few taxidermied specimens and spiders that inhabited the place. There was also the fact that he hadn't slept either and well, this guy seemed way more collected than him. Well, compared to a normal person he didn't really seem all that stable either, he had deep eyes bags, quite too many greying hairs, and a what looked like a small burn scar at the side of his temple. He hadn't spend much time with him but he sure had a weird vibe that rubbed him the wrong way. Let's not forget the fact that he had brought what seemed like a weird gun to "just talk" with his brother.

Wait...the gun, oh dear, there is a gun... He will have to deal with that, find where it is and–

The door creaked open, breaking his thoughts. Stan snapped his head up, relief and irritation fighting for dominance in his expression as Fiddleford stepped back inside. The man’s face was flushed from the cold, and he looked a little shaken, like the outside air had done as much to rattle him as it did to clear his head.

Stan swallowed the biting remark that came to mind, choosing instead to cross his arms and lean back, his tough-guy mask sliding firmly back into place. “You took your sweet time out there,” he said, keeping his tone casual, trying to bury the vulnerability he felt creeping in.

Fiddleford shrugged, shuffling off snow from his boots before turning to face Stan fully. For a moment, the two just stared at each other—two strangers brought together by forces neither of them could fully understand. Fiddleford broke the silence with a sigh, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Reckon I haven’t even properly introduced myself,” he said, his voice softer and his thick southern accent was nowhere to be seen, or well, heard “Name’s Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the formality, but he quickly covered it with a smirk. “Stanley Pines,” he replied, then added with a grunt, “Not that it matters much, does it?”

Fiddleford shook his head, glancing around the cabin like he was seeing it for the first time. “Look, I... I don’t know how much Ford told you, but we were workin’ on something here. A project—a big one.” He hesitated, his eyes meeting Stan’s with a flicker of unease. “It... it got out of hand.”

Stan leaned forward, his arms uncrossing. He could sense that Fiddleford was struggling to find the right words, but he didn’t care about the scientist’s nerves. He needed answers, he knew about it being a interdimensional portal thing but he could barely pay any attention to Ford's explanation the first time, being too concerned about Ford's state of mind. “What kind of project?” he pressed, his voice gruffer than he intended.

Fiddleford looked away, guilt clouding his expression. “A portal,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “A portal to... other dimensions. We were tryin’ to understand what was out there. Well, Ford was, he said this portal had all the answers to our questions, that it would lead to innovation and infinite knowledge” Fiddleford looked down at his hands, which were trembling.

Stan’s mind reeled, trying to process the words. It all sounded like something out of a bad sci-fiction movie, hearing it a second time did not make it anymore believable, but he had seen what happened to Ford and the look on Fiddleford’s face told him he was being honest, it was real—too real. The scientist continued, explaining bits and pieces about the project, the dangers, the risks they’d taken.

"I had tried to stop Ford, several times" he started fidgeting with the buttons of his coat "He never listened, not even when I told him what was on the other side" there was a sudden shift in his expression it became all too gloomy and empty, as if his soul had gotten out of his body, leaving only a trembling husk. Just as soon as he entered that all to fragile state, he came back to his senses, his expression disoriented as of he had forgotten what he was just saying. "I-" he tried to form a sentence but the words just kept getting stuck in his throat "Ford, he was all too stubborn" he said finally

Stan had listened to his rant about the portal, and stared curiously at the scientist when he started getting all fidgety. He seemed to do that whenever he was nervous.

When Fiddleford finally fell silent, Stan looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. “Ford sent me a postcard,” he said, his voice rough. “Told me to come out here. Didn’t explain anything, just... expected me to show up.” He laughed, a bitter sound. “Guess he knew I’d come runnin’ like always, huh?”

Fiddleford studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Reckon he thought you’d be the one person stubborn enough to try.”

Stan grunted, not sure if that was a compliment or an insult. But as he looked at Fiddleford, he realized it wasn't a mean spirited comment.

The silence settled again, but this time it felt different. Less tense, more like the calm before a storm. Stan exhaled, letting some of the fight go out of him, even if only for a moment. The day ahead would bring more questions, more frustration, but at least he wasn’t facing it alone.

He let himself fall into the chair, staring into the ceiling. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a second, the cold getting to him.

"Hey- uh, do you know how to turn the heater on? I've been freezing in here for a while" Stan asked awkwardly

"Oh, yeah, yeah" Fiddleford said "Let me just go take a look at it, I'll be right back" the man left the room, heading somewhere else

Now was Stanley's chance to go look for the gun.

Chapter Text

Stan shuffled through the scattered papers on the desk, eyes darting to the corners of the cabin where shadows gathered. He couldn’t find the damn gun or whatever it was. He was seriously considering lifting the floor boards. He had hidden it too well for Stan to stumble on during a quick search. Frustrated, he straightened up and went back to take a seat where he previously was. He heard a door creak and the wooden floor squeaking. He turned around to see Fiddleford taking his coat off and mumbling something about gnomes.

"Damned gnomes, always gettin' in the weirdest places" Fiddleford's eyes met Stanley's, there was still a certain tension between them that hadn’t quite been broken. "The heater should turn on soon" Fiddleford spoke in an attempt to break the silence.

“Why’re you really here?” Stan asked suddenly, letting the question hang in the air as he adjusted his weight in the creaky chair, crossing his arms, keeping his right hand on top to let his fingers tap at his forearm. He wasn’t looking for a friendly chat, Stan never was. He had his own suspicions, and every second they spent together only sharpened them.

Fiddleford looked around the room, avoiding Stan’s gaze like the plague. Once again he was fidgeting with his fingers, his nails were worn and some of the pink meat below was showing, this man was quite anxious, huh?

“Like I said before, I came to warn Stanford one last time. Just came here to talk. Thought maybe, just maybe, he’d listen to me this time.” he said too fast, almost rehearsed, there was also a note of desperation in his voice, and Stan heard the lie underneath.

Stan snorted, raising an eyebrow as he leaned back, trying to play it casual even though he felt the tightness of mistrust coiling in his chest. “Talk to him, huh? Sure that’s all you were planning on doing?” His voice had an edge, and he knew it, pushing just enough to test the waters.

Fiddleford stiffened, his fidgeting came to a halt, tightening his hands. “What... what exactly are you tryin’ to say?” His tone was defensive, and his gaze finally snapped back to Stan’s, searching his face like he was trying to figure out what Stan had already guessed.

Stan shrugged, keeping his expression unreadable. “Dunno, what do you think?” He let the words hang, watching as a flicker of unease crossed Fiddleford’s face. "You are the one who came all the way here to the middle of nowhere, to just "talk" with my brother, you probably have a better idea as to why you are here than I do"

Fiddleford hesitated, this man was getting on his nerves, then let out a shaky breath. “Look, I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’m married.” He said it like he was declaring some immutable fact, like it would put an end to the conversation. "Well, I was married and have a kid" he made sure to let that clear. He didn't like the smug look Stan had, how he kept silent even with that reply.

“That’s not what I’m asking” Stan replied after realizing he wasn't getting any more answers. His tone remained low, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Fiddleford. Fiddleford’s eyes narrowed, his expression tightening with a mix of confusion and frustration.

"We were college roommates, Ford just invited me over to help with his research" There, silence again, an uneasy silence that creeped into him "I mean, we weren't just roommates, we were friends, we go back years" his hands were moving from one side to another as he spoke. All it took this man to crumble apart is to mention Ford, interesting, Stan thought.

“Must have been a special friend for him to invite you to help with his research, let alone let you stay with him in here” He watched as the words hit Fiddleford, how he flinched like he’d been struck. This was just getting better and better.

Stan fought the urge to laugh. It was almost too easy. He’d figured out that whenever he pressed Fiddleford about Ford, the man got flustered and spilled a little more than he meant to. Stan leaned back as he watched Fiddleford squirm in his place. “Yeah, friends. Sure. But Ford was always picky about who he let close.” His tone was casual, but there was a sharpness underneath, like a knife hidden in plain sight. “Guess you had somethin’ special.” Stanley was playing a dangerous game, he knew that, but he also knew this man was far too close to Stanford to just go away from a simple talk. Plus as petty as this might sound, he was enjoying teasing the man, take it as a little revenge for how sarcastic he was in the morning.

Fiddleford’s face reddened, and he took a step back, like he was trying to physically distance himself from the implication. “I... I was just there to help him with his research,” he insisted, his voice strained, like he was reciting a there it was again, that tone as if it was a line he’d practiced too many times, maybe he had told his wife that line too “He needed someone who he could trust”

Stan’s smirk faded, replaced by something colder. “Yeah? Trust you with what, exactly?” He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, letting his stare pierce through Fiddleford’s defensive wall. “Seems to me that he didn't trust you that much"

Fiddleford’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, Stan thought he might snap back with something angry or defensive. But instead, he just deflated, the fight going out of him like air from a punctured tire. “You don’t understand... what it was like,” Fiddleford mumbled, looking away again. “The risks we took. The things we saw. Ford... he was so sure he could control it, that he could keep him under control, he was going insane, but I knew better. I tried to stop him, I tried to stop his wicked adoration for Cipher, I was going to-" he had said too much.

Stan could see the fear behind his words as he fell silent, the way it lurked in the shadows of his eyes. It was the same fear that had haunted Stan since he’d arrived here, the fear of the unknown, of something bigger and more dangerous than either of them could handle.

Stan ran a hand through his hair as he processed what he’d heard. “Who is Cipher?" he questioned, trying to press the matter but Fiddleford remained silent, his jaw was clearly tensed. He just stared down at the floor, his face drawn and haunted. Stan watched him for a moment, wondering if he was seeing the real Fiddleford, the man behind all the layers of nerves and defensiveness. He wasn’t sure if he liked what he saw.

But he couldn’t afford to dwell on it. He had more questions, more suspicions gnawing at the back of his mind. He didn’t trust Fiddleford—still had no idea where that gun was, or what the man was really planning—but for now, he needed him.

He was letting himself fall into his train of thought when Fiddleford spoke again.

"I don't remember" Fiddleford said with a haunting look, what was wrong with him? "Oh dear, I can't remember...this shouldn't happen!" he began pacing around the shack. Mumbling things about a triangle and the end of times. He suddenly stopped "Why was I here?"

Chapter Text

Stanley watched Fiddleford closely, the man pacing back and forth again, muttering under his breath, eyes wide with something that might have been terror. The way his words stumbled over each other, half-formed and scattered, made Stan uneasy. He’d seen desperate men before—on the bars, in back alleys, and in the faces of people who’d lost everything in a bet. But this was different. This wasn’t just desperation. It was like the man was fighting a battle inside his own head, and was losing not only the fight, but himself.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Stan muttered, irritation creeping into his tone, masking the underlying concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” he tried to let a laugh out but it just came out like a strained sound.

Fiddleford paused, glancing up with a faraway look, his face ashen and eyes darting to shadows that weren’t there. “Some things,” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper, “Some things ain't meant to be seen. Should’ve never... oh, lord, it should’ve stayed unseen. But it’s all here. Burned into my head.” Okay, this was definitely creeping Stan.

Stan’s frown deepened, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “You’re not making any sense, Fiddleford. If you’re trying to scare me off, it ain’t working” It was working, but he wouldn't let the man know.

Fiddleford didn’t seem to hear him, his words spilling out faster now, more frantic. “I had to... I had to make it right. Make them forget... that’s why I made the gun, you know? The memory gun, to help me forget, forget forget. Couldn’t let myself remember the initial scare" He was now laughing frantically "Oh what a coward I was, even Stanford called me that... couldn’t let him see me like that” His voice cracked, slipping between bitterness and regret.

Stan’s ears perked up at the mention of a gun. He leaned forward, trying to appear nonchalant but feeling the weight of curiosity pull at him. “What gun? What are you talking about?” he pressed, hoping to catch something useful in the mess of the man’s ramblings.

For a second, Fiddleford’s gaze met his, and something clicked behind his eyes—a recognition, but not the right kind. His face contorted in confusion, then smoothed out into something too calm, too eerie. “Stanford... ya know about the gun,” he said, voice oddly gentle, like he was speaking to an old friend. “I thought you... I thought I destroyed it. But maybe... maybe it’s still out there.”

Stan’s blood ran cold as he watched the shift in Fiddleford’s expression, this man was out of his mind, the realization dawning on him. He could see the wheels turning, confusion turning to horror as Fiddleford’s voice grew small. “Wait... no. No, I told you I destroyed it, didn’t I? You told me to but I didn't” His hands began to tremble, his whole frame shuddering. "You don't remember that part though....you shouldn't remember that"

Then he blinked, stumbling back a step. “Stanford... no... no, you’re not him... you’re...” He trailed off, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment before the terror returned in full force. “Stanley... you’re not Ford. Oh God, I... I have to find him. I have to warn him! Before he makes a mistake, before it’s too late—”

Without another word, he spun on his heels, fumbling for his coat and throwing it over his shoulders with a haphazard urgency. Stan barely had time to process everything before Fiddleford yanked open the door, the cold wind rushing in as he staggered outside. Stan shouted after him, but it was like yelling at a storm—Fiddleford was gone, vanishing into the snow-covered woods, leaving Stan alone in the quiet cabin.

Stan stared at the open door, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. Fiddleford’s words rang in his ears—the gun, a memory gun? How did that work exactly? and how had it driven him to the edge of sanity? Stan wondered if maybe the man wasn’t just rambling, if maybe there was something real behind that fear. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to understand.

--------------------

Fiddleford stumbled out of the cabin, his breaths quick and shallow in the frigid air as he kept on running to...somewhere, he wasn't sure. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he muttered to himself, a string of half-coherent phrases that wove together memories of the portal—the blinding light, the emptiness on the other side and how it was quickly replaced by the image of Bill Cipher, more specifically, how his insides twisted out of himself as he fed on what looked like the corpse of another being. He looked at the demon in shock, not sure where to look exactly, it lacked eyes in that form, only a clump of meat with teeth in every small gap. He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, trying to focus on something concrete, something that didn’t make his heart race with fear. It wasn't only that image that haunted his dreams, there were also the visions he had, the voices he heard. All too loud, never shutting up.

His thoughts spun as he trudged down the dirt path that led to town, eyes scanning the woods around him, looking for dangers that weren’t there. “Ford’s out there somewhere... needs me... needs me to stop him,” he whispered, his voice catching in the cold wind. But even as the cold consumed him and made his gloveless hands red, he kept on moving, not aware of the pain he was inflicting on himself. He stopped short, his breath clouding around him. “Wait... no, he never leaves the shack. Only when he has t' buy groceries, it's the weekend already?" He questioned himself, forgetting his original intention. "No,no, this week was my turn to buy the groceries. It's Saturday....” He shook his head, trying to hold onto the thought. “Saturday... I have to buy groceries.”

That became his anchor, the idea of a mundane chore. It felt like safety—something simple, something he used to do when everything made sense. So, he headed into town, the thought of the portal and Stanford’s absence fading, replaced by the memory of grocery lists and errands. How could he have forgotten? That's why he was going to town. They had ran out of eggs, he almost forgot!

---

The market bell chimed as he pushed through the door, the warmth inside hitting him. Fiddleford took a deep breath, and smiled, he could smell some freshly baked bread and the artificial smell of a air freshener. Lavender, he liked that smell, it was comforting. It reminded him of his mother, she used to wear a lavender perfume and soap to wash the clothes. She always smelled so sweet, he should give her a call some time soon, he keeps forgetting to tell her how he is doing. She must be worried. However that wasn't the time to think about his mother, he was on a mission to get some eggs.

The image of a sarcastic and broken man seemed to fall as he slipped into the familiarity of the task. He was back to his old self. He grabbed a basket and began walking the aisles, his fingers brushing over cans and packages. It was automatic—he knew where everything was, his memory never failed him! A small smile touched his lips when he saw the stack of bread loaves. He paused, frowning slightly, as if debating the choice. “Artisanal or plain?” he murmured, squinting at the labels. “Ford always liked the fancy stuff" There was a strange sensation when he said his name, but didn't stop to think too much about it "... but plain’s cheaper.” he kept on muttering "If I buy the artisanal then I will have t' sacrifice the cream for the coffee...." This was a hard decision.

For a moment, it felt like life was simple and mundane again, like he was just a man shopping for groceries. He picked up a loaf of the artisanal bread, weighting it in his hands "Well, I guess I can live without cream as long as I get Stanford to eat somethin' ". The lights overhead flickered, but he didn’t notice. He moved through the aisles, adding coffee, canned beans, some pork chops, rice and flour to his basket, mentally checking off each item on the list. His heart rate slowed, the weight of panic easing. It was like he had stepped back in time.

But as he moved through the aisles, he could feel eyes on him—people glancing up from their shopping, then quickly looking away when he turned their direction. He caught snippets of whispers, the murmur of his name. “Isn’t that McGucket? Looks... normal today, doesn’t he?” The words buzzed at the edge of his awareness, but he pushed them aside. He focused on counting items in his basket, keeping his mind locked on simple things, refusing to let the creeping fear back in.

As he passed the shelves, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the freezer’s glass door. He froze. The man looking back at him was gaunt, shadows etched deep under his eyes. His hair was tangled, and some stubble on his chin. He will need to buy a razor too. He tried to ground himself, prevent panic from flaring in his chest, but a sharp, piercing feeling broke through the fragile calm. What was he doing here? Wasn't he looking for Ford? Ford...

A can slipped from his grasp, clattering against the floor. He flinched at the noise, feeling the weight of every stare turning toward him. For a moment, he was on the edge of breaking down right there in the market, but he forced a smile, bending down to retrieve the can. He murmured apologies under his breath, trying to ignore the buzzing whispers around him.

“Just... just picking up a few things,” he said, mostly to himself, a thin, shaky chuckle slipping out. Ford was not going to be back at home once he finished his errand.

Yet, he pressed on, reaching for the last items on his list, clinging desperately to the familiar task as if it could hold his mind together. He managed to steady his breathing, focusing on the texture of the metal basket in his hand, the familiar weight of it and how warm the place was. He reached the register, offering the cashier a tight-lipped smile. The young woman behind the counter hesitated, her own smile awkward and strained as she checked the items. Fiddleford pretended not to notice, eyes fixed on the hands of the woman and how she counted the change.

With his groceries bagged, he turned to leave, but as he stepped out into the cold air again, the reality he’d been trying to ignore began to creep back in. The snow seemed sharper, the shadows deeper, and the thought of the cabin and the emptiness he’d left behind clawed at his mind. There was also the fact that he had a handful of groceries and forgot he came walking to town.

It was gonna be one hell of walk back to the shack.

--------------

As he trudged back down the road, the weight of his memories began to settle over him again. He clutched the grocery bag tightly. The sense of dread he had managed to push away began to come back at him, the edges of reality fraying once more. By the time he reached the halfway point back to the cabin, he could barely remember why he had left in the first place. The groceries felt heavy in his hands, and he glanced back over his shoulder toward town, wondering if he’d left something behind, even as the thought of Ford and the portal whispered at the edges of his mind. He had bought eggs, right?

Chapter Text

Fiddleford trudged back through the snow, the grocery bags swaying with each step, its weight digging into his fingers. By the time he reached the cabin, the sky had deepened into twilight, casting long shadows through the snow-covered trees. He could see the faint glow of light from the windows, and his breath puffed out in white clouds as he quickened his pace. Inside, the warmth was almost stifling after the cold, and the smell of coffee hit him immediately.

Stanley was leaning against the kitchen counter, a steaming mug in his hands. He glanced up at Fiddleford, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What the hell was all that?” he asked, his voice rough but tinged with something like concern. “You just took off like a damn madman. What the hell happened?”

Fiddleford paused in the doorway, trying to steady his breathing. He forced a weak smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Had an... attack, nothing much ” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Memory problems mixed with severe anxiety, you see. Happens sometimes... runs in the family, nothin’ to worry about.” He turned away, busying himself with unpacking the groceries, he knew that what he had just said was complete bullshit and not even a 3rd grader would believe it. His hands moved anxiously and a little too quickly as he put things in the fridge and pantries. “Ford left this place a mess, as usual, always having to pick after him" he muttered slightly annoyed, more to himself than to Stan, avoiding the other man’s gaze.

Stan watched him with a sharp look, the silence stretching between them. He took a slow sip of his coffee, then set the mug down with a deliberate clink.

“So... Memory problems, huh?” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes never leaving Fiddleford. "I call bullshit, and something tells me Ford didn't believe that either. That or he knew the truth" he leaned on the counter, shooting a glare towards Fiddleford who still managed to avoid it. "Does it have something to do with the gun?"

The words made Fiddleford freeze, his hand hovering over a loaf of bread. For a moment, he didn’t turn around, his mind racing. He had forgotten about the gun—hadn’t even thought about it since he ran out, he had said way too much in his state of panic. He swallowed hard and forced himself to turn back to Stan, plastering a tight-lipped smile on his face. “What gun?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even, but there was a tightness in his throat, and his smile was strained.

Stan raised an eyebrow, holding up the oh so mentioned gun, its sleek metal surface catching the light, damn it Fiddleford.

“Tell me what it does,” he said, the demand in his voice clear, even though he tried to sound nonchalant. His grip on the gun was firm, like he expected the other man to try and snatch it away from him. Fiddleford felt his pulse quicken, and fear settling in his gut. He took a step forward, his expression shifting into a mocking smirk, trying to mask his panic.

“None of your business,” he shot back, imitating Stan’s dismissive tone from earlier that morning. His voice wavered, though, betraying the fear underneath the bravado.

Stan’s jaw clenched, and he pushed off from the counter, taking a step closer. “Well, I’m pretty sure it became my business once you let Ford’s name slip,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What did you do to him, Fiddleford? What’s this thing really for?”

Fiddleford’s smirk faltered, his back straightening as he realized he’d been cornered. His eyes darted to the gun in Stan’s hand, then back to his face, searching for a way out of the situation. Maybe, just maybe he could tackle the man — a surprise attack— and get the gun back. His frame might be thin but he was a farm boy after all. However, Stan’s expression was hard, unyielding. He wasn’t backing down, and at that moment Fiddleford knew he couldn’t bluff his way out of this, neither fight. He swallowed, feeling the weight of the lie he’d tried to spin tightening around him.

A beat of silence hung between them, thick with tension. Then, with a resigned sigh, Fiddleford reached out to steady himself against the counter, his shoulders slumping.

“It’s... it’s not what you think, Stanley,” he began, his voice rough around the edges. “But it’s dangerous. More than you can imagine.” His gaze flicked to the memory gun again, a hint of desperation in his eyes as he tried to convey the gravity of what he was saying. “I made it to help—to make people forget things they didn't want to remember. But it ain’t a toy. It... it changes things. Warps memories, makes ’em disappear!” He punctuated this last word by making a sign with his hand, closing it into a fist and opening it quickly with a "pop" sound.

Stan’s eyes narrowed as he listened, suspicion warring with curiosity. “So what, you used it on Ford? Made him forget something?” he pressed, taking another step forward, face to face with the other man.

Fiddleford shook his head, a bitter laugh slipping from his lips. “No... no, I didn't use it on him” he said, his voice cracking and his mind kept yelling at him, calling him a liar “But I messed up, Stanley. I used it on myself far too many times,” He pointed at the burn scar that he had at the side of his forehead. “and Ford didn't quite like that””

The admission hung in the air, leaving both men staring at each other in the dimly lit kitchen. This felt like playing two truths, one lie. Fiddleford’s hands shook as he reached out, as if he wanted to take the gun back, but he hesitated, his eyes filled with fear.

Stanley just put the gun farther out of his reach, he noticed how he kept looking at it, how his hands trembled and tried reaching out.

"Listen here Fiddlesticks" Stanley said and Fiddleford's eyes narrowed, this man is so dead to him "I want you to be honest with me, since we are going to be working on this portal thing together and I just need you stop with all the secrecy" Stanley let out a long sigh “I don't understand half the things my brother has written in that damned journal of his and something tells me that you can be of help” His gaze met Fiddleford's, who just broke the intense visual contact.

"Look, how about I cook something for us and you sit on the couch for a while? Try to think about all the things you have to tell me and we discuss them over dinner" Stanley's tone wasn't demanding for once, it was just tired and defeated, he was probably done with everything that had happened.

"I guess I should probably come clean about some stuff" Fiddleford says, taking Stanley by surprise on how easily he agreed, he looks at Stanley, his eyes tired "I dunno how much help ya could offer but a bit of company is this old shack doesn't sound all too bad" he says the last part with a smile, a genuine one, at that. He stopped trying to reach for the gun and instead went to fidget with his fingers.

Stan just looked at him, the surprise even more evident in his face. Fiddleford had been able to pierce through the tough guy, so that's all it takes, huh?

"Yeah, whatever" he mumbled and turned his back. He walked to the other extreme of the kitchen "I'm keeping the gun though" he says moving the gun in his hand as if it were a toy, looking back at Fiddleford with a sly smile.

And there it was again, back to being an asshole it seems.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford sat on the couch, barely paying attention to the old movie playing on the small, fuzzy TV screen. It was some classic called "The Duchess Approves"—a story full of romance and dramatic twists. Dramatic enough they became far too predictable, with single-liners delivered like they were supposed to mean something deep, "I may be a duchess...but I'm also a woman!", quote on quote from the movie, come on, that was just underwhelming! Whoever considered this a good movie probably had a very dull life or a questionable taste in entertainment. Those were Fiddleford's thoughts.

He sighed, glancing towards the kitchen where he could hear Stanley moving about.

“Dinner’s ready,” Stanley called out, setting the table and sounding surprisingly cheerful. Fiddleford found that odd, the tone, he means, but also the fact that Stanley seemed able to cook and not burn the place down. Going back to topic, Stanley seemed almost excited, as if he hadn't eaten anything in a while. Come to think of it, the empty pantry and fridge when he'd first arrived suggested that might be true. Fiddleford got up and shuffled to the table, joining Stan, who had set out two plates.

The meal was simple: Rice with sweet corn and some pork chops. At the sight of the pork, Fiddleford couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. He thought Stan might be Jewish, like Ford. Then again, Ford never took the religion stuff too seriously, he was a man of science after all. Fiddleford pushed the thought aside as his stomach reminded him how hungry he was.

He took a spoonful of rice, noting the faint taste of butter and basil, mixed with what seemed like a bit of pepper. Basic, but not bad, Stanley knew what spices were, apparently.

Speaking of the devil, he could hear him chew way too loud, he glanced up and caught sight of Stan devouring his food like a starving man. It wasn’t a pretty sight—more like a ravenous wolf than a dinner guest. That pretty much confirmed Fiddleford’s suspicions about Stan not having eaten properly in a while.

Amused, Fiddleford just watched, secretly imagining Stan choking a little on his food. Not enough to be dangerous, he didn't want the man dead, he just wanted to see him struggle a bit, as a petty revenge for him being such an asshole, the thought earned Fiddleford a small chuckle. He knew it was a mean thought, but it still managed to bring a small smile to his face. He played with his food as he entertained the idea, keeping it to himself.

“What are you thinking about?” Stan asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Fiddleford realized he’d been too quiet for a while, lost in his own thoughts. Stan had already cleaned his plate, leaning back with a curious look.

Fiddleford plastered on a smile. “Nothin' much,” he lied smoothly, but when he saw Stan’s raised eyebrow, he quickly added, “Just thinkin’ ‘bout my son, Tate. Haven’t seen him in a while... thinking how nice it’d be to see him again.” It was only a partial lie—he did want to see his son, but that wasn’t the reason behind his smile.

Stan’s expression softened, if only for a second, before he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That’s real sweet, Fiddleford,” he said, though the gruffness never left his voice. But then he shifted, his gaze hardening. “But you know, that ain’t what I really wanted to ask.”

Fiddleford’s smile faded slightly. He knew where this was going. He kept his gaze on his food, scooping up another bite and swallowing quickly “That so? Well, go on then, spit it out.”

Stan leaned in closer, his tone turning serious. “I want you to tell me the truth about that gun memory thing. I understand it erases memories, but I want to know what you exactly did with it.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Most importantly, what you did to my brother.”

A cold dread settled in Fiddleford’s gut. May the Lord have mercy, because he was almost certain he wasn’t getting out of this one unscathed. He glanced at Stan, whose face remained in that threatening glare.

Fiddleford picked up a piece of pork chop with his fork, trying to buy himself time. “I’m gonna be honest with ya, Stanley,” he said, taking a bite, hoping to maintain some semblance of control. “I did a lot of questionable things while I had that memory gun. I ain’t no saint.”

Stan’s frustration was palpable as he leaned closer, voice rising slightly. “Well, stop beating around the bush and tell me what you did.”

Fiddleford hesitated, feeling the tension crackling between them. “I... did erase some of Ford's memories,” he finally admitted. He saw Stan’s hands clench into fists, his knuckles turning white. Fiddleford hurried to explain, his voice rising with panic. “But—nothing too serious! Lemme explain, please!”

“Fiddleford, you just admitted to erasing someone’s memories,” Stan snapped, letting out an incredulous huff. “And then you say it was nothing serious?”

“Well, when you say it like that, it does sound bad, don’t it?” Fiddleford tried to joke, but the attempt fell flat. Stan’s face only grew more serious, and Fiddleford realized he had chosen the wrong moment for humor. “Look, I mean, I didn’t erase anything important. What I did erase was... well, you need to know the whole story to understand.”

Stanley’s silence was a weight pressing down on the room, his glare demanding more. Fiddleford swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He glanced down at his plate, the food cold and unappetizing now, he will have to re-heat once he gets out of this. “Some time ago, Ford and I were chasing down an anomaly, the Gremloblin. It could see into your mind, show you your darkest fears. It was-” He got cut short, catching the impatient look on Stan’s face. “Long story short, it messed me up pretty bad. I built the memory gun to try and erase what it had shown to me.”

Stan didn’t speak, but his glare spoke volumes. Fiddleford could see the judgment in his eyes, and it stung more than he wanted to admit. He shifted uncomfortably, desperate to fill the silence. “That’s why I created the gun,” he added weakly. “The memory gun...” he added once again

Still, Stan didn’t respond, and the silence stretched on. Fiddleford’s nerves frayed, his fingers starting to pick at the edges of his skin. He could feel the sting of the exposed flesh as he fidgeted.

“Where is the memory gun, anyway?” He tried to stand, planning to look for it, but Stan stood from his chair and shoved him back to his, keeping a firm grip on his shoulder.

“Sorry, buddy, but you lost your gun privileges” Stan said flatly, his grip tightening just enough to get his point across. “Now, we still haven’t gotten to the part where you tell me what exactly you erased.”

“Oh, right” Fiddleford mumbled, averting his gaze. His eyes focused on his hands instead, the skin raw from his nervous habit. “I... I started to use the memory gun on myself. A lot. To the point where I don’t even remember half the times I did it.” He let out a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “Got a bunch of side effects like—difficulty recalling memories, short-term memory problems, mood swings... forgettin’ words sometimes, apparently" He counted each effect on his fingers, as if not to lose track. “Short-term memory problems—wait, no, I already said that one.”

Stan’s expression darkened with each word, his patience thinning. “Fiddleford, get. To. The. Point,” he said through gritted teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing.

The bravado Fiddleford had clung to melted away, leaving him looking small and fragile.

“Ford... he didn’t like how my problems were getting in the way of the portal’s construction or in general. He figured out I was still using the memory gun, even after he told me to get rid of it,” Fiddleford admitted, his voice barely a whisper now. “So I made him forget about that initial order. Made him forget he ever saw me usin’ it... made him forget every time he tried to stop me.”

He could feel the weight of Stan’s stare, and it crushed him. Fiddleford’s fingers fidgeted uncontrollably, picking at a spot until blood welled up from the broken skin. “Hope that answers some of yer questions,” he added weakly, his voice cracking under the strain.

“Yeah, I guess it did answer some of them,” Stan muttered, more to himself than to Fiddleford. He looked at the man across from him—frail, unraveling, a shadow of whatever he once was—and felt a wave of disgust twist in his gut. Maybe Fiddleford was already paying the price of his sins, but that didn’t mean he trusted him. Not one bit.

“How many times?” he hunched over Fiddleford

Fiddleford’s head jerked up. “How many times what?”

“How many times did you use it on my brother?” Stan’s voice was dangerously quiet, each word loaded with barely restrained anger.

Fiddleford’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He genuinely couldn’t remember. “Some... some times,” he stammered, his voice faltering, it surely couldn't have been more than twenty times, right?. “Around thirteen times, I’d say.” That was just a guess.

Stan’s patience snapped. “Alright, that’s it,” he said, shoving back his chair with a loud scrape, this time standing completely. “You’re not getting the gun back.” He pointed a finger at Fiddleford, who flinched. “You, stay put while I figure out what to do with it.”

“What ya take me for? A kid?” Fiddleford shot back, his voice rising defensively, but the fear was clear in his eyes. There it was again—that shift from vulnerability to aggression, the unpredictable back-and-forth that made Stan uneasy.

Stan leaned in, narrowing his gaze. “With how reckless you’ve been, you might as well be one,” he replied, the tension between them as taut as a wire, ready to snap. “Hell, you’re messing with people’s heads like it’s some twisted game." He turned and began to walk away.

Fiddleford’s hands stilled, his fidgeting replaced by a low simmering anger at that last statement.

“You think I wanted to use that thing, Stanley?” His voice was taut, and he jabbed a finger against the table, rattling the dishes. “You don’t get it. The things I saw, the things that gun helped me forget… You think I was just playin’ around?”

Stan rolled his eyes, the anger still simmering in his gaze.

“Yeah? Well, you’re sure as hell payin’ the price now, aren’t you? All those side effects, you said it yourself. But you didn’t stop, did you? Not even when it came to Ford.” he gave Fiddleford a glare filled with disgust as he walked away, leaving Fiddleford alone with the weight of his own decisions, the silence of the room settling around him like a noose.

Great, now Stanley thought the worst of him. Fair enough, he had brought that upon himself too.

Chapter Text

Stan practically slammed the door shut behind him as he stepped into the spare room, his breathing a little too fast. He could still feel the tension buzzing through his veins from the argument with Fiddleford. Hell, he had half a mind to throw the guy out on the spot, but he knew better. He couldn’t risk losing the only person around who might actually have a clue about the portal. He pressed his back against the door, letting the cool wood steady him. Yeah, he was stuck with Fiddleford—stuck with the madman who casually admitted to playing around with people's heads and memories.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the narrow space, the floorboards creaking under his boots. He had no idea how to handle this, and that only pissed him off more. He dropped down on the edge of the bed with a frustrated groan, tugging off his boots and tossing them aside. He couldn’t deal with it now. All he needed was some sleep to clear his head, to pretend for a few hours that he wasn’t tangled up in a mess he barely understood. Thanks for this, Sixer.

As he tried to settle in, he shifted onto his side, only to feel a sharp jab of pain flare up from his burn wound—the one he’d managed to forget about in the chaos of the day. He winced, pressing a hand to his shoulder, feeling the raw sting. “Just great,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s tomorrow’s Stan problem” He turned over to his good side and tried to focus on the darkness of the room, hoping the exhaustion would pull him under before his mind could spiral any further.

--------------

Stan woke up to the morning light spilling through the dirty window, squinting against the brightness. For a moment, he almost believed things were normal again, back to how they used to be, the too dirty window looked like any other from the motel's he had been to. But then he remembered Fiddleford’s trembling hands, the confession about the memory gun, and any sense of peace vanished. He pushed himself upright, groaning at the ache in his side, the events of last night hitting him all over again. He rubbed a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. He hadn’t checked on Fiddleford. He’d just left the guy at the table like he was some misbehaving dog.

Guilt flickered through him, quick as a match strike. He told himself it wasn’t his problem—Fiddleford was a grown man, after all, he could look after himself. But part of him wondered if the guy had found his way to Ford’s old room, maybe curled up in the bed Stan hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He figured he should at least check.

-----------

Stan’s boots thudded against the floor as he made his way down the hallway, stopping in front of the closed door to Ford’s room. He hesitated, hand hovering over the knob, but something in him couldn’t push it open. He didn’t want to see what memories might be lurking in there, what remnants of Ford’s life he might stumble across. So he kept moving, checking the rest of the shack instead, irritation creeping in with each empty room. Where the hell did the guy wander off to? For a moment, a pang of worry gnawed at him, but he crushed it down. Maybe he actually was in Ford's room. Fiddleford wasn’t his responsibility anyways.

When he finally reached the dining area, he froze in the doorway, blinking in surprise. There, slumped over the table, was Fiddleford, right where Stan had left him. He hadn’t moved an inch, just sat there until he’d nodded off, his head resting on his arms. His glasses were crooked, and there was a small puddle of drool soaking into his sleeve. It was so absurd, so... harmless, that Stan almost let out a laugh. The man looked like a damn puppy, all curled up like that.

He snorted, shaking his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “A real threat, alright,” he muttered under his breath. But even as he tried to brush it off, he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that settled whenever he saw that man. The guy might look ridiculous now, but the desperation in Fiddleford’s voice last night, his erratic attitude—well, that was still fresh in his mind, too.

Seeing Fiddleford, all wound up in his jittery state, now looking like a napping puppy was an experience to be honest. Stanley crossed his arms, debating whether to wake him. He looked too peaceful like that, and Stanley wasn’t sure he deserved that peace after everything. But eventually, he decided against waking him up; no point in getting on the madman's bad side even more. Let him have this moment of quiet, even if it wasn’t gonna last.

--------------

The smell of fresh coffee nudged Fiddleford awake, his head jerking up so quickly his glasses slipped off, clattering onto the floor. The sound caught Stan’s attention from the kitchen.

“Seems like you woke up" Stan’s voice came out dry, but there was a hint of amusement beneath the words.

Fiddleford rubbed his eyes and muttered a groggy, “Mornin’,” as he shuffled into the kitchen, not quite sure what to do with himself. He hovered by the counter, arms awkwardly crossed. What was he supposed to do now? After everything that happened last night. Should he go back to the hotel? Stick around and help Stan? Go down to the portal room and try to piece together what was left of his sanity? His thoughts spun wildly, barely able to focus on one before another took its place. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, desperate to break the tension, he spoke.

“M’really sorry, Stan,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to hear. “About yesterday’s outburst... and, well, the whole thing with your brother.”

Stan paused, stirring something in a bowl. It seemed like he was making a mix for pancakes “Shouldn’t be me you’re apologizing to,” he said flatly, his back to Fiddleford.

That hit Fiddleford harder than he expected, guilt creeping in. He watched Stan for a moment, noting the way his shoulders were tense even as he focused on his task. But then, after a moment, Stan added, “But, you know... I appreciate the apology.”

Fiddleford perked up at that, a hint of relief crossing his face. “You’re right, Stanley. I should apologize t' Ford properly once we get him back,” He said, a bit more life in his voice. “Which reminds me, we haven’t exactly had time t' check on the portal or, y’know, deal with the whole thing since... Well, everything went down yesterday.” He gave a nervous chuckle, clearly embarrassed by how he’d been acting. Sleep usually helped him feel better, but this time, it just made him feel like shit, with a now clear mind he was able to see how much of a mess he’d made of things.

Stan just nodded. “Yeah, we should talk about that,” he agreed, his focus shifting back to the hot pan. He spread some butter on it and then poured the mix he’d been working on into it, the sizzle of batter filling the air. “Do you want your Stan-cakes with bacon? Maybe some maple syrup?”

Fiddleford blinked, caught off guard by the name. “Stan-cakes?” he repeated, a small laugh escaping him. “What kind of name is that?” his laugh filling the air again

Stan cracked a smile, his gaze softening slightly. “Well, my brother and I used to make pancakes together, when we were younger,” he said, flipping the pancake with practiced ease. “We’d mix in whatever we could find—sometimes the pancakes turned out good, sometimes real bad. Like, they were completely in-edible." He laughed to himself and Fiddleford decided he liked that sound "We called them Stan-cakes, and the name just sorta stuck with me” He stared down at the pan, lost in the memory, a touch of melancholy creeping into his voice. "I've been calling them that ever since, I wonder if he did the same"

Fiddleford shifted, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, I don’t know if Stanford ever called ‘em that, but I know he sure did like pancakes by a lot” he said, offering a tentative smile. “And yeah, I’d like some bacon with my Stan-cakes.” He gave Stan a small, genuine grin, and for the first time in a while, Stan decided to smile back at what was given to him.

Stan met his gaze, a glimmer of something softer passing through his eyes. He turned back to the stove, but the warmth lingered between them, fragile but real. For a moment, the tension seemed to ease, the smell of pancakes filling the small, cluttered kitchen.

---------

Stanley ate the last bit of his breakfast, the company seemed to make eating easier. He didn't feel completely guilty for enjoying something as simple as this. The presence of someone else grounding him.

Fiddleford cleared his throat, glancing toward the basement door. “We really oughta check on that portal, Stanley. Make sure it’s not... You know, acting up or something.” he says moving his hands "Couldn't really see much when I got you out, but I'm pretty sure some of the wiring there got fried"

Stanley just eyed him, he didn't expect Fiddleford to take the lead on the topic, especially considering how terrified he seemed about the portal.

Fiddleford noticed this look Stanley gave him. “Ain’t got much of a choice in here” He tried to keep his tone light, but Stan could hear the strain behind it. “I want to get Ford back and you want the same, so there's not much to discuss”

“Alright, lead the way," Stan said, pushing off his chair. Fiddleford did as instructed, going straight to the basement door, glancing back at Stan, he didn't want to go alone, remaining still in the threshold. As he saw Stan get closer, he continued walking, the air felt colder as they stepped down the creaking broken steps, the basement swallowing up the warmth of the cabin.

As they approached the portal room, Fiddleford’s breaths grew shallow, each step bringing him closer to that nagging ache behind his eyes, the pain similar to a hangover. He reached out to steady himself against the doorframe of the control room, managing a weak smile in Stan’s direction. “Gimme a second, I need to get myself together” His voice wavered.

Stan shot him a wary look. “Yeah, well, just don’t pass out on me.”

The hum of the dormant portal filled the room as they stepped inside, a low, steady vibration that seemed to settle deep in Fiddleford’s chest. His gaze locked onto the machine, and suddenly he was back there—floating in the cold void that sent to his mind horrible images of what seemed like the end of times. But as quickly as the images came, they slipped away, leaving him grasping at fragments, his head pounding with the effort to remember. A sharp pain stung the side of his head, making him tremble and try to soothe the ache by rubbing the place.

He staggered, clutching his temples as the pain drilled into his skull. “Dammit...” his legs failed him, he was ready to welcome the cold floor.

“Hey, easy there—” Stan caught him by the arm just before he collapsed, pulling him back against his chest. Fiddleford’s breaths came in sharp, panicked gasps, his whole frame trembling. Well, at least he wasn't on the floor.

Stan’s grip tightened, his voice low and rough in Fiddleford’s ear. “You’re not doing this alone, okay? Just breathe, for crying out loud.” Fiddleford hated how insensitive Stanley was, he was definitely lacking in the emotional field as much as Ford.

For a moment, Fiddleford sagged against him, just clutching at Stanley’s sleeve like it was the only thing holding him up. “I—I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Gimme a second, just gimme a second and I'l–”

Stan cut him off with a huff, shaking his head. “Does the portal scare you that much?" He asked, genuine curiosity and concern, Fiddleford just nodded. "Alright, that's enough, let's get you out of here for now" Stan's grip tightened, his face etched with concern and frustration.

Fiddleford’s breathing slowed, though his legs still wobbled beneath him. Stan kept his hand firmly around the man’s arm, half guiding, half dragging him to the edge of the room, away from the haunting presence of the portal.

They stood like that for a while, the sound of the portal filling the silence between them. Eventually, Fiddleford managed a shaky breath, lifting his head to meet Stan’s gaze. “Thanks for that,” Fiddleford said "I thought I might faint"

Stan just grunted, his expression hard to read. “Yeah, well, don’t make a habit of it” he muttered, though he kept his grip steady on Fiddleford’s arm. Stan was about to get them out of the basement but Fiddleford stopped him.

"We should get this over with" Fiddleford said "The sooner I check the portal, the sooner I can be at ease"

Stanley held onto Fiddleford until he was steady enough to stand on his own, though the engineer’s legs still trembled slightly. With a deep breath, Fiddleford shook off the lingering dizziness and turned his attention to the control panel in front of the portal. He ran his fingers over the switches and dials, the familiar layout bringing a small measure of focus to his fraying nerves.

Fiddleford muttered to himself as he inspected the panel. “Looks like the main connections were overloaded with too much energy—been a while since I last checked. We’re gonna have to recalibrate the oscillation frequencies... And, ah, here—” He pointed to a set of tangled wires, their insulation worn thin. “The stabilizer circuits are fried. We’ll need new insulated copper wiring, preferably 14-gauge, to keep the magnetic containment field from destabilizing.”

Stan crossed his arms, watching with a frown as Fiddleford continued to rattle off terms. “And what the hell does all that mean?” he asked, tone edged with a hint of curiosity and annoyance.

Fiddleford shot him a quick, distracted glance. “It means, Stanley, that if we don’t replace these components and adjust the the energy source, we’re lookin’ at a potential rift collapse. Could cause a feedback loop that’d make the portal go haywire. Maybe even trigger a total power overload, and, uh, let’s just say you don’t wanna be standin' nearby if that happens.” he said while maneuvering some wires

Stan blinked, the words washing over him without much understanding. “Yeah, still not following, but you’re saying it’s bad, right?” he questioned and stared at Fiddleford's back.

Fiddleford let out a breath, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to simplify. “Yeah, it’s bad. If we don’t fix this thing, we risk the portal destabilizing, and that means the whole place might end up glowing like a light bulb before it all goes up in smoke. We’ll need replacement parts for some of this, and recalibrating’s gonna take time.” he brought his thumb to his mouth, biting at the barely existent nail. "There's also the activation problem" he muttered

Stan scratched the back of his neck, brow furrowing as he tried to piece together what Fiddleford was saying. “Right, so... what do we need to do to keep this thing from blowing us to pieces?”

Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley and then to the control panel, muttering under his breath “Well, we should start with replacing the wires and rebalancing the magnetic field parameters. I’ll need you to grab some pliers to cut this thing before it causes another overload, possibly my welding mask, some 2 inch gold wire, the red ones tho', not the ones mixed with copper, they always go all crazy! and also—” He cut himself off, seeing the blank look on Stan’s face. “Never mind, just grab the toolbox over there" He said pointing at a nearby work station. "I’ll do the fine-tuning, you can help me with the heavy machinery work and welding, also gonna need yer help holding the wires in place when we get to that part.”

Stanley's lips parted, he was going to say something but nothing came out, unsure what to say he just nodded reluctantly as he moved towards the toolbox. “Yeah, yeah, just point me in the right direction, Fiddlesticks.”

"Call me that one more time and you are a dead man, Pines" Fiddleford said, his eyes shooting a look that could kill but that only made Stanley laugh. That until he remembered who he was talking to and suddenly his lips were sewn shut and his eyes fixed on the workstation, ready to look for the toolbox.

Chapter Text

The days blurred together as Stanley and Fiddleford worked on repairing the portal. Most of the time, Stanley found himself in the thick of it, handling all kinds of metal panels and grunting through the manual labor while Fiddleford stayed in the control room, guiding him through a walkie-talkie. That way Fiddleford could direct Stan on what to do and not be too close to the portal. The crackle of static and Fiddleford’s instructions had become a routine hum in Stanley's ears, though he sometimes caught the hint of strain in Fiddleford’s voice whenever he got close to the portal.

It was late afternoon when they wrapped up for the day, Stanley wiping the sweat from his brow as he went back to the control room, figuring he’d ask Fiddleford about the next step, so far they had changed some of the wiring and replaced some panels that had melt into it after the portal's initial activation. But before he could get the words out, Fiddleford glanced up, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.

"Stanley...can I ask you something?"

Stan raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic hesitation. "Go ahead" he muttered, bracing for another technical question.

"When was the last time you showered? Like, a real shower" Fiddleford asked, scrunching his nose slightly as if regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Stan’s brows furrowed, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up the back of his neck. He shifted his weight, glancing toward the basement stairs, debating if he should count that rushed rinse-off at the dingy motel. It had gotten him clean, so it counted as a bath, right?

"I'm not trying to be rude," Fiddleford added quickly, stumbling over his words in an attempt to smooth things over. "It's just, there's a working bathroom upstairs, and... well, you could use a bath." He cast a sidelong glance at the floor, mumbling, "Or two."

Stanley's jaw clenched, his pride stinging at the comment. He caught the last part, and was about to snap back but decided against it, he was too tired for that so he swallowed his retort. Fiddleford's awkward attempt at a suggestion—however blunt—didn’t feel like a jab, more like a half-hearted advice to say it somehow. He grunted, letting the silence stretch a beat longer than comfortable, then turned on his heel.

"Yeah, yeah... I probably should take a bath" he mumbled, more to himself than to Fiddleford, though the words carried back to the man leaning against the control panel

Stanley’s fingers tapped against his forearm, unsure of what to say as Fiddleford eyed him with that peculiar concern. Stan’s lips twitched in a brief scowl—he wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

“I also want to prevent the wound from gettin' infected, ya know?” Fiddleford added, glancing at Stanley’s side with a furrowed brow. “You’ve been doin’ a lot of heavy work, and all that sweat and grime could make it worse, and I would like t' take a look after yer bath"

Stanley felt a weird twist in his chest, a mix of appreciation and discomfort. He’d forgotten about the wound, the dull throb of it having become just another part of his daily life. But now, the way Fiddleford looked at him—like he genuinely cared—made him feel... something. He swallowed that feeling down quickly, opting for a dry response instead.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” He shrugged, playing it off like it didn’t matter, but deep down, the gesture lingered in his mind as he trudged up to the bathroom.

---------------

The steam from the bath swirled around him, and for the first time in ages, Stanley allowed himself to sink into the warmth. He rubbed a calloused hand over his gut, grimacing as he caught sight of his reflection in the foggy mirror. The image staring back at him was all too familiar, yet somehow, he could almost see traces of his twin in it—a comparison that never sat right. Stanford had this sharp, intellectual look, while Stan... well, he had a much softer face, jaw losing some of its sharpness and so had his physique, physique littered with scars criss-crossing his skin like unwanted reminders of memories that would rather be forgotten.

He glanced down at the old scar on his left side, courtesy of Rico's goons, then the fresher wound from the fight with his brother, and couldn’t help but think how those marks felt like some kind of twisted timeline written across his body. With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on enjoying the rare moment of peace.

As he scrubbed himself clean, the hot water eased muscles he hadn’t realized were so tense. He leaned back, letting out a breath that seemed to take some of his worries with it. It was the kind of relief he hadn’t felt in months, maybe longer. Most of the motels he had been to only had showers. So feeling his body be wrapped by this warmth was comforting. But when he glanced at the pile of his old, stained clothes, the wave of relaxation faded. They were far too dirty to be worn again. He knew what he had to do but still hesitated.

Swallowing his hesitation, he called out through the door.

“Hey, Fiddleford! You mind bringing me something clean to wear from Ford’s room?” There was a pause, then a muffled affirmation as Fiddleford set off to fulfill the request.

-------------

In Ford’s room, Fiddleford’s eyes were drawn to a desk cluttered with papers and diagrams. Amidst it all, two objects stood out—a pair of worn gloves he’d made for Ford last Christmas, and the photo he’d torn up and left behind. The photo was one of his old college days, and against his better judgement he got closer to the desk. Taking the picture in hand and realizing it had some tape in the back, to stick it back together. He looked at the back and found what he had written so many years ago. He lowered the photo, not wanting to remember what he had said. The sight already hit like a punch to the gut. Ford had kept these things, despite everything.

Fiddleford swallowed hard, his fingers brushing the edge of the photo one last time, as if he could reach back into the past. Maybe Ford hadn’t been as indifferent as he’d thought. The realization was bittersweet, leaving him with a dull ache in his chest. He gathered up some clean clothes for Stanley, steeling himself before heading back. He knew he shouldn't stay too long there, not wanting to trigger any more memories.

----------

Stanley met him outside the bathroom, wearing a towel around his waist and an uneasy look on his face. “Thanks,” he muttered, taking the clothes without meeting Fiddleford’s eyes. Fiddleford just nodded.

As Stan slipped into Ford’s shirt, he couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in his brother's life—living in his space, wearing his clothes and taking everything he left behind, taking everything he forced him to leave behind. He had to shake off the thought before it ate away at him further. Pulling on the shorts, he took a deep breath, steeling himself before heading back out to the living room.

He found Fiddleford sitting on the couch, absently fiddling with a Rubik’s cube, he took a moment, just standing there and took notice of how fast Fiddleford's fingers were, one blink and suddenly the cube was solved. Fiddleford looked up, catching Stanley’s gaze, and gestured to the empty spot beside him. Stanley approached, sitting down awkwardly.

“Take off your shirt” Fiddleford said, his voice gentle but direct.

Stanley smirked, trying to deflect the awkwardness. “Didn’t take you for the forward type, Fiddlesticks.”

“Shut up,” Fiddleford shot back, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Let’s get this done.”

Stan pulled off the shirt, revealing, once again, the scars and old bruises that covered his chest and arms. He could feel Fiddleford’s eyes tracing over the marks, each one carrying a weight of its own. An old instinct told him to snap, to tell the man to keep his eyes to himself, but something else held him back. Instead, he opted for a joke.

“Like what you see, or why so quiet?” His voice was strained, betraying the vulnerability he was trying to mask.

Fiddleford’s hands stilled for a moment as he gathered the bandages. “It’s just... you’ve been through a lot, haven’t ya?” he said softly, his tone sincere, lacking the usual sarcasm that had been plaguing him ever since they started working on the portal.

Stanley didn’t know how to respond to that. He turned his head away, focusing on a spot on the floor as Fiddleford began to work on the wound. The touch was gentle, too careful with him, and every time Fiddleford’s hand brushed his shoulder, Stanley found himself unconsciously leaning into the warmth. He hated how much he craved that, how much he wanted to just... let himself be comforted.

Fiddleford noticed the way Stan leaned in, the way his shoulders relaxed under his touch, but he kept his eyes down, pretending not to see it. He just focused on patching up the wound, the silence between them thick with unspoken thoughts.

As Fiddleford’s hands worked with gentle precision, Stan couldn’t help but let his mind wander. The touch, cautious but warm, was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. He’d been used to fists, to the rough jabs of his old life, to surviving on the streets and trying not to get noticed in prison. Yet here he was, sitting in a cabin with a man who barely knew him but was treating him with a kind of care he couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

Fiddleford’s voice broke the silence, still low and careful. “It’s been a while since someone looked out for ya, hasn’t it?” He didn’t look up as he spoke, focusing on smoothing the edges of the bandage, but there was something raw in his tone that caught Stan off guard.

Stanley’s lips tightened close, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He wanted to find something to say, something cutting remark to deflect the truth of it—but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought back the knot forming there. “Yeah, well, I got by. Always do.”

Fiddleford hummed, a noncommittal sound that carried a weight of understanding. His fingers brushed Stan’s side as he finished taping the bandage, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Getting by ain’t the same as living, Stanley,” he murmured, the words struck deep.

Stan barked out a humorless laugh, the sound rough in the quiet room. “You sound like my brother,” he muttered, the bitterness slipping through before he could catch it. “Always thought he knew better, too.” The mention of Ford brought a flash of something pained to his eyes, and for a moment, he could almost see Ford’s disapproving frown, the way he used to lecture him on wasted potential when they were younger. How during their last conversation, he still did the same.

Fiddleford’s hands paused, and he looked up. “Maybe he wasn’t wrong on that,” he said softly. It wasn’t a challenge, but an observation, as if he were piecing together a puzzle that Stanley had tried to keep hidden.

Stanley’s breath caught, his expression hardening. “Don’t push it, Fiddlesticks,” he warned, but there was no real heat behind the words. His voice trembled, just a little, and the slip didn’t go unnoticed.

Fiddleford didn’t press further, but he allowed himself a small, almost sad smile as he withdrew his hands. He could see the cracks in Stanley’s tough exterior, the places where the loneliness seeped through.

“I won’t” he promised quietly, and there was something like an apology in his tone, though Stanley wasn’t sure if it was meant for him or for something—or someone—else.

Stanley exhaled sharply, trying to dispel the tension in his chest, but it lingered like a shadow. He rubbed a hand over his face, his palm catching on the rough stubble on his jaw. “You don’t have to stick around, you know,” he said, forcing a casual tone. “You could be halfway to Gravity Falls by now. Go back to your wife and kid...”

Fiddleford shook his head, a grim determination settling over his features. “Can’t do that, not yet. Not until I’ve made things right—at least as right as they can be.” His voice grew quieter, almost as if he were speaking to himself again. “And besides, you could use some company in this old cabin too. I'm not about to let you alone with all of this”

Stanley turned his head slightly, glancing sideways at Fiddleford, a flicker of curiosity sparking behind his guarded expression. There was a long pause, the kind that felt like it stretched into something more than just a moment, and Stan wasn’t sure what to make of it.

He shifted, breaking eye contact, and reached for the shirt Fiddleford had brought him. He slipped it back on, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against the freshly bandaged wound. Fiddleford’s gaze followed the movement, lingering on the way Stan’s shoulders hunched as if trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.

The air between them seemed to buzz with something unspoken, and Stan felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, uncertain whether to step back or let himself fall. He cleared his throat, shaking off the feeling.

“So, you gonna keep hovering’ over me, or are you gonna let me get back to work?” he asked, aiming for gruffness but landing somewhere closer to uncertainty.

Fiddleford just smiled that faint, tired smile, leaning back into the couch. “Take it easy today, Stanley. That portal’s not goin’ anywhere, but your health might if you don’t start takin’ better care of yourself.”

Stan snorted, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the faint warmth that crept into his chest. He turned away, heading toward the stairs. But as he reached the doorway, he hesitated, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Thanks...” he muttered, barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the cabin, it felt like a confession. Fiddleford’s eyes softened, and he gave a small nod, not pressing for more.

As Stanley disappeared up the stairs to his room, Fiddleford let out a shaky breath, staring down at the solved Rubik’s cube on the couch. He turned it absently, his thoughts drifting back to a different time, a different pair of eyes that had looked at him with the same stubborn, unyielding determination.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford crept up the stairs, each creak of the old wood beneath his feet sounding far too loud in the cabin's quiet. He hesitated at the door of the spare room, where Stanley had retreated to hours ago, he had a feeling the man wasn't awake, he hadn't heard any sound in a while. He hadn’t been surprised when Stanley locked himself away, seeking distance even though neither of them had the luxury of solitude in this cramped, isolated place. But he was surprised now, pausing in the doorway as he saw Stan sprawled across the bed, limbs tangled in the blanket. He looked… peaceful, vulnerable even.

Fiddleford’s breath caught, and his chest tightened with a feeling he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was relief, or the strange tenderness he’d felt creeping in more and more since their uneasy "friendship" had started, well it wasn't exactly friendship, more like a partnership. For a moment, he was reminded of Ford—how he'd often found him buried in his work, never letting his guard down even when exhaustion weighed down his shoulders. Ford never knew how to rest. Fiddleford’s lips twisted into a wry smile, a bitter pang piercing through his chest. He’d tried to coax Ford to sleep back then, but Ford’s mind had always been racing, too full of ideas and projects to settle.

But Stanley? Stanley looked like he'd fought a battle and finally surrendered, if only for a few hours. Fiddleford caught himself wishing Ford could have done the same, listened when he’d begged him to take a break, to just breathe. But Ford never did. His stubbornness had been one of the things that drew Fiddleford to him, a kind of magnetic pull toward his relentless mind. But that same stubbornness had driven them both into darker places, into mistakes they couldn’t take back.

He blinked, bringing himself back to the present. Stanley was not Ford. He repeated it to himself, clenching his jaw as he took a step closer, intending to wake the man up gently. But then, a glint of something caught his eye—a faint shimmer beneath a loose floorboard near the bed. His heart stuttered, and his breath hitched as he crouched down, peering into the gap. There, just barely visible, was the memory gun.

He hadn’t been searching for it—not really. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t, knowing how tempting the thought of erasing everything could be. But now that he knew where it was, the old temptation resurged, like a low-burning flame set back to life. He imagined using it, erasing himself from Stanley’s mind, then erasing his own memories and leaving the place like a ghost. He could be free of all of this—Stan’s suspicious glares, the constant ache of remembering Ford and the whole issue with the portal. He just had to get the gun, type in what he wanted to forget and done. It would be easy, too easy.

Yet the memory of what he’d said to Stanley just a while before came back to haunt him. He had promised,—indirectly, but he did—promised to try, to help bring Ford back, to stay and make things right. He looked at Stanley again, seeing the way his brow furrowed slightly in his sleep, the vulnerability that softened the lines of his face. It struck him that Stanley trusted him enough to rest like this in the same space and leave the door unlocked, and that realization sent a jolt of shame through him. Fiddleford, however, didn't know that Stanley actually didn't trust him one bit, he had just forgotten to lock the door.

He withdrew his hand, letting the floorboard slide back into place, the gun hidden once more. A last resort, he told himself. Just in case. Knowing where it was brought him a twisted sense of relief—control, perhaps, in a world where everything else was slipping away from him. With a shaky breath, he stood and leaned over Stan, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Hey, Stanley—get up. I made dinner.”

Stanley stirred, blinking sleep away, his expression caught between grogginess and irritation. He shot Fiddleford a bleary look, but the smell of food seemed to win out over whatever sharp retort might have come. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he mumbled, pushing himself off the bed with a grunt.

They moved downstairs together, but instead of heading to the dining table, Stanley made a detour to the living room, plopping down onto the worn couch. He gestured toward the TV and then the armrest of the couch, a subtle invitation that Fiddleford decided not to question. They settled in with the bowls of beef stew and rice, balanced on their laps. Fiddleford had even managed a small salad, the leaves a little wilted but still edible.

Stanley took the first bite, and Fiddleford caught the flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face. He tensed, wondering if he’d added too much salt or if the meat had gone bad. But Stan’s expression shifted too quickly, like a shadow passing across his face. Fiddleford narrowed his eyes, suspicion curling at the edges of his thoughts.

"Is everything okay?" He couldn’t know what Stanley was thinking, but he could guess—maybe Stanley was wondering if the food was safe, if he had slipped something into it, after all Stanley had been the one doing all the cooking "Did I put too much salt?"

"No, it's actually quite good" Stanley replied nonchalantly

"Oh, alright" Fiddleford swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away, fixing his gaze on the flickering screen. He couldn’t blame the man if he didn't trust him completely—after all, his own mind was still a labyrinth he didn’t entirely trust.

Stanley, for his part, took another bite and let out a breath, trying to push the uneasy thoughts away. The stew wasn’t poisoned—probably. And Fiddleford had been behaving lately, hadn’t he? Still, there was that nagging doubt in the back of his mind, the reminder that this man was far from stable. He shoved the thoughts down, focusing instead on the movie playing on the screen.

It was some old drama, a replay of "The Duchess Approves". Fiddleford had groaned, realizing he was trapped watching once again this movie. He wanted to forget how insufferable it was, and it technically was an option now, maybe it would make watching it a second time more bearable.

However Stanley was apparently enjoying the movie, eyes lingered on the scenes, a trace of emotion slipping through the cracks in his usual bravado. Fiddleford noticed, raising an eyebrow as he heard the faintest sniffle beside him.

“You can’t be serious,” he muttered, a dry laugh escaping his lips. “You are tearin’ up over "The Duchess Approves"? Didn’t take ya for the sentimental type.” he laughed again

Stan’s head snapped up to him, eyes watery and cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation. He swiped at his face with the back of his hand, scowling. “I’m not—shut up, McGucket. It’s just, uh, allergies or something” he grumbled, but the defensive edge in his voice made Fiddleford chuckle.

Fiddleford tried to smother the laughter, but it bubbled up anyway, unbidden and uncontrollable, filling the quiet space between them. And for a moment, as the sound of it echoed through the cabin, he felt something else—a pang of regret that he couldn’t quite name. He looked at Stanley, really looked at him, and felt that old ache rise in his chest, a twisted reflection of the one he'd felt for Ford. They were so similar in some ways—the same stubborness and defensive attitude, the same determination in their eyes and the all too familiar face and expressions. But Stanley was softer in moments like this, rawer in his vulnerability even if he didn't want to show it. Ford had stopped showing much emotion after his college days, always so serious and work centered. A complete workaholic, one could say.

He caught himself falling into a dangerous train of thought, staring for too long at Stanley. It felt close to the way he’d once thought about Ford, to the hopes he’d buried in a memory he tried to erase. And he couldn’t shake the fear that maybe he was just repeating the same mistakes, falling for a shadow of someone he could never have again.

Fiddleford swallowed, the taste of regret bitter on his tongue as he turned back to the screen, letting the movie’s dull dialogue fill the space between them. He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow, but for now, he would hold on to this fragile, tentative peace. Even if it felt like a mistake waiting to happen.

Chapter Text

Stanley had never been one to trust easily, and the last few days had only made it harder. Fiddleford’s behavior had shifted since he made dinner that day. Sure, he was being more friendly and now offered to help with the cooking from time to time, but there was something going on with him.

The way Fiddleford would sometimes glance towards his room or Ford's, as if looking for something, the way he’d pause in the middle of conversation, lost in some memory or thought—none of it sat right with Stanley. He had catch Fiddleford staring sometimes, his brow furrowed, like he was working through some tangled mess in his head. And every time it happened, Stan’s suspicion grew.

The evening had been quiet, the two of them going through the motions of their routine—Lunch, a bit of work on the portal and a quick smoke break—but the air between them was thick with tension. Stanley could feel it, and he had learned to trust his gut when it came to people, and right now, his gut was telling him that Fiddleford was hiding something.

After working some more and adjusting the wires, Fiddleford retreated to his makeshift bed in the sofa for the night, Stanley was going to make dinner and he deserved a break. Stanley, on the other hand, went to his room. He glanced at the memory gun, still hidden where he had stashed it, and wondered just how much of Fiddleford’s behavior was tied to that damned thing. Maybe Fiddlesticks was going insane again.

Unable to find peace in the small room, Stanley found himself wandering towards the porch, maybe the fresh air could help ease his mind. As he stepped outside he could feel the cold from the night making him feel better already. He stepped into the porch, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the railing as the moon shone above the trees, casting the forest in deep blues and purple hues. The sound of the door creaking open behind him barely registered until Fiddleford appeared, hesitating in the doorway before stepping out to join him.

Fiddleford settled down beside him, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man carrying too many burdens. He pulled out a cigarette of his own, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, and for a while, they sat in silence, the quiet between them filled only by the soft crackle of the cigarettes burning.

“You seem... distracted lately” Stanley finally muttered, not looking over at Fiddleford but keeping his tone casual, though the edge of suspicion lingered beneath his words.

Fiddleford inhaled deeply, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dim light. “I’ve just been thinkin’,” he said quietly. “’Bout the past... ‘bout Ford.”

Stanley licked his lips, his fingers tightening around his cigarette. “You’ve been thinking about Ford a lot lately, then"

Fiddleford gave a soft chuckle, but it was a hollow sound, devoid of humor. “Hard not to. Everythin’ ‘round here reminds me of him. This whole project—this place—it’s all tied up with Ford.” he looked down at the small clumps of snow, some green peeking through already.

Stanley glanced over, watching Fiddleford’s face under the moonlight. There was something there, something that he hadn’t seen before— genuine vulnerability, maybe.

“You two must have been close, I say it seriously this time” Stanley said, trying to keep his voice even. He wasn’t sure where this was leading to, but couldn't help but keep on talking. “The way you talk about him, sounds like there was more going on.” Stanley tried not to sound defensive, his tone came out almost sincere and curious. He was letting the man feel comfortable with his presence to see just how much information he could get.

Fiddleford paused, his cigarette frozen halfway to his lips, his eyes half lidded, he looked at Stanley and then back at the snow “We were close. He was... important to me.” His voice dropped lower, almost too quiet for Stan to hear. “In ways I didn't quite understand”

Stan felt something twist in his gut. He had suspected as much, but hearing it, even indirectly, hit harder than he’d expected.

“Important, huh?” he muttered, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Were you important to him too or...?”

Fiddleford flinched, the words hitting him like a physical blow. “It wasn't like that” he said quickly, a small tremor slipping through, trying to spare himself from what he had gotten into. But with that tremor and flustered attitude he just managed to get himself and Ford deeper into trouble.

Stanley took notice of this attitude, and his mind was going fast with ideas that were only half-truths.

“I can't believe it!” Stanley said in false disbelief, and chuckled bitterly “Mr. Goody Two shoes was a fag” He took another drag of the cigarette, letting the smoke fill him “I wonder what dad would think of it, his perfect son being that” The last word said bitterly as he let the smoke out with a dangerous smile.

At that, Fiddleford realized he had said far too much.

“It wasn't like that, Stanley”Fiddleford rushed to say “He never did anythin’— He never showed any sign! Please forget what I said, just forget it” At that last bit his voice almost faded. Almost as if an idea was being born.

Stanley raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the railing. “You sure it wasn't like that? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re still pretty tangled up in whatever you and Ford had.”

For a moment, Fiddleford said nothing, his gaze fixed on the woods. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper but it had a hint of aggression.

“I was into him, alright? Is that what you wanted me to say? Dear Lord, you are insufferable, Stanley!” Fiddleford said with clear frustration in his voice, he was irritated and done with Stanley's games “But... he never knew. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Ford had bigger things on his mind. Bigger plans.” He gestured with his hands something similar to the so iconic ‘jazz hands’, a smile too wide and fake in his face.

“So yeah, yer brother is no fag! Not that I know! Wish he was though, could've saved me all this problem” He threw his cigarette to the floor, crushing it with the heel of his shoe.

Stanley hadn't expected all that sudden outburst from Fiddleford nor such a confession. The man was truly insane to confess such a thing out loud without an ounce of fear for his life, especially confiding it to a stranger who also happened to be the brother of the man in question.

Stanley fell silent, not sure what to answer and Fiddleford became all too anxious again. He didn't know what to do with himself, and so he went to pick at the skin of his fingers, he had said too much, he should've stayed silent.

“Is that why you stare at me so much?” Stanley asked, his voice rougher than he intended. “You seeing him every time you look at me, huh?” he titled his head, still wearing that dangerous smile.

Fiddleford’s eyes snapped up, wide with horror. “No, Stanley, no! Those two things are completely unrelated–” He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. “You're different from him, far too different”

Stan felt a bitter laugh bubble up in his throat, though he kept it down. “Of course I am” he directed a glare towards Fiddleford “I'm the good for nothing Stan but that's only how I perceive myself, and I know you only have half a working mind to work with” Fiddleford had an incredulous look at what he had just heard. Did Stanley think so lowly of him? Of himself even?

“I’m serious,” Fiddleford said, his voice pleading. “You’re not Ford, Stanley. I know that” He looked at Stanley's face, almost looking for something that wasn't there “You look like him, that's true, but you'll never be him”

At that last part Stan felt his chest tighten. Fiddleford was right, he'll never be like Ford, he wasn't even half the Stan he was. He stared at the cigarette far too long, letting the silence between them stretch.

“But– that's a good thing actually!” Fiddleford realized how Stanley had gotten lost in his thoughts, his words had been too harsh “As charming as Ford was, he had an awful lot of flaws” that seemed to catch Stan's attention

“Like what?” Stanley asked curiously

“Well, he never knew when to shut up and always got on people's nerves” Fiddleford answered “Like, someone I know, won't say names though” He shrugged and looked at Stanley.

The previous tension seemed to dissipate ever so slightly and Stanley laughed at that.

“He was also severely lacking in the emotional field. He once found me crying back in college and instead of comforting me he gave me a ten-step guide on how to stop being sad” Fiddleford said with a perplexed look at Stanley, almost as if he was back in that memory “I mean, it did work at the moment—mainly because I was too stunned to keep crying, but I could've used some comfort back then” He took a small drag of the cigarette as he offered a melancholic smile.

“That— that does sound like something he would do…” Stanley muttered

“Oh! And he also forgot to get me a gift for my birthday AND Christmas” he said with a renewed frustration, he sure got worked up when it came to Ford “I mean, I kind of deserved it, I had also forgotten to get a gift for my ex-wife”

Fiddleford fell silent after mentioning his ex-wife and Stan wasn't about to let the tension resurface.

“Guess you are both assholes then” Stanley smiled at Fiddleford

“Yeah, guess ya could say that” Fiddleford got closer to Stan, putting his whole weight into the railway.

There was a comfortable silence, Stanley continued smoking peacefully and focused on the warmth next to him. That was until Fiddleford decided to break the peace.

“You are not gonna tell yer dad about this, right?” And there it was again, the anxious Fiddleford was back “About the Ford part I mean, wouldn't want t' be the cause of any family dispute”

“Nah” Stan threw the cigarette into the snow, watching the ember light die out “I would be a hypocrite if I did”

“What do you mean by that?” The other man asked with a tinge of curiosity

“What do you think I mean?” Stanley raised an eyebrow and offered a cocky grin

Fiddleford narrowed his eyes, trying to understand what he was implying, maybe the memory gun's effects were catching up to him again. Stanley gave a little hum, as to encourage Fiddleford to speak.

“Still don't get it, Stanley” he said plainly

“I swing both ways” Stanley replied

Fiddleford kept his puzzled look and just stared at the man beside him.

“I'm not the marrying kind?” Stan said reluctantly, expecting he would catch the hint by now “Doesn't ring any bells?”

“You are losing me over here” Fiddleford crossed his arms, his brows furrowing.

“I’m an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort” Stanley said in a fancy tone and gave a laugh to himself, as if it was some kind of inside joke.

“What does that even mean?” Fiddleford said even more confused and frustrated, he processed the words, sounding way too familiar, he had read them somewhere “Wait, was that a quote on quote reference to the gay novel ‘Maurice’?” He questioned with a face that could only be described as the pure definition of confusion and amusement.

“So you read it too, huh?” Stan asked “That should answer your questions then” Stan leaned closer, dangerously closer one could say.

Fiddleford finally caught what Stanley had been trying to imply. He wasn't straight.

“I'm actually more surprised about the fact that you read that book, or read at all” Fiddleford said trying to be sarcastic but failing miserably due to Stanley's closeness

“Well, I was 16 and grounded, I had found the book in my brother's shelf” He said waving a hand dismissively “I got curious as to what he was reading so late at night so I gave it a shot”

“And just now you realized your brother was probably gay?” Fiddleford asked in clear confusion, if he had known Ford was into that kind of literature he would have tried to make a move. Or that's what he thinks, because deep down he knows he wouldn't have been able to get past giving subtle comments that could be passed off as compliments.

“I had my suspicions but couldn't really say it with certainty” he shrugged “However he also had some other books that seemed to touch similar topics. He had ‘Giovanni's room’ for an instance.” He said

“How did he even get a hold of that book? Wasn't it like banned?” Fiddleford said with frustration and even more confusion, Ford was 16 and somehow got his hands on a homoerotic novel that was banned in half the states. “I've been trying to get a copy for years but it's been impossible!”

Stanley just laughed, a loud and cheerful laugh. It was hilarious to see Fiddleford act like that.

“I could try to get you a copy, I have my ways” Stanley finally went back to his spot, giving Fiddleford some space

“You say it as if you were trying to get something illegal” Fiddleford said, relieved to see Stanley retreat

“Well, it is banned” He replied “And it wouldn't be the first time I have to sneak some goods, if you get what I mean”

“Stanley” Fiddleford said in a serious and concerned tone “What exactly were you up to in the streets?”

“Nothing good, that's for sure, but that's a story for another time” Stanley stood straight up, leaving the railway behind “Now, we should go back to the cabin unless you want to freeze your ass off”

Fiddleford gave a nervous laugh. He definitely wasn't concerned about what he had just heard Stanley imply, oh no, he was just fine.

“I think I will stay here a little longer. I'll meet you for dinner in a second” the man said, taking his glasses off and cleaning the frost that was forming.

“Alright Fiddlesticks, see you for dinner” Stanley gave him his back and opened the door before looking back “It's a date” he wiggled his eyebrows and gave Fiddleford a shit eating grin, heading back inside.

“Lord give me patience, this man is going to be the death of me” Fiddleford buried his face into his hands. Feeling the warmth of them heat up his face.

“Stanley Pines, whatever game you are playing, I'm not gonna be part of it” He muttered to himself before letting out a long sigh.

Update: Drawing has been finished and added. Before this, there was a sketch. I sadly didn't get to finish the drawing on time, but once I finish it , I will share it here as a new chapter. I'm planning on making lots of drawings for this fic. So I will double update on Tuesday with new chapter and drawings of the fic. You can support my art at ManGohArchives on Twitter and TikTok.

Chapter Text

Stanley stood at the stove, the soft sizzle of chicken and rice filling the shack with warmth. The smell was surprisingly comforting—something simple, something familiar. He wasn’t much of a cook, but when you have spent years surviving on what little you could scrape together, you learn to make the most of what you have.

Fiddleford stepped into the room, adjusting his glasses as he watched Stanley move around the kitchen.

“What’re you makin’?” Fiddleford asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Nothing fancy,” Stanley replied with a shrug. “Just stir-fried rice with some chicken I found. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll fill us up.”

Fiddleford wandered over to the table, eyeing the scattered papers, maps, and Ford’s old journal. “Need help with anything?”

Stan barely looked over his shoulder, focused on getting the seasoning right. “Yeah, set the table and move those papers out of the way. We’ve got enough clutter as it is.”

Nodding, Fiddleford gathered the mess of papers, his gaze lingering on Ford’s journal—the one they’d been trying to crack for days now. Half of it was written in that strange alien language Ford had picked up from somewhere, and the other half was a mess of codes—Caesar cipher mixed with something else they had yet to find out what it was. Fiddleford couldn’t help but wonder where Ford had hidden the other journals. Without them, they couldn’t operate the portal. Even if they finished repairing everything, there was still that issue. Great heavens, why did Ford always have to make everything so difficult?

His thoughts were interrupted by Stanley, who approached the table holding two dishes in his hands. The sound of plates being set on the table being enough to make him forget his previous thoughts. “Dinner’s ready.” Stanley said.

They sat down, the meal quiet but not uncomfortable. Fiddleford took a bite and was surprised by the flavor. “This is better than I expected, well— most of what you cook tastes quite good” he said, offering Stanley a small smile. “I could get used to this."

Stanley smiled back, clearly pleased. “Oh, and you haven’t even had my take on instant noodles yet. Back in Mexico, some of my cellmates taught me one or two recipes, one of them was instant noodles with birria meat. If we were feeling fancy, we would throw some cheese on top too.” He raised his eyebrows playfully a handful of times, leaning his head towards Fiddleford, and letting his fork linger in the air.

But Fiddleford’s expression didn’t change. In fact, he seemed unnervingly still.

Stanley paused, his fork now coming back to his plate “What? You don’t like instant noodles?” he asked, his tone teasing, but the grin on his face faltered when Fiddleford didn’t respond right away.

“No, I like ‘em fine— not the most healthy of meals, but they are okay” Fiddleford finally said, his voice quieter than before. “But did you just say... cellmates?”

Stanley blinked, his smirk fading. “Yeah... what? Are you surprised?” He tried to brush it off, his tone casual, but Fiddleford didn’t let it go.

“I didn’t think I was sharin’ a place with someone who’s been to prison” Fiddleford admitted, the concern evident in his voice now.

Stanley leaned back in his chair, trying to hide the sudden tension he felt creeping in. “Well, life is full of surprises. What, you think I’ve been some kind of choir boy all my life?”

“No, I just didn’t expect that, since people don't usually go to prison for just being assholes,” Fiddleford said, his brow furrowed. “And Stanley, you are not exactly easy to read.”

“Yeah, well... I’ve been through some stuff. You’re not the only one who’s had a rough time.” He glanced down at his plate, suddenly finding it hard to meet Fiddleford’s gaze.

Fiddleford said nothing for a long moment, his thoughts racing. He already knew he was living with danger—the portal, Ford’s secrets, the unstable nature of the situation, and the threat of a possible apocalypse—but this was something else. Well, it actually couldn't compare to the threat of the end of times, but the point gets across. Apparently Stanley wasn't the only one living with a potentially dangerous individual.

He looked up to see Stanley watching him, those guarded eyes searching his face for a reaction.

“Well, I suppose I can’t judge,” Fiddleford finally said, trying to ease the tension. “We’ve all got skeletons in our closets.” He tried for a small smile, but his mind wouldn’t let go of the word 'cellmates.'

“Yeah, I guess” Stanley huffed out a small laugh, but there was a weight in the air that hadn’t been there some minutes ago. They had managed to fall back into that uncomfortable air from days ago.

The rest of the dinner passed in a quieter tone, both of them avoiding the elephant in the room, but it was clear; Fiddleford couldn’t help but feel a seed of doubt creeping into his mind. What else was Stanley hiding? Could this be related to what he had said back outside in the porch?

He stood up, having finished his dinner and thanked Stanley for it. He left the plate in the sink and told Stanley he was going to clean them tomorrow in the morning. He then headed straight to his spot on the sofa and was now muttering curses that couldn't actually be considered as such due to how absurd they were. He kept on muttering, those curses directed to the fact he lacked privacy to think or even sleep. How could he be anxious in peace when he couldn't even lock himself in a room? For a moment, he considered asking for his room back, maybe he vould kick Stanley out of it and tell him to occupy Ford's room instead. It's his brother's room after all, Stanley should be the one to occupy it, not him. Fiddleford was now seriously considering the idea, his back was killing him from all the nights sleeping there.

Then he reconsidered after remembering the word 'cellmates', Stanley wasn't just some tough guy who happened to have a rough life in the streets, oh no, he apparently had some kind of criminal record. He had been involved in something bad enough to end in prison, and not even one within the states, it was Mexico. What was he even doing in there? He clearly had no money, so he couldn't have traveled there just to visit and be another tourist. He was probably involved in something bigger, maybe something involving the cartels even.

Oh good God, Fiddleford could just hope he was wrong because if he was right, then Stanley wasn't the only danger. Maybe there was people after him! And if there actually was, he was probably going to get involved in that mess. Another problem to his list. He kept pacing around the small room that wasn't quite enclosed. His pacing came to a stop when he crashed against something, —or well, someone— falling to the floor.

Speaking of the devil, Stanley was standing in front of him.

“Uh, sorry about that” Stanley extended a hand to Fiddleford, who took the help offered “Look, I just wanted to talk a bit with you” Stanley was rubbing the back of his neck with one of his hands, occasionally tugging at his messy mullet

“Talk about what?” Fiddleford asked

“About what I said, the whole prison thing” Stanley said awkwardly “Look, I didn't mean to scare you with that, if it makes you feel more at ease, I wasn't in there for any kind of violent crime” He was nervous and his voice sounded apologetic in a way.

Fiddleford swallowed, the room feeling suddenly smaller. “What were you in for, then?”

Stan took a breath, then glanced at him.

“Some petty crimes, scams, some other things...and trafficking of drugs” He said, his voice out of breath all of sudden. “Use, too. Though, it’s all behind me now” his hand went back to his neck “Most of it”

Fiddleford remained silent, trying to process the information, staring way too intensely at Stanley.

“You don’t exactly get a choice when you’re trying to survive. I did what I had to” Stanley's gaze met Fiddleford's “People are willing to pay for more than just their next hit, you know?” Stanley’s voice hardened slightly as he looked away

There it was—just a slip of a sentence, barely noticeable, but it sent a chill down Fiddleford’s spine. He didn’t press the matter, didn’t ask what Stanley had meant by that. But the implication lingered, heavier than before. What had Stanley been up to before he got caught? What else had he been doing to get by? He also said "most of it", was he still in that line of work?

“For how long?” Fiddleford asked hesitantly “I mean, when did you start to get involved in all that mess?”

Stanley looked at him, trying to focus and remember the exact moment it all went down.

“I was running short of money some months after my dad kicked me out, I had been traveling across the states and yet somehow managed to end up in Tijuana” Stanley was now looking away from Fiddleford “One thing led to the other and now I was involved with this guy named Rico, things got messy, and he knew I needed my next hit.” Stanley fell silent, his eyes were void of emotion and his hands were clenching the fabric of his shirt, he had stopped breathing all together and was looking everywhere but at Fiddleford.

“Tijuana's ‘flour’ is no joke” He let out a strained laugh that almost sounded like a choked sob.

Fiddleford wasn’t sure what to say. He hadn’t expected Stanley to reveal something like that out of the blue, and for a second, all he could do was stare, caught off guard by the weight of Stanley’s words. The vulnerability in his tone was startling, and an uncomfortable twist of pity settled in Fiddleford’s chest before he could stop it.

Stanley noticed the look—That mix of pity and empathy as if he was some kind of wounded animal, and in that instant, he felt like that, smaller, weaker and under a gaze he hadn’t invited. And just in a matter of seconds, he set the wall he’d let down, back up.

“But hey,” he forced a smirk, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What happens in Tijuana, stays in Tijuana!”

Stanley couldn't bear being next to Fiddleford, or anyone right now. He pushed himself off the sofa with a little too much force, stumbling as he shot to his feet. When had they even sat down? It doesn't matter—The thought was soon vanishing as he did from the room. That fleeting moment of openness had felt like peeling a scab, raw and stinging, and he was desperate to put distance between them before it tore any deeper.

Fiddleford watched as Stanley left the room, shoulders tense and steps quick, and suddenly he wished he hadn’t made such a big deal over that one stupid word.

“Cellmates,” he muttered under his breath, his hands drifting up to cover his face. He could still feel the weight of Stanley’s words hanging in the air. He’d touched a topic far too sensitive, pulled a thread he hadn’t meant to unravel, and now the memory of Stanley’s hollow, wounded expression gnawed at him.

Stanley had been through a lot—more than Fiddleford could have imagined—and now, he felt like an idiot for even considering pressing the matter further. He wanted to kick himself for letting his curiosity eclipse his empathy, however briefly.

“God, I sure screwed up this time,” he whispered, his face buried deeper in his hands.
-----

The next day, neither of them mentioned the conversation again. They went about their routines as usual, quietly letting the topic fade away, as if both had agreed it was better left alone.

Some things are better left forgotten.

Chapter Text

The sound of clanging tools and electric hums filled the air as Stanley adjusted the last bolt on the panel. Fiddleford's instructions crackled over the walkie-talkie, guiding him step by step from the safety of the control room. His voice was steady, precise— it was always like this when he knew what he was talking about. He would take this semblance of seriousness and speak as if he were some science university teacher explaining how to perform a certain experiment.

Stanley wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing toward the portal. Even without fully understanding the inner workings, he could sense the dangerous potential lurking within the dormant machine. Despite the long hours, Fiddleford never got quite used to the portal. He never got out of the control room, only when Stanley was there to hold and steady him, he could barely walk past the threshold without feeling that familiar sense of dread.

Fiddleford was starting to remember more and more lately; he recently remembered the image of Bill Cipher, how his guts were spilling out of his body. He remembered in vivid detail the sound of blood dripping, how the so-called ‘muse’ was looking at him even with no eyes. He could feel it, he could feel his eyes, how it wanted to eat him too. The memory was about to send him into a self destructive spiral, he could already feel warm blood beneath his finger nails and tears forming. Bill Cipher was about to bring the end of times if that portal was activated, and he was going to help open it. All because of Ford, all because of him. Maybe he should erase that memory again, it would bring him peace —momentarily— but peace regardless and it would allow him to continue working on the portal. He couldn't stomach being near it anymore, even from meters away, he was feeling sick. He just had to go to Stanley's room and get the gun. He just had to—

“How’s that looking?” Stanley asked, his voice gruff but neutral. Fiddleford hadn't noticed when he got to the control room.

There was a pause as Fiddleford tried to wipe the tears, discreetly passing it off as him trying to clean his glasses, this was followed by Fiddleford’s response.

“Nearly there. We still need the other journals, tho’. Ford had two more somewhere in the shack, but I’m not sure where he put them” His tone hinted at frustration—a problem that could derail their progress.

Stanley wiped his hands on his pants and looked toward the basement stairs. He was trying to think where his brother could have possibly hid them. He had forgotten to explain that detail to Fiddleford.

“I don't think they are in the shack” Stanley looked at Fiddleford “He had said something about hiding the others, and knowing Sixer, he could have easily sent one of them to Spain”

Fiddleford just groaned and hid his face into his hands, grabbing part of his scalp and tugging at the hairs slightly. Ford always had to make everything difficult! Fiddleford wanted to punch that man, and maybe he will once he gets back.

“However, I saw some old boxes in the storage room. He has all kinds of crap stuffed in there. Could be worth checking.” Stanley said, trying to distract Fiddleford from whatever thought was forming.

Fiddleford agreed, and the two of them ascended to the upper levels of the shack. As they rummaged through the old papers and clutter, the air was filled with dust and there were weird tapestries that only Fiddleford recognized, Bill Cipher's doing.

“What's with the whole triangle motifs?” Stanley asked pointing at no specific place, for the room was cluttered with triangles any direction you look at.

Fiddleford kneeled next to a box and began to rummage through it.

“It's Bill Cipher” Fiddleford said, as if that answer was enough

“Cipher? Didn't you mention him during your breakdown?” Stanley went to kneel next to him, helping him get all the papers out of the box

“Yeah…” Was Fiddleford's only reply

“So, what is exactly going with this Cipher dude?” Stanley took some more papers out

“He is,” Fiddleford seemed to think for a while before he spoke again “He is something similar to a God”

“I'm sorry, what did you just say? What do you mean by ‘God’?” Stanley looked at him incredulous

“Well, more like a demon actually” Fiddleford mumbled

“That doesn't really answer my question Fiddlesticks” his voice seemed a little preoccupied

“Look, I know barely as much as you do” he sighed “I just know he was Ford's muse. He never told me about him, but I read some pages of his journals when he wasn't around. This ‘Cipher dude’ as you call him” he made air quotes with his fingers “Was the one behind the portal creation idea, apparently it was going to bring him to this dimension”

“So that's why he made it” Stanley said to himself

“Yeah” Fiddleford chuckled, a laugh full of venom “He made it to bring his interdimensional boyfriend over” he said with mockery that leaned towards envy.

“Wait, I'm a little lost over here Fiddlesticks” Stan had stopped getting the papers out, too taken aback by what Fiddleford just said.

“Like I said, I didn't know if your brother swung that way” Fiddleford lifted his gaze from the papers “But he did like geometry apparently. God, the way he talked about Cipher made me sick”

Stanley looked even more lost

“He would write stuff like ‘Oh, my muse came back to visit me in my dreams, how charming he is’ and make some stupid drawing of that triangle” He threw the papers out of the box way too harshly “He described Cipher as ‘The most charming being in existence’ and would write dozens of pages about him” He was starting to get angry just remembering it.

“So you're telling me that my brother was dating that?” He remarked the last word by pointing at a tapestry with the image of the triangle

“I wouldn't say dating is the right word” Fiddleford left some papers in the floor and gestured with his hands “It was more like a God and his devotee kind of relationship, but Ford did sound like a schoolgirl when writing in his journal” He furrowed his brow and his hand directed towards the frown that was forming, massaging it as if to try to get the frustration out.

“Alright, so what I got from all of this is that my brother is too much of a nerd to even date properly” Stanley joked, trying to lighten up the mood.

Fiddleford laughed at that, genuinely.

“He did have some questionables tastes” Fiddleford remarked while laughing and took a pause before talking again “For example, he really liked this cheap brand of soda called ‘Pitt Cola’ or something like that” he waved his hand dismissively “In my honest opinion it tasted terribly, it had some kind of citrus tinge that just didn't sit right with me— or most people” He gave Stanley a look “But for some reason he loved it”

Stanley looked away and mumbled something.

“What was that?” Fiddleford asked, unable to hear what he said the first time.

“I like ‘Pitt Cola’ too…” Stanley seemed embarrassed to admit this.

“Stanley, you have terrible taste!” Fiddleford said while laughing way too hard and falling to the floor

“Well, I might have terrible taste too, but at least I got way more game than my brother” He was trying to defend himself

"What? Were you some kind of casanova?" Fiddleford got back to sitting in front of the box, asking teasingly.

“You could say, I was quite popular with girls and even the boys back in the day” Stanley said with something similar to pride.

“Yeah, don't you say” Fiddleford rolled his eyes in disbelief

“I'm being for real Fiddlesticks” he leaned close to him “Come on, I bet you are just jealous that even I got more game than you, bet you have barely kissed any women aside from your ex-wife,” he was laughing at Fiddleford “Or any man either”

At that last statement Fiddleford's face flushed, he was looking at the inside of the empty box and fell silent for a moment.

“I have never kissed a man” He said softly “I never dared to think like that of another man” There was a tinge of shame in his voice, as if it was something that was wrong, that needed to be kept hidden. And it was, at least to Fiddleford. He had tried to keep that hidden for so long, pray it away, as they say, but it didn't work. Stanley just looked at him for a second too long before talking.

“Hm” Stanley hummed in reply “Want to give it a try?” He asked in his usual teasing tone, this man had no shame, was Fiddleford's only thought.

“Oh, shut up, Stanley!” He threw a paper at him while trying to hide his embarrassment at the idea.

“Make me” Stanley replied back, did he always have a somehow worst come back to everything he said?

“Gonna make you shut up, but not in the way you are thinkin’ of” He said trying to regain some sense of control of the situation.

“What? You are gonna gag me?” Stanley was leaning even more closer and Fiddleford could feel his face heating up. Yeah, he definitely had an even worse come back every time. “Didn't take you for the kinky type, gonna charge you extra if you want that though” His voice was barely a whisper and sounded somewhat seductive.

“Stanley, get away” Fiddleford tried to sound irritated but his voice had a tremor to it. Stanley had now realized he pushed the joke too far, and went back to his spot.

“Alright, your loss Fiddlesticks” he said plainly and they went back to looking through the old boxes for any clue of where the journals could be.

As Stanley looked through the boxes he tried not to think about how this whole project felt like digging up ghosts. Ford’s genius —and the image of his geometrical boyfriend— haunted every corner of the room.

After a long silence, Stanley glanced at Fiddleford. “So... What is exactly inside those journals, aside from his personal love life”

Fiddleford adjusted his glasses and sighed. “He had everything in those books—schematics, encryption keys, even the coordinates. The portal isn't just a machine, Stan. It's... a doorway. And without the full picture, we could end up opening it to anything.”

Stanley frowned, his unease growing. “Like, right next to Bill Cipher?”

Fiddleford nodded gravely. “Exactly.”

As they continued their search, Stan stumbled upon an old, leather-bound journal that looked like it hadn't been touched in years. “Could this be one of them?”

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Yes! Well— actually no, that’s one of Ford’s earlier ones actually, we have journal 1 and we are missing 2 and 3,” He listed with his fingers “But he also did write some other stuff into other journals unrelated to his research. It might not have everything we need, but it’ll help us make sense of what’s already there.” Fiddleford was smiling while holding the journal, maybe God was by his side this time.

They went out of the storage room, directing towards the dining area's table as they had done countless times before.

They sat at the table, flipping through the journal, trying to decipher the complex diagrams and notations. While Fiddleford studied the pages intensely, Stanley watched him from the corner of his eye. Fiddleford’s hands moved nervously over the papers, tracing the lines of Ford’s work with an air of reverence and fear, as if he was touching something sacred.

Stanley finally broke the silence. “You ever think Ford might've left something out on purpose? You know, so no one else could figure it out”

Fiddleford didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, almost hesitant. “Probably, yes. Ford had a way of safeguarding things, but other times... I think he underestimated just how dangerous his work really was. He was brilliant, but blind to the consequences.” Stanley could hear the bitterness in Fiddleford’s tone.

As the evening wore on, they finally had enough clues to resume their work on deciphering the codes from the other journal, but Fiddleford’s earlier words echoed in Stanley’s mind: “Without the full picture, we could end up opening it to anything.”

Stanley knew there were risks in all of this but acknowledging it made it feel real. Ford had dragged them both into this mess, and now it was up to them to see it through.

---------

Stanley had gone back to the storage room. Fiddleford had told him to get a box that supposedly had some more of Ford's early works. The place was a dusty mess, said dust floating now in the air due to the constant movement. Stanley had already spent the better part of an hour shifting through old boxes, each filled with pieces of Ford’s life. Some of it was academic—papers filled with scribbled equations, his thesis, half-finished research projects, and old books—but most of it was junk. Still, he continued looking for the box. Fiddleford had told him it should contain something resembling a photo album and a green folder.

Stanley pushed another box aside and froze. Something caught his eye— there was a peek of green inside a worn cardboard box tucked in the back corner, forgotten beneath a pile of old tools. With a grunt, he pulled it out, a cloud of dust escaping as the lid cracked completely open.

Inside, there was no green folder to be seen but there was a photo album and some cutouts of science magazines. He decided to open the photo album, check if maybe this was the one that contained the earlier schemes for the portal. However, as he opened it, he realized he got the wrong album. There were indeed schemes inside, just not for a portal, but for a boat. He flipped to the next page of the album, finding more schemes, but they actually couldn't be called that, they were just old drawings that Ford had made when they were younger.

Drawings of both of them sailing across the sea.

There were also some of Stanley's earlier attempts at comics. He had wanted to be a comic book illustrator when he was younger, he wanted to create his own comic and make it big, like some of his favorites. One of them was "The X-cessive Force", he had all the volumes available back then.

His fingers touched the comic through the flimsy layer of plastic. Ford had kept these drawings all these years, he even saved them in an album.

Stanley's curiosity got the best out of him, even when he knew nothing good would come from reminiscing old memories, he flipped to the next page.

There was a picture of Ford as a kid, smiling awkwardly with their father by the beach. The wind had whipped Ford’s hair into a frenzy, while Stanley, his younger self, stood just out of frame, barely visible in the corner.

He swallowed hard. There were more—photos from their childhood near the coast. Sand, salt, and sunlight captured in still images. He shuffled through them, each one of them reviving the memories he held close at night. There was one of them building sandcastles, Ford’s focused expression etched in concentration, while Stanley stood by with a bucket, smiling widely. There were even some from their teenage years. He kept looking through the album, feeling his heart clench constantly, he missed his brother.

He had missed him all this time, and so did Ford apparently. Maybe he did care about his family, just not as much as Stanley would have liked. He could already feel some tears threatening to spill.

“What did ya find?” Fiddleford asked, head peeking through the door. He soon caught sight of the album in Stanley’s hands and was debating on whether he should enter the room or give him privacy.

“Just... old stuff,” Stanley muttered, his voice tight. He shoved the photo album back into the box with a little more force than necessary, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest. “Doesn’t matter.”

But it did. It mattered more than he wanted to admit. He thought about those days constantly, about the beach they grew up near, the salt air that clung to their skin. He often found himself unable to sleep at night, and the only thought that brought him comfort, was the fantasy of imagining the 'What if’s' of his life.

He wondered what it would have been like if he hadn't broken Ford's project. He wondered what it would have been like if Ford had stopped his dad from kicking him out. He wondered about a lot of stuff at night, but most importantly, he wondered what it would have been like if Ford had chosen to stay by his side. What it would have been like to be able to call him 'brother' again.

“Stanley?” Fiddleford called his name, his tone far too gentle as he decided to enter the room.

“Ford never mentioned much about his family,” Fiddleford said quietly, crouching down beside Stanley. His eyes were drawn to the photo album, he wanted to know what was inside, but his fingers stayed away, respecting the unspoken boundary between them.

“I could tell, you didn't even know I was his brother” Stanley shrugged, trying to mask the emotion rising in his throat.

Fiddleford hesitated, glancing at Stanley before looking back at the box. “However, you meant a lot to him. I can see that, otherwise he wouldn't have kept all of this.” He gestured towards the box.

Stanley clenched his jaw, not daring to look at the box, memories being heavy enough without looking at the pictures.

“Maybe…” he said quietly, the words barely escaping. Maybe he did care about me— was the complete sentence Stanley could not bring himself to say out loud.

But it didn’t feel like enough to satisfy Stanley—not anymore, it was far too late. Maybe Ford should have shown him the same care he had towards these pictures. So well taken care of, still pristine after all the years, unlike Stanley who just seemed to get worse as time went by.

He buried the sadness deep down, the same way he always had, where no one could see it. Not Fiddleford, not Ford, not anyone.

“Let’s keep moving,” Stanley said, standing up abruptly, his voice gruff. He tossed the box back into the corner. “There’s more crap to sort through.”

Fiddleford looked at him, something soft in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Instead, he gave a quiet nod and stood up to follow. “Alright, Stanley”

But as they walked away from the box, the weight of those photos lingered. The photos now were food for thought to another night of 'what if’s'.

Also made this silly comic

I have to make some art of Stanley holding that photo album.

Chapter Text

The night had grown still, with only the faint ticking of the clock punctuating the silence. Fiddleford’s eyes strained as he leaned over the notes, trying to decipher Ford’s cryptic symbols. He had decided to keep working on decoding the cryptic messages while Stanley slept. His pencil scratched against the paper as he worked, each line a frustrating attempt to decode the pictograms, but his mind was slipping with fatigue. Despite the challenge, he couldn't bring himself to stop. The puzzle kept pulling him back in, and he was determined to unlock whatever secrets lay hidden in Ford’s strange codes.

This code however, looked quite a lot different to Ford's usual ones, it included drawings of skulls, bombs, some symbols like hashtag, percent and the dollar sign. Also a boat and a pine tree for some reason. Fiddleford was quite puzzled, confused as to what he was looking at, it looked like a kid's poor attempt at making a secret code. But as a stupid as it was, it did work, because Fiddleford could only sigh and try to find anything related to that code in Ford's other journal.

A quiet sound broke through his concentration—soft, deliberate footsteps approaching. Without looking up, Fiddleford knew it was Stanley. He was probably getting some water from the kitchen, it was far too late for him to get up for anything else.

His presence, usually sharp and commanding, felt different tonight, it was like an apparition, a ghost that had gotten too far from its grave. Stanley slipped into the seat beside Fiddleford without a word, the chair creaking softly as he settled. For a while, neither spoke, the silence between them easy, comfortable. Just enjoying each other's company as weird as that might sound.

Fiddleford continued scribbling notes, having moved on to another page that did not contain those puzzling codes. Stanley rested his arms on the table, getting comfortable before letting his head fall on top of them. Some of the curls fell to his face, covering his cheek and forehead, hiding slightly his eyes behind a light curtain of hair, but Fiddleford could feel the gaze of the other man on him, lingering. He stayed like that for a while, just looking at him in silence. At some point Fiddleford wanted to break the silence and ask what Stanley thought of the pictograms or if he had any insight, but when he finally turned to speak, his words caught in his throat.

Stanley had fallen asleep, his head resting against the crook of his arm, face relaxed in the soft glow of the lamplight. His usual hard edges—the cocky grin, the guarded looks—had melted away in sleep, leaving behind a man who seemed much younger, more vulnerable than Fiddleford was used to seeing. It reminded him of the first night when he met Stanley.

A strange warmth spread through Fiddleford as he watched him, his heart pulling in unexpected ways. He had seen Stanley like this before, but it felt different this time, he looked so at peace, so utterly unguarded. His chest rose and fell with steady breaths, a soft sigh escaping his lips every so often, and for a moment, Fiddleford allowed himself to linger on the sight.

Stanley had endured so much—Fiddleford knew that, though not all the details. He imagined the weight of the years Stanley carried with him, the scars etched into his skin and soul. A man like Stanley didn’t sleep like this unless he was utterly exhausted. The thought that Stanley was comfortable enough to rest beside him did something strange to Fiddleford’s heart.

Unable to help himself, Fiddleford reached out, his hand hovering just above Stanley’s face. A strand of hair had fallen into his closed eyes, and with a tender care that surprised even him, Fiddleford brushed it back, his fingertips barely grazing Stanley’s skin.

Stanley stirred at the touch, his breath hitching softly, but instead of pulling away, he leaned into it. The simple act—a sleepy, unconscious motion—was intimate in a way Fiddleford hadn’t expected. Fiddleford’s breath caught, feeling an almost overwhelming desire to protect the man beside him. Protect him from the world that had been so unkind to him.

The room was far too quiet, and the lateness of the hour pressed down on them. Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the clock. It was past 1 am. Stanley needed to rest properly, and Fiddleford could no longer justify keeping him at the table. He stood slowly, careful not to disturb Stanley too much, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice low and soft. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Stanley groaned in response, blinking blearily as Fiddleford coaxed him awake. His movements were sluggish, as though sleep still clung to him, and Fiddleford found himself wrapping an arm around his waist to guide him, there were no ulterior motives in the touch, just Fiddleford wanting to prevent the man from falling down. However, the closeness made his heart flutter. Stanley let himself be led upstairs and down the hall, leaning against Fiddleford.

When they reached the bedroom, Stanley collapsed onto the mattress without ceremony, sighing heavily as he settled in. Fiddleford stood awkwardly by the edge of the bed, torn between leaving him to rest and something else—something he couldn't figure out what it was.

He shook away any thought as he set his way out of the room, but then Stanley’s voice, groggy and rough with sleep, stopped him. “Stay.”

It was a simple word, mumbled, almost pleading in its softness. Fiddleford froze, his heart skipping a beat. He swallowed hard, glancing back at Stanley, who had already half-buried his face in the pillow, eyes still closed. But there was something in the way he said it, something that made Fiddleford’s chest tighten.

Carefully, Fiddleford sat on the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the thundering in his chest. Stanley shifted, rolling toward him, his body unconsciously seeking the warmth. Fiddleford didn’t move, unsure of what to do as his hand hovered above Stanley’s head, trembling slightly with hesitation.

He could leave now, slip away quietly since Stanley was already falling asleep again, but he had asked him to stay, and there was something about the request—about the trust implicit in it—that made Fiddleford want to be there. Slowly, tentatively, he reached out, his fingers gently grazing Stanley’s hair.

Stanley responded immediately, letting out a soft, contented sound as he leaned into the touch, his body relaxing further into the mattress. Fiddleford’s breath hitched at the sound, his fingers combing carefully through Stanley’s hair. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on him—every touch, every quiet breath between them felt charged, as though this small act of comfort meant far more than either of them would admit.

He stayed like that for a while, gently petting Stanley’s hair as he feel deeper into sleep, the quiet of the room enveloping them both. It was such a simple thing, but the way Stanley leaned into him, the way his breathing slowed and evened out under Fiddleford’s hand, made it feel monumental.

Eventually, Stanley’s breathing grew deep and steady, fully asleep now, but Fiddleford didn’t pull away. His hand remained, fingers softly brushing through the strands of hair as if to reassure himself that this was real—that this moment, this quiet closeness, wasn’t just a fleeting dream.

And as he sat there, with Stanley resting beside him, Fiddleford felt something settle in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he could allow himself to feel it for a while, if just for tonight. He could torture himself tomorrow, but right now, he just wanted to feel more of this warmth.

Chapter Text

The morning crept in with soft light filtering through the small window, casting faint shadows across the cluttered room. Stanley stirred, barely conscious of the steady warmth pressed against him, of the gentle rise and fall of Fiddleford’s chest beneath his head. The quiet rhythm of Fiddleford’s breathing filled the space, a soft, reassuring sound that shouldn’t have been so comforting. For a moment, Stanley hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to retreat—to wake up, roll over, and pretend this moment of vulnerability hadn’t happened.

But he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. The memory of last night was too fresh: the quiet moment they had shared after such a tiring day, the way Fiddleford had run his fingers through his hair with such tenderness. There hadn’t been any expectations in that touch, just a quiet kind of affection that made his heart swell.

It wasn’t like him to let his guard down, not like this—he hadn't expected to end in this kind of situation, especially with someone like Fiddleford. Yet here he was, his face buried against Fiddleford’s chest and unwilling to pull away. Embarrassment flickered briefly, a familiar flame he quickly swallowed down. He hadn’t had anything like this in a long time—hadn’t let anyone close enough to offer him this kind of comfort, however he told himself it was fine, that he’d just savor the moment a little longer. It wasn’t like anyone else was around to see him being like this.

Fiddleford stirred beneath him, and Stanley froze. A hand, rough but gentle, moved through his hair again, the fingers threading lazily through the strands. It had been too long since anyone had touched him like this—since anyone had cared enough to offer him even the smallest bit of comfort.

He closed his eyes and bit back the swell of emotion that threatened to rise in his throat. It was stupid, really—getting worked up over something some small kind touches. But the truth was, he couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel this safe.

For now, he could hold onto this strange, tentative warmth and pretend—just for a little while—that it was something he deserved.

That was until Fiddleford’s hand slowed, then stopped altogether. Stanley bit back the pang of disappointment that followed, telling himself he was being ridiculous for wanting the gentle touch to return.

-----

Fiddleford had awoken to the weight of Stanley against him, his breath catching for a moment as he registered the scene. Stanley’s head was tucked against his chest, his arm slung loosely over Fiddleford’s side as if seeking comfort in his sleep. The sight tugged at Fiddleford's heart and for a second, he allowed himself to indulge in the warmth of it.

His hand had moved on its own, fingers gently combing through Stanley’s thick, unruly hair. It was soft, despite its disheveled appearance, and the peaceful expression on Stanley’s face made Fiddleford’s heart ache. For a moment, it felt so natural—so easy—to just stay like this.

And then the guilt set in, sharp and unforgiving. His fingers froze mid-motion as the weight of what he was doing came crashing down on him. What was he doing? What was he thinking? This wasn’t right. It didn’t matter that it was just an innocent touch or that Stanley had fallen asleep next to him as if it was the most normal thing to do. The feelings stirring in Fiddleford’s chest were far from normal, and that realization twisted his gut with shame.

He pulled his hand away, heart pounding as years of old beliefs and fears clawed their way to the surface. Memories of sermons from his youth rang in his ears, condemning even the smallest hint of this kind of closeness.

He had grown up knowing what was expected of him, raised in a community where these kinds of feelings were looked at with more than disgust. He had been taught that such things were sinful, against God’s will, and yet… here he was. Holding onto Stanley, petting his hair like he couldn’t bear to let go.

The weight of his guilt settled heavily on his chest. He’d heard the sermons a thousand times—about purity, about sin, about what was natural and what wasn’t. And now, laying here with another man, he felt dirty. Tainted. Like he’d let something dark slip through the cracks of his guarded heart. He shouldn't have done this, he shouldn't have let himself be tempted by that ‘Stay’.

Fiddleford clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not again. He’d worked so hard to bury these kind of feelings, to pretend they didn’t exist. He’d done so with Ford— and with any man he had ever come to take a liking of. He’d buried the longing for Ford in laughter, in friendly jabs and compliments that were always just shy of crossing the line. And now, here he was again, caught in the same trap with Stanley, feeling things he had no right to feel.

He hadn’t meant to feel this way again, but the affection had crept in slowly, like water seeping through the cracks of a dam. It started with simple concern—caring for Stanley’s well-being, wanting to make sure the man wasn't pushing himself too far, Fiddleford didn't want him to end up like a reflection of his brother. Then, it had turned into something softer, something that made his heart ache in a way he couldn’t explain. Or well, he could, he just didn't want to.

Fiddleford’s hand moved away completely from Stanley’s hair, the touch suddenly too intimate, too much. His pulse quickened, and he felt a flush of heat crawl up the back of his neck, as if the very air in the room was thick with accusation. He could almost hear the voice of the preacher back home, telling him that this kind of desire would lead him straight to hell, that he was straying from the righteous path that was set for men.

Was this what he’d become? A man so desperate for companionship, for comfort, that he was willing to throw away everything he believed in? Everything he’d been taught was sacred?

He wanted to shove Stanley off him, to create distance, to put an end to the dangerous emotions stirring in his chest. But instead, he stayed frozen, his breath shallow, his thoughts a mess of conflicting emotions. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not really. But it felt like he had. It felt like he’d crossed some invisible line, and the shame of it burned inside him.

Stanley stirred slightly, and Fiddleford snapped his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. His heart pounded in his chest, and he hoped—prayed—that Stanley wouldn’t notice the tension in his body. He wasn’t ready to face whatever this was. He wasn’t ready to admit that he might want something more, something that went against the sacred book that he still kept in this room.

Stanley shifted slightly, breaking Fiddleford’s spiral of guilt. He fought to keep his breathing steady, feigning sleep as he tried to figure out what to do.

Finally, Fiddleford worked up the nerve to speak. “Stanley?” he murmured, his voice soft and unsteady.

The man blinked lazily, pretending to wake. “Mmm?” Stanley mumbled, dragging the moment out before rolling away and stretching as though nothing had happened.

Fiddleford sat up, rubbing at his eyes. “Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, lacking its usual sharp edge.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Stanley muttered, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

They sat there for a moment, the air between them thick. Fiddleford felt like he was going to choke on it, but Stanley seemed to take it all in stride.

“I think I’ll take a bath,” Fiddleford finally said as he sat up right. His voice sounded steadier now, more composed. “You mind makin’ breakfast?”

Stanley just looked at him for a second before standing up and saying a faint “Alright”, already heading toward the door and put to the kitchen without a second glance.

As soon as Stanley was gone, Fiddleford buried his face into his hands. His mind racing, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a stone. He’d let himself get too close—let himself feel things he had no right feeling. And now, he wasn’t sure how to undo it.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He needed to shake it off, needed to focus on something else, something mundane and safe.

“I need to take that bath,” he mumbled to himself, standing up on shaky legs. He needed to wash away the guilt, the filth that clung to him—not just the dirt and grime from yesterday's day of work, but the shame that felt like it had seeped into his very skin.

As he made his way to the bathroom, Fiddleford couldn’t stop the thoughts from racing in his head. He couldn’t stop the feeling that, somehow, he’d damned himself just by caring too much.

And worst of all, he couldn’t shake the fear that, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, that desire—however small, however fleeting—wasn’t going to go away.

-----

Stanley busied himself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables and cracking eggs with more force than necessary. The rhythmic motion was grounding, something to focus on instead of the tangled mess of feelings threatening to claw its way to the surface.

“Why the hell did you ask him to stay?” Stanley mumbled to himself

The thought had lingered since last night, circling his mind like a predator waiting to strike. It had felt right in the moment, like something he needed to do, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if it was a mistake? What if Fiddleford thought it was weird?

Stanley clenched his jaw, tossing the diced onions and some bacon into the pan. The sizzle of oil filled the air, but it did nothing to drown out the persistent hum of doubt in his head.

He wanted Fiddleford’s company. That much he couldn’t deny. He wanted to keep that strange, comforting warmth a little longer, to hold onto the quiet sense of peace it had given him.

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head at himself. Maybe the portal was driving him insane too. Why else would he be overthinking this so much? Why else would he feel so damn hopeful about something he had no business hoping for?

As he scrambled the eggs, he tried to push the thoughts away, focusing on the smell of sizzling bacon and onion. Cooking was easier than thinking. Easier than admitting that Fiddleford had somehow wormed his way past the walls Stanley had spent his entire life building.

The smell of breakfast filled the small shack, and Stanley piled food onto two plates ready to set the table. The normalcy of the moment helped steady him, even if only slightly.

He glanced toward the stairs, waiting for Fiddleford to come down, and felt a strange mix of emotions swirl in his chest. That warmth still lingered, and for once, he didn’t want to push it away, he didn't want to be alone anymore.

And that—more than anything—was what terrified him.

Chapter Text

Stanley wiped his hands on his shirt as he set the table, preparing for another quiet and uneventful day. His eyes drifted over the clutter on the table, landing on Ford’s journal. For a moment, his heart skipped a beat. It had been a while since he felt anything remotely close to hope—real, tangible hope. He picked up the journal, staring at the page, there it was. A familiar sight, one that tugged him back to his childhood: a code made up of symbols—skulls, dollar signs, pine trees, and boats.

He blinked, his mind racing. Could it be? He squinted at the page, the symbols suddenly lighting up old memories in his brain. He had made that code with his brother when they were younger. Ford had always been one to keep secrets and act all mysterious, he thought it made him look cool and so he created this code along Stanley so they could communicate in secret. Those long summer days by the docks, scribbling secret messages, concocting elaborate stories of pirates and treasures… It was all rushing back.

Suddenly, he realized the code wasn’t just some nostalgic throwback. It was instructions. His hands shook as he decoded the final pieces, his breath catching in his throat.

“Journal 2” He whispered to himself

There were directions, hidden in plain sight this entire time, directions leading to the location of Journal 2. His chest swelled with excitement, and without thinking, he shouted, “Fiddleford! Get down here! You won’t believe this!”

--------

Upstairs, Fiddleford was buttoning up his shirt, his fingers clumsy and slow, failing multiple times to get the button through the hole. He would have to add 'Tremors and difficulty controlling the motor system' into the memory gun's side effects.

His stomach knotted with unease, remembering the existence of the gun, maybe he could get the gun now that Stanley was distracted making breakfast. He just had to get to Stanley's room —Room that was actually his— lock the door and get the gun. He could erase his memories of Stanley and Ford, of everything. He would find peace at last, no more worries. He just had to get the gun. He just had to—

Stanley's voice, so joyful and full of energy, cut through his haze. It startled him—why was he so cheerful all of the sudden?

For a moment, Fiddleford hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face that energy, especially not after everything that had been weighing him down. What would Stanley say if he knew the depth of his thoughts? Could he handle it? Can he, himself, handle it?

Still, he made his way downstairs, bracing himself for whatever Stanley had discovered. As soon as he entered the room, he was met with the sight of Stan, grinning like a madman, eyes bright with excitement.

“Look at this!” Stanley practically shoved the journal at his face, words tumbling out in a rush.

“We made this code! Me and Ford, when we were kids! I can’t believe it’s here. And look—instructions. It’s telling us where Journal 2 is hidden. Can you believe that?!” Stanley was practically yelling in his excitement.

Fiddleford tried to smile, tried to match Stanley’s enthusiasm, but the weight of his own thoughts was too heavy. As Stanley rambled on, a knot tightened in his chest. He felt disconnected, like he was floating just outside of the conversation, watching Stanley’s joy from a distance he couldn’t cross. Was he supposed to feel excited? He was supposed to feel excited, he knew that, after all they were a step closer to get Ford back.

Before he could spiral further, Stanley waved the journal in his face, snapping him back to the present.

“The instructions—there’s some map, but I can’t make sense of it. It doesn’t look like any place I know.” He furrowed his brow as he looked down at the journal again.

Fiddleford frowned and took the journal, examining the strange shapes on the map. He squinted, his brain finally clicking into place as he traced the outlines. “Wait a minute,” he murmured, his voice shaky as realization dawned. “This shape... this isn’t just a random map. It’s... it’s an alien ship!” He gave the page something similar to a slap with the back of his hand.

“An alien ship?” Stanley blinked, confused.

Fiddleford nodded, his heart racing now. “Yes. There’s an alien ship in Gravity Falls.” Stanley looked at him even more confused than before. “It crashed here like millions of years ago and it fused into the floor, it's now covered in dirt and vegetation”

“Wait, you mean to say that aliens are real?” There was a tinge of excitement in Stanley's voice

“Yeah, they are, but when I went to explore with Ford we didn't find any living beings in the ship” Fiddleford said as if it was just another Thursday to him.

Stanley on the other side was shaking with excitement, aliens were real! He knew they were, maybe all the stories he had heard were true.

“Wow, I can't believe it! Aliens are real! How can you talk about such a thing so casually?” Stanley said, pacing back and forth through the room “We should go to the ship right now! I need to see it”

“Well, when you encounter yourself face to face with an interdimensional demon, things just don't surprise you that much anymore” He replied while taking a seat on the dining table, pushing some papers aside. “However I would like to eat first” he replied with a tone that was way colder than what Stanley had grown used to.

“Oh, right” Stanley took a seat in front of Fiddleford “We should probably eat before heading outside, a long day probably awaits”

Fiddleford didn't reply, and decided to eat his breakfast in peace. Stanley noticed the shift in Fiddleford's attitude, but decided not to question it. At least not for now.

-----------

Stanley and Fiddleford had already set their path towards the alien ship, the blades of grass and twigs were crushed as Stanley and Fiddleford pushed deeper into the woods, pushing through bushes and some low hanging tree branches. The air was thick with humidity, having most of the snow melted by now. Stanley casted a glance at Fiddleford, who walked a few steps ahead, eyes fixed on the path.

“You ever wonder if Ford had expected to discover traces of alien life?” Stanley attempted, breaking the silence. His voice was light, playful even, but it echoed off the trees and faded quickly into the oppressive quiet. “He was a science fiction nerd, I bet he was thrilled to discover this”

“Yeah, he was,” Fiddleford replied, his tone flat, devoid of the warmth they had shared earlier.

Stanley frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. He tried again, forcing a grin. “I mean, all of this sounds like his favorite science fiction movie, I think it was called “The Resurgence of life” or something like that.” He shrugged “Want to know what it was about?”

Fiddleford shot him a sideways glance, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Just focus on walking” he snapped, quickening his pace.

Stanley’s heart sank as he watched Fiddleford move further away, a wall of tension growing between them. He had noticed Fiddleford's odd behavior, could it be that the mention of Ford had triggered some of Fiddleford's memories? He did talk a lot about his childhood with Ford earlier in the morning, and Fiddleford barely spoke, but he hadn't noticed that in his excitement.

He decided to continue walking, trying to get closer to Fiddleford. They soon encountered a particularly tangled patch, it was difficult to walk through it, and Fiddleford stumbled over a gnarled root. He was bracing for the impact but Stanley reached out just in time, catching his arm just before he could pitch forward.

“Careful, you’re gonna fall,” Stanley said, his voice low, filled with concern.

But instead of gratitude, Fiddleford yanked his arm free with irritation. “Get your hands off me” He said, barely a whisper but filled with venom.

Stanley froze, the sting of the words hitting him like a bullet. Confusion clouded his thoughts. What had just happened? He took a step back, a strange mixture of hurt and disbelief swirling in his chest. What's with him?

Fiddleford didn’t look back as he stalked ahead, the distance between them growing. Stanley followed, his mind racing, the quiet thrum of the forest punctuated only by their footsteps.

With each step, Stanley felt the weight of the morning’s moment slip further away. He should’ve known better. Nothing good ever reaches him, and when it does, it's soon taken from him. This was no different, he probably lost his friend now, all because he asked him to stay, all because he couldn't keep his feelings to himself for once. He shouldn't have spoken, he wasn't sure why he did, but he was desperate, he just needed company. He just needed someone to stay by his side. Just once.

The trees loomed overhead, dark and foreboding, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was closing in on them, just as Fiddleford was closing off. He hesitated for a moment, contemplating whether to ask him if he was okay, but he couldn't bring himself to do it, too afraid to hear the answer.

Eventually, they broke free from the confines of the trees and stepped into a sun-drenched meadow. The sudden openness was disorienting, the light almost blinding after the shadows of the forest.

Ahead, the outline of the ship emerged, completely buried, covered in grass and flowers, with the only proof of something underneath being a small metal door on the floor. Stanley’s breath caught in his throat. He couldn't really see the metal underneath all that grass, but knowing he was on top of an alien ship filled him with excitement.

Fiddleford stood still, staring at the door as if it were a specter from his past. His fingers trembled slightly at his sides, yet he remained unyielding, not acknowledging Stanley's presence.

“Fiddleford?” Stanley ventured cautiously, but the silence stretched uncomfortably, and he felt the sting of abandonment wash over him once more.

As they approached the door, the weight of unspoken words loomed, not one of them daring to express what they truly meant to say.

The once-vibrant meadow lay dulled beneath the shadows of the crashed ship’s wreckage. Rusted metal jutted out like broken bones, while thick vines wove through the cracks, half-concealing the entrance. Stanley’s pulse quickened, a thrill of discovery running through him despite the eerie atmosphere.

As they stepped inside, the air changed—cooler, metallic, and stale, as if time had frozen in the ship’s metallic tomb. Dim, flickering blue lights cast wavering shadows, bathing the walls in an otherworldly glow. The alien symbols carved into the surface seemed to shift and pulse with life. The walls themselves undulated softly, as though the vessel still breathed.

“Wow,” Stanley muttered, awe tingling in his voice. “It’s like we stepped into some sci-fi movie set... only real.” His eyes danced across the strange symbols, the weight of the ship’s history pressing on him.

Fiddleford’s caution cut through the atmosphere like a knife. His eyes darted around, analyzing every corner, every creak.

“It feels alive... like it’s still thinking. Ford warned me about the security systems in here... orb droids or something like that, he called ‘em.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, curiosity flaring. “And what were you and Ford even doing here?”

Fiddleford hesitated, but his answer was practical. “Scavengin'. We used some of this metal, some of its parts, for the portal. Cheaper that way. That adhesive we found? Stronger than anythin' we could buy.”

“Figures.” Stanley’s curiosity simmered down. Ford had always been good at finding shortcuts and that explained quite a lot about the portal's construction.

They ventured deeper into the ship, Fiddleford's eyes fixated on a series of consoles covered in glowing glyphs. “These symbols... they’re some kind of control system,” he mused, excitement creeping into his voice as his fingers brushed the smooth surfaces.

Meanwhile, Stanley approached a large viewport, the remains of a nebula swirling in vibrant, cosmic colors beyond the shattered glass. His breath hitched at the sight. It sparked a sense of adventure within him, one he hadn’t felt in a long time, it made him wonder what it would be like to explore the stars. Maybe Ford liked that idea more than exploring the seas with him.

“How far do you think this thing’s traveled?” he asked softly.

“Farther than we can imagine.” Fiddleford stood beside him, eyes narrowing at the view.

Stanley was about to respond when movement caught his eye—a faint flicker in the corner of the room. His heart stuttered.

“Fiddleford…”His voice barely above a whisper, a tremor of fear running through him. “What the hell is that?”

An orb droid hovered in the doorway, its metallic surface gleaming in the dim light, slowly closing in.

“It’s one of the droids,” Fiddleford said, trying to stay calm. “Don’t make any sudden movem—”

The clatter of debris against metal rang out—Stanley’s doing. He had thrown a piece of debris to the approaching orb in his panic. Fiddleford's calm shattered.

“Are you stupid?!” he hissed, fury burning beneath his fear.

The orb surged forward, opening and mechanical arms unfolding from its inside.

“Stanley, run!” Fiddleford yelled, already leaving behind the idea of being calm.

“On it!” Stanley grabbed Fiddleford's hand, pulling him along, their feet pounding against the cold metal floor. Fiddleford barely kept pace.

“You’re a damned idiot!” Fiddleford shouted, breath hitching.

“Tell me something I don’t know!” Stanley barked back, eyes wild with adrenaline as the sound of the orb whirred closer.

“If I die, it’s your fault!” Fiddleford snapped, his words laced with anger, yet tinged with fear. “Tate will have to visit my grave! and that’s if they even find our bodies…” That last part was barely above a whisper, the fear for his life was overshadowing his anger, and the adrenaline was already wearing off, he could feel his legs trembling, barely able to stand.

“I'm not going to let you die here Fiddlesticks” Stanley said, holding Fiddleford's hand tighter and pulling him closer, not wanting the man to be too far in case he passes out. Thing that seemed like it could happen at any moment.

“You better not” as Fiddleford let those words out, he felt one of the orb's arms tugging at his shirt. He was damned.

Stanley felt something pull him back and as he turned his head to look back, he met Fiddleford's gaze. His eyes were filled with terror, and his face was devoid of any color. He had been caught and the strength of that droid was far more than Stanley's. However, Stanley did not let go.

“Stanley...!” Fiddleford was now crying, feeling how he was pulled out of Stanley's grasp. This was his end, or so he thought.

“Hold on!” Stanley was able to pull Fiddleford by the collar of his shirt, putting his whole weight on top of him, trying to make the droid's work harder. He pulled something out of his pocket, a switchblade. Stanley never went out without it, he thanked his time in the streets for making him so paranoid. He directed the blade towards Fiddleford's back, cutting the piece of fabric that the droid had caught in one swift movement.

The robot arm disappeared under the impression that it had caught one of the intruders. Retreating towards the inside of the orb, leaving Fiddleford and Stanley alone.

They collapsed to the floor, Stanley on top of Fiddleford, both of them gasping for air. For a moment, neither moved. That is until Stanley realized he was putting his whole weight on top of Fiddleford, he rolled off him, sitting up and still catching his breath.

Fiddleford, however, was frozen, his eyes distant, locked in shock. He sat up slowly, his gaze unfocused, trembling in the aftermath. He was spacing out as he tried to sit up.

“Fiddleford, are you okay?” Stanley asked softly, one of his hands reaching to touch Fiddleford's shoulder.

At that, Fiddleford jerked away, looking at him with fear and something akin to anger. The emotion so raw that it made Stanley shiver.

“I'm sorry” was all that Stanley could say, Fiddleford just looked at him, fear being replaced by the anger that grew each passing moment. Said anger showing across his face.

Fiddleford said nothing, just looked away from him.

“Let's get out of here…” Stanley said to Fiddleford but the words fell to silent ears.

He tried to get the man to stand up, but Fiddleford jerked away the first time, and by the second time, he was already standing up on his own, refusing to look at Stankey.

Fiddleford began to walk towards the secondary entrance of the ship in order to get out unnoticed, and Stanley followed him, standing a few feet behind.

---------

By the time they made it back to the cabin, neither had spoken a word. The silence between them was suffocating, thick with the memory of the near-disaster they’d barely escaped. Stanley opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. They were both too worn out, and he knew that if he dared to say anything, it would cause a fight. A fight that he knew he had no business winning.

Fiddleford’s silent fury spoke louder than any argument. He stormed past Stanley, heading toward the spare room. Fiddleford had decided he was going to take what was originally his, and slammed the door shut behind him. Stanley winced at the sound but didn’t chase after him.

Stanley decided he wasn't about to cause a fight, nor submit the man to more stress. Letting him go into the room, completely forgetting what was inside.

He sighed heavily. “Guess it’s the couch for me tonight” he muttered under his breath, the tension still clawing at his chest.

Stanley was going to sleep on the couch that night. Fiddleford however, wasn't even considering sleeping as an option. The terror of the situation far too fresh. He had other plans, his hands already reaching for what was underneath the floorboards.

Chapter Text

Stanley woke to the faint sound of rustling papers, his head pounding slightly from the restless night before. For a moment, he remained still. The house was quiet save for the repetitive noise coming from the small dining table. It could only be Fiddleford.

Stanley pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and wandered into the room. There he was, hunched over the scattered pages, his fingers thumbing through Ford notes, the ones they already had reviewed together. His muttering was soft, almost incomprehensible, but Stanley caught bits and pieces.

“No, that can't be right... there’s something I’m missing here,” Fiddleford mumbled, frustrated. “Why can’t I crack this code?”

Stanley’s brow furrowed. He took a few steps forward, still groggy. “Fiddleford?”

Fiddleford didn’t even look up. “Can’t seem to figure it out. There’s something wrong with these symbols, God, a kid must have done this…”

Stanley stepped closer, frowning. “You’re still working on that? We cracked it yesterday.”

That got Fiddleford’s attention. He blinked, looking up from the papers, eyes tired and a little confused.

“Yesterday?” he asked, incredulous. He gave a weak laugh, shaking his head. “I would remember if we had done that, 'cause I've been shifting through all this senseless junk for a while now, makin’ exactly zero progress because this code is impossible!” He then looked at Stanley “Maybe you dreamed up some big breakthrough, but I sure as hell don’t recall solving it.”

Stanley stiffened. Remember. The word hung heavy between them, more than a casual dismissal. There was something in Fiddleford’s tone, a finality, as if he really didn’t know. Stanley’s heart dropped.

“What do you mean, you'd remember?” Stanley pressed, voice more tense than he’d intended. “You don’t recall anything from yesterday?”

Fiddleford sighed, pulling off his glasses to rub at his temples. “Of course I remember yesterday! We spent it rummaging through the storage room. What else is there to remember?” Fiddleford threw his hands up. “What do you want, a damn play-by-play?” He glared, but his expression faltered under Stanley’s scrutiny. “What’re you even lookin’ at me like that for?”

Stanley just kept staring at him, something gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He studied Fiddleford’s face, the way his brows knit together in both frustration and confusion, the bags under his eyes, and… his hair. A small patch of hair fell over his temple, covering the side of his forehead, and something about that tugged at Stanley’s attention. He took another step forward, eyes narrowing.

Without thinking, he reached out, his hand cupping Fiddleford’s face, startling the man into stillness.

“What in tarnation—Stanley, what’re you—” Fiddleford’s complaint stopped cold as Stanley's other hand reached closer “Stanley?” he asked again, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

Stanley didn’t respond. He was focused on the small patch of hair covering the side of Fiddleford's temple, pushing it aside gently and revealing the skin beneath. A faint red mark stood out—a burn mark, small but unmistakable. His chest tightened. It was on top of the scar that the memory gun had left on Fiddleford. He had used it.

The memory gun.

“When did you find it?” Stanley’s voice was low, accusatory.

Fiddleford blinked rapidly. “Find what?” he asked, bewildered.

Stanley’s thumb hovered near the burn, not quite touching it. “How much did you erase of yesterday, Fiddleford?”

The room fell into a suffocating silence. Fiddleford frowned deeply, his confusion morphing into something closer to fear. His hand reached up, touching the side of his temple where Stanley’s hand had just been. His fingertips brushed the burn mark, and his face paled.

“I didn’t… erase anything,” Fiddleford whispered, shaking his head slowly, his voice faltering. “I remember yesterday… storage room… papers… even your stupid joke and the photo album!” His voice trailed off, and panic started setting in as he desperately tried to grasp the fragments of his memory. “After that we-” he fell silent, he couldn't remember anything after that

Stanley’s grip left Fiddleford's face some time ago, now tightened on the edge of the table, his mind racing. This was worse than he thought. Fiddleford erased all his memories of yesterday, and apparently how Stanley had asked him to stay, he felt his blood run cold.

“That’s absurd!” Fiddleford spoke again or rather snapped, his voice now shaking. “I didn’t erase anything. You’re graspin’ at straws, Stan.”

“Then how do you explain this?” Stanley pointed to the burn on his temple. “Explain, why you’re so sure we didn’t solve anything? Because I sure as hell remember us cracking the code together.”

“No.” Fiddleford’s voice cracked, a tremor running through it. He stepped back, shaking his head faster, his hands coming up defensively. “I didn’t—I would remember if I did. I didn’t…” But his own words seemed to falter as the pieces weren’t adding up.

“You did!” Stanley snapped, unable to hold back anymore. His hand slammed down on the table, rattling the papers. “You don’t remember the code, you don't remember the alien ship, I bet you don't even remember the night before yesterday or the morning after! You’re—damn it, Fiddleford, look at yourself!”

Fiddleford's breath was coming in short gasps now, panic etched into every line of his face. He shook his head violently, his fists clenching. “No. No, no, no! You’re wrong. I don’t—” His voice dropped, barely audible. “I didn’t… erase anything. I wouldn’t…”

“Then why don’t you remember? I bet you’ve been tampering with this stuff for days now, haven’t you? Just admit it!” Stanley's voice was far too loud, the anger clinging to every word and Fiddleford could only keep backing away in confusion until his back hit the wall, looking at Stanley like a cornered animal.

“I don’t understand what’s happening. I-I wouldn’t…What happened on the alien ship? How do you know about it? What happened the night before that? What happened? What's happening?” Fiddleford asked far too many questions in such a short span, his words stumbling against one another.

Stanley’s anger deflated as quickly as it had flared, leaving him hollow and ashamed at the sight in front of him. Fiddleford stood there, trembling, utterly lost in his own mind. The sight of him, so afraid and confused, hit Stanley like a punch to the gut. His chest tightened, guilt rising fast and sharp as he realized just how badly his words had shaken the man. He hadn't meant to lash out, hadn't meant to make things worse. He tried to claim back some control, both of the situation and his temper, lowering his wavering voice he spoke again.

“Fiddleford,” Stanley said, his voice gentle. “Why did you do it?"

Fiddleford’s eyes flickered with something—guilt, maybe fear. He didn’t respond, just stared at Stanley with a hollow look. Then, slowly, almost mechanically, he reached up again to touch the burn on his temple, fingers shaking as the reality of the situation sunk in.

Stanley sighed, running a hand through his hair, trying to calm his own racing thoughts. He glanced back at the papers on the table, the remnants of the work they’d done together—the work Fiddleford no longer remembered.

“We’ll figure out what to do” Stanley said, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. His voice lacked conviction, and he wasn’t sure if Fiddleford even heard him.

He looked back at the man, who was now staring at the floor, probably spiraling on his own thoughts. Stanley’s chest tightened at the sight, but he pushed the feeling down, steeling himself. He couldn’t afford to spiral too.

"Hand over the memory gun" Stanley said, his tone firm but soft enough to avoid pushing Fiddleford further.

"I don't know where it is..." Fiddleford said, it was sincere he didn't know where the gun was. Well, he couldn't remember.

“Fiddleford, don’t play games with me right now,” he said, his irritation seeping into his voice despite his best efforts. But even as the words came out, his voice trembled—on the edge of breaking. He wasn’t angry, not really. He was afraid.

“I’m not lying, Stanley!” Fiddleford snapped, though his voice cracked halfway through. He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he clenched them at his sides. “I don’t know where the gun is. I… I can’t remember.”

The sincerity in Fiddleford’s voice gave Stanley pause. He studied the man’s face—the lines of exhaustion, the fear swimming in his eyes, the way his hands refused to stay still. This wasn’t defiance; it was desperation. Fiddleford truly didn’t remember.

Stanley couldn’t hold it in anymore. He stumbled back from Fiddleford and collapsed into one of the chairs by the table, his legs feeling like they might give out otherwise. His chest felt hollow and aching, his breath shaky as he tried to keep it together—but it was too much.

He buried his face in his hands, the weight of everything crashing down. He couldn’t stop the spiral of thoughts tearing through him. Apparently Fiddleford hated him enough to forget everything from yesterday. Fiddleford probably blamed him for everything and just wanted to forget —forget the fact that Stanley had dragged him further into this mess, forget Stanley nearly got him killed, forget Stanley had laid next to him. Fiddleford probably was so disgusted, so repulsed by him, that he couldn’t even bear to remember lying beside such a person, much less offering him that undeserved comfort. Stanley’s throat tightened.

Why would Fiddleford care about someone like him? What was there to care about? He probably just pitied him, probably didn't even like him enough to see him as a friend either. Why would he ever like him when Stanley didn’t even like himself?

He let out a broken sob, muffled against his hands, and then another. If Fiddleford didn’t like what he was seeing, then he could go and erase such a sight from his memory, Stanley couldn't care less.

The soft sound of his sniffles cut through the heavy silence of the cabin. Across the room, Fiddleford stood frozen, his expression a mix of uncertainty and guilt. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure of whether to move or stay put.

He couldn’t ignore the truth of it—he’d done this. Fiddleford swallowed hard, his mind racing. He was the cause of this problem. He had fallen into old habits, he always did. He always made the same mistakes because he never dared to let himself remember the distasteful moments.

And that's exactly why he found himself approaching Stanley again, his feet carried him forward, almost of their own accord. His hand reached out, tentative, before settling gently on Stanley’s head. He smoothed his fingers through the man’s hair, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. But the motion felt familiar, and that familiarity made his chest tighten painfully. It was as if he had done it before. And he had, he had ran a hand through Stanley's hair, he had held him close and enjoyed his warmth.

But only one of them remembers that.

Stanley felt the touch, soft and tentative, his breath came to a stop and then let out a rather loud sob. He knew well this wasn't the first time that hand touched him with such care, but he also knew this could easily be the last time. His shoulders began shaking as he pressed his face further into his hands. The weight of it all, of knowing Fiddleford was offering comfort he didn’t even fully understand— it was too much to bear.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Fiddleford murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand stilled, hovering awkwardly as if unsure whether to pull away or stay. “I don’t… I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I'm like this...”

------------

Some time passed, Stanley hadn’t moved in a while, his head resting in his arms as Fiddleford’s hand continued gently petting his hair. Fiddleford wasn’t sure when exactly the touch had started feeling so natural—so much so that he hadn’t noticed the passing of time. The steady rhythm seemed to ease something within both of them, though Fiddleford could still feel the weight of uncertainty hanging over him.

After a few quiet minutes, Stanley shifted, his eyes fluttering open slightly. When he glanced at Stanley, he was met with a guarded, tired look that made his chest ache.

“You don’t have to stay here, you know? I said it once and I will say it again” Stanley muttered, voice low and harsh. He stopped looking at Fiddleford, instead focusing intently on the worn edge of the table as if trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will.

Fiddleford hesitated, unsure of what to say.

“Stanley, that's not—" Fiddleford kept stumbling over his words, not being able to connect one thought with another. "I’m here because—”

“Because of Ford, right?” Stanley interrupted, his voice carrying a bitter edge. “You’re here to fix what you two broke. I’m just along for the ride.”

Fiddleford opened his mouth but no words came out as he was unsure of what to say.

Stanley’s expression shifted, revealing a hint of pain before he turned his gaze away.

“Just forget it,” he murmured, pushing back his chair with a rough scrape. Setting his path to the stairs, already stepping out of the dinning area "You are quite good at that"

Fiddleford just stood there in the silence that followed, stunned, feeling as though he’d missed a vital moment to make things right. His head was too clouded, and his own motives felt muddied with guilt, leaving him paralyzed in indecision. Unsure as to why he kept feeling this horrible feeling, why he felt a burning shame every time he met Stanley's gaze.

He sighed, deciding he’d think better with coffee. Maybe breakfast would clear his head. Fiddleford went to the pantry and rummaged for something quick—a pack of cookies he liked and had left open, maybe a small comfort would soothe him. As he reached into the bag, he felt something crumpled inside. Puzzled, he pulled out a small note, creased and smudged but unmistakably written in his own handwriting.

“Check Ford’s room, under the bed,” it read in faint scrawl.

Fiddleford felt a jolt run through him. A chill crept up his spine as he stared at the note, fingers trembling. The gun. He’d hidden it, and forced himself to forget about it. But why? Did his past self know he would crumble and tell where the gun was if he knew? That's probably what Fiddleford from the past thought, it definitely was, and that's exactly why he left that note. Written so he would recognize it as his own doing.

Without fully thinking it through, he found himself moving toward Ford’s room. He pushed the door open and crouched beside the bed, feeling around until his fingers brushed against cold metal. He pulled it out—the memory gun.

Heart racing, Fiddleford held it up, a thousand thoughts warring in his mind. Should he tell Stanley now, face the tension that had only grown thicker between them? He thought back to how Stanley had looked this morning—tired, defeated, feeling like nothing but a remnant of his brother’s past. A pang of guilt gnawed at him, reminding him of everything he had done, of the memories he’d erased without a thought for the consequences.

For now, he decided, he’d keep it hidden. There would be a time to tell Stanley, just… not yet.

He returned to the kitchen, his thoughts a tangled mess, and focused on making breakfast. The motions felt grounding, something steady amidst the storm in his head. He cracked eggs into a bowl, the soft clink of the shells breaking cutting through the silence. Whisking them into a scramble, he moved methodically, toasting bread, mashing avocado, and frying sausages to add on the side. The warm, savory smells filled the small kitchen, and for a brief moment, the act of cooking dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts.

When he finally looked down at the plates, he was surprised by the care he’d put into them. Two simple meals, arranged neatly, with a precision that felt out of place for how he’d been feeling. Yet, somehow, the routine had lightened the weight pressing on his chest—if only slightly.

Taking a steadying breath, he picked up the plates and made his way upstairs and down the short hall. He paused outside Stanley’s room, hesitating before knocking softly. When there was no answer, he pushed the door open, careful not to startle him.

Stanley was curled up on the bed, facing the wall. His eyes were closed, but the tension in his body gave him away—he wasn’t asleep. Fiddleford stood in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to say, before quietly stepping inside.

“I thought you might want something to eat” Fiddleford offered gently.

Stanley looked up at him, some of the bitterness from earlier had faded as he opened his mouth.

“Thanks,” he muttered, sitting up as Fiddleford set the dishes on the bed. Stanley picked up a fork, stabbing at the eggs and chewing in silence.

Fiddleford sat beside him, picking up his own toast with avocado. They ate in quiet companionship, the kind that held its own form of comfort. Every now and then, their shoulders would brush, and Fiddleford would feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if this closeness was something they’d shared before.

Stanley set his fork down after a while, looking over at Fiddleford with a conflicted expression. “About earlier… I didn’t mean to be so harsh.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “No, you had every right. I know I haven’t been… transparent. I’m trying to piece things together too, but it’s not easy.”

They exchanged a long look, one that seemed to bridge the space between them. Stanley shifted closer, the tiredness in his eyes softening. “Just… don’t do that again. I don't want you to disappear from my life too” Stanley's voice was soft, the vulnerability he tried to hide for so long was peeking through, more and more.

Fiddleford swallowed, the words resonating deeper than he’d expected. “I won’t, Stanley. Not unless you tell me to.”

Stanley gave a small, wry smile, looking at Fiddleford tenderly, some pain etched into his expression. They sat like that for a while, neither of them moving, letting the quiet comfort settle around them.

Chapter Text

Stanley laid back on the bed, a smirk lingering as he licked the last bit of mashed avocado off his finger, savoring the smoothness of it. Fiddleford, beside him, couldn’t help but notice the way his friend’s tongue darted out, his gaze lingering a second too long. He blinked quickly, snapping his attention away before any errant thoughts could creep in, he had a clean streak and wasn't about to ruin it now. Heat rushed to his face as he awkwardly cleared his throat, trying to regain composure.

Forcing himself to focus, Fiddleford shifted, standing up and addressing Stanley with a touch of forced indifference.

“So, uh… what exactly did we find in that code yesterday?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest to steady himself, brushing off some of the crumbs of toast while he was at it “I think I might need yer help to fill in some blanks.”

“Well, so remember I mentioned the alien ship?" Stanley asked, sitting straight on the edge of the bed

"Yeah, I remember that, what ‘bout it?" Fiddleford's interest was peaked

"The code in the journal had instructions and a map to get journal 2, it led to the alien ship" Stanley explained, getting more and more nervous as the inevitable approached.

"And what exactly happened there?" Fiddleford took a step closer, examining Stanley's expression of nervousness.

"I might have… you know, accidentally triggered the security system..." Stanley looked at the floor and his voice could barely be heard

"I'm sorry, you did what?" Fiddleford's brows had furrowed, he had heard Stanley the first time but wanted a confirmation

"I activated the security system...it was an accident. I swear! I panicked and did something stupid" He let out a groan and covered his face "God, I'm so stupid" he whispered that last bit, more to himself but Fiddleford caught it. He was about to say something but Stanley interrupted.

"I got you out of there, though. Let me explain exactly what happened so you can be mad at me with a fair reason, alright?" Stanley's face was barely peeking out of his hands, the guilt eating him alive.

Stanley filled him in, recounting their time on the ship, and went into detail of his accidental activation of the security system which wasn't all that accidental. He left out some details—like the part where Fiddleford nearly fell and gave him a look that could kill, or the part where they were snuggling against each other in the morning. He didn't need to know all that. Instead, he focused on the facts.

As Stanley finished, he cast a glance at Fiddleford, who looked down, chewing on his bottom lip. The memory of that near-death experience might not be there, but the feeling of anxiety while hearing it, came back. Stanley could see the fear lingering just under his friend’s calm exterior, the hesitation in his stance.

“Look, I’m really sorry about that, Fiddleford,” Stanley murmured. “I should’ve listened to you instead of rushing in. I didn’t mean to put you in danger.”

“It’s—” Fiddleford cleared his throat “It's alright, Stanley. I'm being honest,” Fiddleford replied, waving off the apology but sounding more pensive than forgiving. “I probably choose to forget yesterday to not get any hard feelings against you and prevent me from being able to work in the portal. Figure it’s best we don’t dwell on it, y’know? If we’re gonna keep workin’ on it, we don’t need things tense between us.”

Stanley nodded slowly, his face shadowed with remorse. “Still… I should have been more careful. I won’t let it happen again.” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Fiddleford placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Quit beatin’ yourself up. We’re here now, ain’t we?” His tone was reassuring, but there was a hint of finality that left Stanley quiet. After a moment, he collected the breakfast plates, murmuring something about washing them. Fiddleford watched him disappear down the hallway, lingering alone in the spare room.

His gaze drifted to the loose floorboard near the bed, where the gun had been hiding for so long. That gun… He’d meant to tell Stanley, to confess everything, yet the words always got tangled up in his throat. But he couldn’t keep it buried forever.

The rest of the day passed quietly, both of them keeping to their own corners of the shack, sidestepping each other to avoid awkward conversation.

------

The next day came and as evening neared, Fiddleford found himself in the control room, adjusting code parameters on the portal’s systems. Stanley, meanwhile, was trying his hand at some last-minute soldering on a set of tangled wires, muttering to himself as his hands struggled to keep steady. Fiddleford had shown him how to do it properly but it was far too difficult. His fingers were far too thick and kept getting in the way, making the task more difficult than expected. At this rate, he might mess up the whole thing up and burn himself —againn— on the way. Eventually he gave up and called out for his friend, his frustration spilling over.

“Hey, Fiddlesticks! A little help here?”

With a sigh, Fiddleford joined him, kneeling beside the crouched Stanley.

“Seems like you can't do anything without me, huh?” Fiddleford asked teasingly, wanting to help Stanley relax, who seemed far too preoccupied with the task at hand. It was either that or him just wanting to annoy the other man, could easily be both though.

Gently, he guided Stanley’s hands, steadying them with his own and leaning close to demonstrate the technique as he grabbed the solder and melted a bit into the wires. Stanley’s breath hitched at the unexpected closeness —His face was far too close for Stanley's liking, but at the same time not as close as he wanted it to be. The warmth and scent of the other suddenly became far too present. Fiddleford, oblivious, focused on teaching him the right way to bond the wires, explaining how to properly hold the soldering iron so he doesn't burn himself like last time. He didn't notice the shivers he sent through Stanley with each brush of their hands.

After a moment of silence, Fiddleford stepped back, his work done being done as he directed a small smile to Stanley

“There you go” Fiddleford said as he stretched “You need to be careful with that thing” He said while pointing at the soldering iron “I don't want you burnin’ yourself again, you always grab it incorrectly”

“Oh, alright” Stanley flexed his fingers, and grabbed the tool again, fixing his grip on it “Like this?”

“Yeah, just like that” Fiddleford got closer and ruffled Stanley's hair, messing it completely “If you need help with anythin' else, lemme know” he then retreated his hand and laughed at the annoyed expression Stanley had.

“Was that necessary?” Stanley asked, watching his friend pull away and hating the loss of contact more than he cared to admit.

“No, but it's fun to mess with you” Fiddleford said as he stepped back into the control room. Leaving a conflicted Stanley behind.

He wanted to feel Fiddleford's hand again, he craved his warmth even when the other had rather forget it the first time. Still, he wanted more than what was offered.

That was just his nature, he always wanted more than what was available, and that's why he found himself breaking the silence that had set, venturing tentatively.

“Hey Fiddlesticks, do you think you could take a look at my back? I haven't checked on the wound lately and didn't get to change the patching”. Stanley wanted more of the warm touch that he knew wasn't going to last. So he figured he might as well enjoy it before it was taken away. That even if he had to resort to asking for help.

Fiddleford nodded “Of course. Just… gimme a sec to wash my hands, then meet me upstairs.”

---

When Fiddleford came to the living room, Stanley was already there, waiting on the couch.

Fiddleford’s heart stammered as he approached, but he forced himself to focus, carefully setting out the supplies—bandages, tape, and antiseptic— on the couch.

He instructed Stanley to take his shirt off, and there was no teasing comment this time. Fiddleford found that odd, but he wasn't about to be ungrateful for this moment of peace.

He began to work on removing the old patching, being careful not to rip the tape too fast.

Stanley was perfectly still, but internally his mind was racing. He felt the touch of Fiddleford's calloused hands be so tender and careful against his skin. How he removed the patch so slowly. He enjoyed how this man made him feel special, delicate even. He was feeding that train of thought, entertaining into the idea and seeking some comfort, that was until he felt a sharp sting that interrupted everything, making him wince and let out a small “ouch” sound followed by a hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry! Didn't mean t’ press too hard!” Fiddleford apologized as his hands quickly got away from the wound, his worried gaze meeting Stanley's

“It's okay” Stanley replied, looking back at Fiddleford but his eyes were glassy.

Fiddleford continued cleaning the wound, adding some iodine on quick dabs with a piece of cotton, finishing off by putting some powder to prevent the patch from sticking too much. He quickly put the patch on top of the freshly cleaned wound —which was almost healed— and got to pressing the tape onto it. Putting each strip carefully as he found his fingers grazing the skin below fairly often, he also craved to feel more of this warmth but he denied himself that everytime.

He even denied it when he let his hand touch Stanley's shoulder, just resting there, but quickly removing it once he realized.

“Done, you are good to go now” Fiddleford said, his tone was plain but wasn't cold whatsoever. It was just a statement given.

“Thanks Fiddlesticks, you are a real lifesaver” Stanley replies, giving a small smile.

“No problem” the man answers back “Also, you have to stop callin’ me that, it's a stupid nickname”

Stanley laughs at that, letting his whole frame tremble as it intensifies.

“What do you want me to call you then? Fidds? Fiddles? FiddleDork?” Stan suggested while still laughing.

“Those nicknames are somehow worse, oh God” Fiddleford buried his face into his hands, embarrassed and frustrated.

“I mean, Fidds doesn't sound so bad…” Stanley said while grinning, “Should I call you that? Saying Fiddleford is way too exhausting”

“As if saying Fiddlesticks wasn't” Fiddleford huffs and crosses his arms

“It's more fun to say at least” Stanley shots back, his tone teasing

“Stanley Pines I truly despise you, you should sleep with an eye open” He gave Stanley a glare but the man only laughed at him “You don't even take my threats seriously! You are the worst!” He pressed Stanley's patched wound, earning a whine from Stanley.

“Ah! Stop that!” Fiddleford's hand retreated and there was a sly smile in his face “You can give me a stupid nickname too, if you want, that way we are even” Stanley offered

“What would I even call you?” Fiddleford asked, he seriously couldn't come up with anything. He had never been good at giving nicknames. He could do pet names, though, but he wasn't about to call Stanley "Honey" or "Darling".

“Well, you can call me anything,” Stanley moved so he was no longer giving his back to Fiddleford, catching the man's gaze “Except late for dinner” there it was, the iconic and seductive tone Stanley had when teasing Fiddleford.

“As if I were to invite you to dinner!” Fiddleford said mockingly as he let out a laugh “You eat like a starving hog, and I would know, I grew up in a hog farm!” Fiddleford laughed as he gave his knee a slap.

“So you are a farm boy or something?” Stanley asked, raising an eyebrow, getting into Fiddleford's personal space

“Guess you could say that” he tried to sound indifferent, but everytime Stanley got close so suddenly, he could feel his heart skip. Why did he have to be trapped with this man? Was this some kind of twisted test from God? If it was, he was doomed to fail it.

“Huh, didn't expect that, you look like the wind could take you away” Stanley began laughing again, and oh, how Fiddleford loved that sound. If only he wasn't mocking him, he would have let Stanley keep laughing.

“Well, I did carry my weight there, don't underestimate me” Fiddleford got closer, two could play this game. Was he going to regret this closeness later and try to ask for God's forgiveness? Yes, but was he still going to be as much as a dick as he could? Also yes. “Don't forget who carried you out of the basement the first day, you are not that heavy, you know?” He gave Stanley's forehead a flick with his finger.

“You probably struggled carrying me, don't act all though” Stanley kept his grin, not falling for Fiddleford's game, not yet, at least.

“You were actually quite light, Lee” Fiddleford accentuated the nickname, and smiled, his gaze piercing directly through Stanley.

“You are lying— Wait, did you just give me a nickname?” Stanley asked, he retreated a bit as his head tilted.

“Yeah” Fiddleford took that closeness back by leaning in closer, their breaths becoming one with how close they were “What? You don't like it?” Fiddleford tilted his head the same direction as Stanley, looking directly into his eyes as the other just retreated some more, trying to mutter something but being unable to find the words “Say something, Lee” Fiddleford dragged the nickname on his tongue once again, and Stanley cursed that stupid —and hot— southern accent Fiddleford had

There was a cocky smile in Fiddleford's face while Stanley's smile had faded, far too taken aback by Fiddleford's proximity and the way he said his name, or well nickname. He could feel his breath over his lips. What had gotten into the man?

“I— uh” Stanley averted his eyes to somewhere else and sat straight in his spot, trying to stop the nervousness from showing “I do like it I guess, it's not too bad.... Fiddlesticks” Stanley said the nickname teasingly, wanting to annoy Fiddleford and make whatever facade he was trying to put up to falter.

Fiddleford on his part was content with the reaction he had gotten out of Stanley. He had gotten the man to shut up for a bit, all it took was to tease him back and say his name sweetly. He would take note on that.

“Good, because I wasn't planning on changing the nickname just because you didn't like it” at that, Fiddleford stood up and gave Stanley's head a small pat, messing his hair a bit “Also, put your shirt on”

Stanley looked at his bare chest and realized he had been teasing Fiddleford while looking like that, his belly exposed and scars showing. Maybe he should go try to find the memory gun and make Fiddleford forget he saw him like this. Sure, Fiddleford had looked at him like this before, but this moment had stretched far longer than expected and Fiddleford had probably memorized where every scar was by now. Stanley felt embarrassment creeping in and quickly put the shirt back on.

“By the way Lee, I'll make dinner, you worked too much already” Fiddleford said that as he left towards the kitchen

Stanley watched him leave, bemused by the shift in Fiddleford’s demeanor. That was a side to the man he hadn’t seen before—a side he liked, he realized. More than he would like to admit.

----------

As Fiddleford set about preparing dinner in the kitchen, he could feel the weight of the last few minutes settling over him. “What are you doing, you fool?” he scolded himself internally, “Keep this up and you’re gonna dig yerself a deeper hole.” His voice echoed in his mind as he gripped his wrist, trying to prevent himself from picking at his skin, he didn't want to contaminate the ingredients or food.

He forced himself to focus on the task at hand, but the warmth in his chest lingered, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was standing on the edge of something far bigger than he’d ever anticipated. Maybe the "pray it away" will work this time.

-------

Stanley and Fiddleford sat together on the couch, Stanley in the center while Fiddleford sat on the arm rest, eating dinner while a boxing match played on the television. The flickering glow from the screen highlighted Stanley’s expression as he watched, absorbed by the match. Boxing wasn’t just entertainment to him; it was something that spoke to his core, fitting his rough-and-tumble personality, unlike the historical and sentimental black and white movies he had taken a liking for. Every so often, he’d throw out a comment to Fiddleford, his knowledge of the sport clear.

“You know, I used to box back in the day” Stanley said, his mouth full, food peeking through.

Fiddleford grimaced. “For goodness' sake, swallow before you talk!”

Stanley snorted, nearly choking, but recovered with a laugh as he swallowed.

“Ford was also learning” he said, catching his breath, “though he mostly just sat there on the bench, nose buried in a book.”

“Figures,” Fiddleford chuckled. “He didn’t need to throw a punch to stir things up anyways”

Stanley shot him a curious look. “What do you mean by that?”

"Remember I told you he knew how to get into people's nerves? He was quite good at pissing off the wrong people" Fiddleford said, letting out a loud sigh "Back in college he always argued with the professors about stupid things, like telling them their methods were 'flawed' or anything he could find. He seemed to always want to fight and be right"

"He used to do that in highschool too" Stanley grinned, recalling his brother's knack for picking fights with authority. "One time Ford argued with his science teacher about the structure of the phospholipid outer membrane or something like that. It lasted the whole hour!"

"Yeah, I can picture it" Fiddleford ate a spoonful of rice "But it wasn't only teachers with whom he picked a fight, he also went and bit more than what he could chew by trying to be a smart ass with the wrong people. He once got into an argument with some guys on the football team"

"And what happened after?" Stanley was intrigued

"He got his ass kicked!" Fiddleford snorted as he remembered Stanford walking into their shared room, looking as if he had gone through hell and back "I told him not to piss off those guys but he never listened" he shook his head and continued eating

“Well, Sixer was never good at following advice” Stanley mumbled “He is too thick headed for that” Stanley accentuated the word 'is', speaking of the man in present tense unlike Fiddleford did.

“As smart as he was, it’s like he was missing some instinct for self-preservation.” His gaze settled on Stanley. “Guess it runs in the family.” He chuckled a bit

Stanley could only nod in agreement, the memories of his brother coming close towards him, now in the front of his mind. Talking about him like this, as if they were reminiscing memories of a dead man, made him sick. Ford wasn't dead, he was just on the other side of the portal. He just had to get him out and everything would be fine. Right?

Stanley's gaze was fixed on his plate, no longer interested in the match playing on Tv. What was he doing? He should be working on the portal instead of resting here, he didn't deserve this peace, this comfort. He didn't deserve anything that had been given to him. He shouldn't be enjoying this, he shouldn't be enjoying anything. Even when Ford wasn't around, he somehow managed to live off him, living in his house, wearing his clothes and eating food bought with his money. His father was right all along. He would never amount to anything on his own.

The warm weight of Fiddleford’s hand on his shoulder pulled Stanley back from his thoughts. “You okay, Lee?”

There it was, that nickname again. Stanley felt the corners of his mouth lift as he nodded, though he quickly noticed the wetness on his cheeks, wiping with the tips of his fingers some tears he hadn’t realized he had let out.

“Guess I got a little carried away.” He said, looking at his now wet fingertips

Fiddleford didn’t say anything, just slid his fingers through Stanley’s hair, his hand resting there in a soothing, grounding presence. He had no words to offer comfort so he opted for the next best thing. His fingers lightly scratching the back of his head and playing with the strands of his mullet.

Stanley just leaned into the touch, this whole “petting his hair” situation was becoming a thing apparently and he wasn't about to protest.

He let the warm hand ground him, take those hurtful memories away, even if only for a while. Stanley sank deeper into the couch and Fiddleford, who was still in the arm rest, shifted his hand to keep petting his hair, combing the strands with his fingers.

At some point Stanley dozed off and Fiddleford was left alone with his thoughts. Leaving Fiddleford alone with his thoughts was a dangerous game, even though he wasn't the man that first came into the cabin, he still had a questionable train of thought. One that could crash at any moment.

He looked at Stanley, sleeping peacefully on the couch, he was free of all worries in the arms of Morpheus. He was free of memories. Fiddleford had wondered what it would be like if he could free Stanley from all those hurtful memories, free him from Stanford. He wondered, but he knew he could stop wondering and make it a reality.

Don't get him wrong, Fiddleford cares for Ford, he truly does. But the nightmares that promise the end of times, haunt him even in daylight, the portal shouldn't be activated, it will doom them all. That's why he found himself doubting in this project once again. There were too many risks and Fiddleford wasn't one to risk it all for nothing.

But then again, this wasn't all "for nothing", it was to bring Ford back, his friend and Stanley's brother. They couldn't let him in there, on the other side. Actually, they could, but would Fiddleford really go through with it? He was a coward at heart, he would never be able to do such a thing knowing how it would hurt Stanley, how it would break him. But he could take that hurt away, he knew he could help Stanley forget. It was possible, he just had to use the gun on him, he was asleep now, it would be so easy to help Stanley. So easy to pull the trigger.

A snore came out of the aforementioned, startling Fiddleford. Stanley remained fast asleep on the couch, his mouth slightly open with some drool coming out. He was truly ungracious all the time, he only gained some grace and confidence when he was being a tease. Fiddleford let a small laugh out at the thought and stood up from the couch, forgetting completely his previous thoughts about the memory gun. He was now decided to prove Stanley how light he truly was by carrying him to his bed, just like last time— Last time? This had happened before, right? The sense of Deja Vu struck him.

However he couldn't dwell much on the feeling though, as a small tired groan came out of the man he was currently trying to get off the couch.

"Fiddleford?" Stanley called his name, his voice a sleepy murmur. "What are you doing?" He asked with some hint of confusion, looking at Fiddleford and then at the hands around his arm.

"Just tryin’ to lift you up, you fell asleep and I was goin’ to get you to your room" Fiddleford said as he lowered Stanley's arm out of his grasp, he had tried to tug at it slightly to get Stanley on his back. It would have made carrying him easier.

"Oh, I see" Stanley rubbed his eyes "I'm going to bed on my own, don't worry" He stood up from the couch. "Good night Fiddlesticks" Stanley said as he approached the stairs, staying for a moment in the threshold.

"Good night Lee" was Fiddleford's reply, being accompanied by a small smile that Stanley returned.

------------

Morning arrived with a faint clatter from downstairs, rousing Stanley from sleep. The footsteps and rustling of paper hinted that Fiddleford was already at work. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Stanley padded downstairs to find him hunched over the dining table, scribbling furiously as he combed through familiar-looking pages. The ones with the codes and map they had already figured out. There was no reason to be checking them again, right?

A sinking feeling hit Stanley. "God, please tell me he didn’t use the memory gun again." Was Stanley's only thought.

“Fiddleford… what are you doing?” Stanley’s voice carried an edge of accusation wrapped in concern.

Without looking up from his work, Fiddleford mumbled, “Oh, nothin’ much. Just goin' over some things.”

Stanley studied him closely, his own unease building. “You… you remember yesterday, right?”

"What kind of...?" Fiddleford's brows knitted in confusion, then something seemed to connect in his brain, his eyes going wide and soon his mouth to speak "Oh Lord, you think I used the gun again!" He let the papers fall from his hands, clearly exasperated.

“Did you?” Stanley pressed, eyebrows raised.

“No, I didn’t!” Fiddleford’s voice was laced with indignant frustration. “What d’ya take me for? An idiot?” His voice rose until he noticed the unfortunate phrasing, wincing. “Actually… don’t answer that.” Embarrassed, he returned his focus to the papers, muttering to himself. He already knew he was, in fact, an idiot, but he didn't need Stanley Pines —the bigger idiot—to confirm it.

Stanley smirked, stepping into the kitchen. “Relax, Fiddlesticks,” he said with mock reassurance, reaching for a bag of chips from the pantry. "Just wanted to make sure everything was alright" He tore it open, the crunch of his first bite echoing obnoxiously through the room.

Fiddleford glared at him. “Would ya mind eating that somewhere else? Some of us are trying to think.”

Stanley had a chip mid air and was about to eat it until Fiddleford spoke. However, after seeing the glare and choice of words directed towards him, he took the consideration he had and threw it out of the window, deciding to eat the chip rather loudly.

"Now you are doing it on purpose!" Fiddleford exclaimed, giving him yet another sharp look, and Stanley's chewing intensified. "You are insufferable!"

“Oh, come on, Fiddlesticks. I know you love me deep down,” Stanley teased, clearly enjoying the show Fiddleford was putting. It was so easy to annoy the man.

Fiddleford’s face twisted in mock disdain. “I can assure you, Pines, any affection I have is buried beneath heaps of contempt.” He turned back to his notes, hoping to block out Stanley’s antics.

Stanley leaned over the counter, still watching him. “So what are you working on, anyway?” He brushed the crumbs of the chips from his fingers onto his boxers briefs, a habit that earned another look of mild disgust from Fiddleford. This man had no decency to walk like that around the house, and apparently no manners either, Fiddleford thought to himself.

“Tryin' to map the best route to the second journal.” Fiddleford’s voice lowered, focused. “According to the layout, it should be somewhere near the cryogenic chambers on the ship, all the way on the other side. It won’t be easy.” His thumb found his lip, biting at it as he considered the challenge ahead, he had yet to explore that area by himself.

Stanley noticed the subtle way Fiddleford’s eyes darted, the tension in his hands. Even if he couldn’t remember all the details, the thought of going back clearly rattled him, Stanley wasn't exactly thrilled to go there either. He kept chewing at his nail until he felt the taste of blood in his tongue, commanding him to stop.

But he didn't, he bit even harder, decided to get more of that taste, of that reassuring pain. The pain grounded him, it helped him— He was trying to justify his actions until he felt Stanley’s firm grip around his wrist.

“Hey, cut that out,” Stanley murmured, his voice unexpectedly soft. “You keep that up, and you’re gonna be down to stubs.” Stanley tried to joke but there was a clear concern in his voice.

Fiddleford blinked, startled by the gentleness of his touch.

“Oh… sorry. Didn’t realize I was doin' it.” He pulled his hand away, clearing his throat. “Anyways, we need that journal if we’re gonna get anywhere with the portal. We go in, get it, and get out.”

Stanley nodded, crossing his arms with a confident grin. “Alright, tell me your plan. I’ll follow your lead.”

“Well, the plan is just getting in and trying not to get caught" Fiddleford answered rather quickly “Just… try not to pull any reckless stunt." He flicked Stanley’s forehead, earning a small “ouch” in return.

"And don’t freak out. The droids on that ship? They can read your vitals. They’ll know if you’re scared and will attack.” Fiddleford quickly added

Stanley rubbed his forehead, chuckling.

“Don’t worry, Fiddlesticks. I’ve handled worse.” But his face betrayed him, there was a nervous smile creeping in.

Fiddleford glanced at him, sensing the nerves beneath his smirk. It was going to be a long day…

Chapter Text

Stanley walked along Fiddleford through the forest, just like last time, watching the early morning light filter through the trees. The air was cool, and the faint rustling of leaves filled the otherwise quiet space around them. They walked in silence at first, each man lost in thought, but after a while, Stanley glanced over at Fiddleford and decided to try his luck with a bit of small talk.

“Think we should pick up some groceries when we get back?” he asked, half expecting no response.

To his surprise, Fiddleford nodded. “Couldn’t hurt. I reckon we could use a restock on the essentials, maybe buy more greens” Fiddleford was now narrowing his eyes, one hand went to his chin. Without it being intended he had struck a pose that evoked the word 'Thoughtful', thinking way too hard what they were going to buy.

Stanley chuckled, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through him. “Yeah, some greens would be nice” he got closer to Fiddleford, now side by side “I actually know how to make pesto pasta, we could add some vegetables in there and voila!” He gave Fiddleford a playful nudge with his shoulder, which Fiddleford returned with a huffed laugh.

“If you add too many vegetables then it's no longer pesto pasta” Fiddleford replied

They went back and forth for a bit, discussing whether it should be or not, considered pesto pasta, musing about what they’d pick up at the store while they were at it. It was a simple conversation—trivial, really—but Stanley found himself enjoying it, savoring every casual reply Fiddleford gave.

Eventually, they broke through the trees and came into the clearing where the alien ship rested, its massive, metallic frame looming silently under all the grass. As they approached the metal door that stuck out, Stanley felt that familiar, slight unease creeping up on him, but Fiddleford’s calm determination kept him grounded. They shared a quick glance, and with a steadying breath, they stepped into the cold, dim interior of the ship.

The corridors were as haunting as he remembered, layered with dust and an eerie, lingering silence. Stanley kept an eye out, instinctively scanning for any threats, while Fiddleford seemed laser-focused on their task, making a beeline toward the place where Ford’s journal should be hidden.

“Hey Fiddlesticks, is it safe to speak?” Stanley whispered, not wanting to direct the attention of any droid that could be near

“Yeah, it's safe, but don't be too loud” Fiddleford replied with an even tone, not even trying to keep his voice low.

“Alright” Stanley kept whispering even though he felt like an idiot, better be safe than sorry, right? They both moved through the dimly lit corridors of the alien ship, their footsteps echoing softly off the metal walls. The faint, sterile scent of machinery hung in the air, layered with an unexplainable, ancient musk. Every corner they turned seemed to lead them deeper into the heart of the vessel, past strange, empty rooms and hallways that gave no hint of their original purpose.

They eventually came upon a wide doorway, which opened up to an enormous chamber lined with glass cases. As they stepped inside, Stanley took a slow breath, his eyes widening. Row upon row of cryogenic chambers stretched out before them, each one housing a preserved specimen—a silent, unmoving testament to Earth’s prehistoric past. The frozen animals were eerily lifelike, trapped in expressions of mid-motion, mid-growl, or mid-flight, as if caught in time by the strange technology preserving them.

Stanley walked closer to one of the glass cases, peering in to see a massive, muscular saber-toothed cat, its fangs still bared in an eternal snarl. Beside it, a small, feathered dinosaur was curled tightly, its bright scales and feathers preserved in remarkable detail.

“They were…collecting,” Fiddleford murmured, a mixture of awe and horror in his voice, he had never gotten this far into the ship, only having taken what was needed for the portal and exploring the nearby areas. “Like some kind of catalog.”

“Catalog of what?” Stanley asked, his eyes shifting to another chamber containing a strange-looking ancient fish, its jaw unhinged as if mid-attack.

“Of Earth’s life, it seems,” Fiddleford said, trailing a hand along the cryogenic cases as he moved further into the room. “They must’ve been documenting everything—animals, plants…maybe even things we haven’t discovered yet.”

As they moved deeper into the chamber, they began to notice the walls weren’t entirely barren. Vines—thick, green, and pulsing with an odd, faint glow—crept down from the ceiling, twisting around the frames of the glass chambers and spreading across the metal walls. Some plants had strange, claw-like leaves, while others seemed to reach out with thorny tendrils that shivered faintly, as if sensing their presence. The plants appeared alive, somehow surviving here, evolving on their own in the sterile, alien light.

Fiddleford bent down to examine a particularly large tendril with spiny, webbed leaves.

“These must be species that died out long before humans came along. It’s like a snapshot of the Earth’s very first chapters…preserved right here.” His voice carried a certain awe, thrilled to have found something like this, this could easily be a major scientific breakthrough. He was also slightly pissed at the fact that Stanford hadn't told him about what resided in this part of the ship, if he had known he would have tagged along more frequently.

Stanley kept his distance from the creeping vegetation, feeling a chill work its way down his spine. “It’s weird…they look almost like they’re still growing.”

Fiddleford nodded, his eyes fixed on a particularly twisted vine that had somehow embedded itself into the metal ceiling, almost merging with the ship itself. “The aliens who came here—they weren’t just gathering samples. They were trying to keep them…alive.” That same awe was still stuck in his voice, he was admiring the work that those extraterrestrial beings had done.

A shiver ran through both of them as they realized they were standing in the midst of a piece of history preserved in more ways than one. They exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between them, they could admire the beauty of it all later. Right now they had to look for Ford's journal and get out.

Fiddleford took a look at journal 1, more specifically, the page where the map resided, trying to look for a clue as to where exactly was journal 2. However there was no clue or indication as to where it could be, which only made Fiddleford's previous irritation towards Stanford grow. Stanley could sense Fiddleford's frustration without having to look at him.

“Maybe we should look through the place and hope for the best” Stanley suggested and Fiddleford just nodded, unsure of what else to respond, he wasn't in the mood for words after having taken a look at the journal. Once Ford gets back, Fiddleford was going to have a long talk with him, he always made everything more difficult than it had to be.

And so, they went looking through the whole place, checking every corner and under every piece of debris and metal. Who knows? Maybe Ford could have shrunken the journal. Eventually, Stanley found Ford’s journal inside a wooden box next to a cryogenic chamber.

“Huh, I expected it to be more hidden but he just put it in a wooden box” Stanley said incredulously, for once Sixer didn't complicate things too much. That was his thought until he remembered he was inside an alien ship that crashed millions of years ago and was hidden under the meadow, there was also the fact that he was probably at least a kilometer down the surface level. Alright, Sixer hadn't made this so easy.

He slid the journal carefully into his bag, and they turned to make their way back, casting one last glance at the silent, preserved creatures before heading for the exit.

As they stepped out of the eerie, green-lit chamber, Stanley exhaled a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the ship’s strange, haunting history lift as they left it behind.

Stanley grinned. “Didn’t even break a sweat this time, huh?”

"Guess we got lucky" Fiddleford allowed himself to smile.

That until he saw a droid floating through one of the corridors.

At that they both exchanged a look and began to set a quick pace towards the exit.

-----------

With their mission accomplished, they left the ship, stepping back into the fresh evening air. The silence between them now felt comfortable, companionable. Stanley broke it with a casual comment about adding beer to their grocery list, he said they deserved to celebrate after accomplishing such a crucial step to bringing Ford back.

They made their way back, feeling a sense of relief and satisfaction. For once, the forest path felt just as peaceful as the quiet understanding between them, neither man needing to say much as they walked side by side, the journal safely in tow.

----------

After making it back to the shack, they placed both journals on the dining table, ready to tackle Ford’s codes and decipher what further input the portal needed. Their resolve, however, quickly dissipated when both their stomachs growled in unison. Groceries first.

Stanley and Fiddleford headed to the car, with Fiddleford taking the wheel—he wasn’t about to let Stanley drive after last time, he was a reckless driver and had nearly hit a lamp post. As they drove toward town, Stanley reached for the radio, only to have his hand slapped away by Fiddleford.

“The driver picks the station,” Fiddleford quipped, switching from station to station until he found one with instrumental tunes. Stanley nearly laughed aloud when he recognized the plucking of a banjo. ‘Of course,’ he thought, smirking to himself, ‘this man’s got the South in his veins.’

They soon arrived at Fiddleford’s usual market choice, stepping out of the car to the sensation of eyes on them. Stanley quickly noticed that all those eyes weren’t on him—they were on Fiddleford.

“Hey, FiddleDork, why is everyone staring at you?” Stanley murmured teasingly into his ear, watching as a shiver ran through Fiddleford.

“Remember how my sanity was hangin' by a thread when we first met?” Fiddleford muttered back, his voice barely above a whisper as he gave Stanley a sidelong look.

“Yeah…what about it?” Stanley asked

Fiddleford sighed and grabbed a shopping cart. “Let’s just say I got a reputation as the town hillbilly.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow. “And what, exactly, did you do?”

Fiddleford’s gaze dropped to the cart handle as he mumbled, now fixed on it as if it was the only thing left of humanity “Might’ve been a little bit of public indecency…crashed a couple of cars, trespassed once or twice…and stole some liquor”

Stanley burst out laughing. “You crashed multiple cars and yet you dare call me a bad driver?”

More townsfolk turned their heads at Stanley’s laugh, which only made Fiddleford shrink further, cheeks reddening. “At least I wasn’t sneakin’ drugs across borders.” He hissed under his breath, hoping that would shut Stanley up

But Stanley kept laughing, earning even more stares, while Fiddleford hid his face in his hands, wishing he could disappear.

“If you don’t cut it out,” Fiddleford muttered darkly, peeking over his hands, “I’m keepin’ the beers to myself tonight.”

That shut Stanley up, though he was still grinning as they finished their grocery run, grabbing everything they needed for dinner, pasta ingredients, two packs of cigarettes—the expensive ones, they were going all in tonight—, and a couple of beers for good measure. As they headed back to the car, Fiddleford could still feel the stares burning into his back, but he ignored them.

The ride home was quiet and comfortable, with Stanley dozing off beside Fiddleford. Fiddleford stole glances at him at every stop, taking in his relaxed expression. These moments, watching Stanley sleep peacefully, filled him with a strange warmth. He knew he shouldn’t linger on these feelings—they were wrong, confusing, even—but for a few moments, he let himself want. He let himself imagine what it would be like to fall asleep next to Stanley, to feel that warmth close. He knew he would feel guilty the next morning if that were to happen, but he wanted to indulge in the fantasy. He wanted to be next to him, like last time— Last time?....they had slept in the same bed before, right? There's this feeling of Deja Vu once again. Fiddleford's memories about the night he erased were creeping through, it seemed as if his mind was starting to reject the effects the memory gun had on him. Lately memories kept resurfacing over and over. The night terrors were back too, but that was irrelevant at the moment. Right now he was focusing on the small fragments of memories he could cling to.

He could feel it all coming back, everything — The warmth, the comfort, the shame, the guilt, everything was coming back to him. The emotions far too overwhelming, too consuming. So that's what he chose to forget. His racing thoughts came to a small stop once they had reached the shack. He rubbed his eyes to keep any telltale tears from falling as he parked the car in front of the shack and shook Stanley awake, asking him to bring in the groceries while he headed for the bathroom.

But he didn’t go to the bathroom. Somehow, his feet carried him to Ford’s room, where he sank to his knees beside the bed, the memory gun clutched tightly in his trembling hands. His blank stare fixed on the cold metal, fingers absently tracing its edges, as if searching for answers it couldn’t give. He knew exactly what he wanted to do—and exactly why he shouldn’t. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating.

He shook, his breath coming in uneven bursts, caught between the desperate urge to erase everything—his failures, his pain, the endless ache—and the equally unbearable thought of forgetting Stanley along with it. He could live with being nothing in the eyes of the world, to be forgotten by everyone and be nothing but a remnant of a man. But forgetting Stanley? That would destroy what little was left of him.

It was too much. Everything was too much. God, if there was one, was cruel for making him this way, for filling his head with genius only to let it fracture under the weight of his own creation. Maybe this was his punishment for trying to outwit the universe. But if God was unfair, then so could he be. Selfishness clawed its way up through the despair. He would keep those memories—hoard them, cherish them, let the raw, unbearable ache of them grow like a splinter buried deep in his chest. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. His father was right all along, he was too far gone for anything to save him.

And yet, through the haze of grief and rage, a small, desperate voice broke free. Before he could stop himself, he was calling out for Stanley. His voice wavered, unsteady, cracking under the weight of a need he hadn’t dared to acknowledge. It came out louder than he intended, more desperate than he ever thought he could sound, and it hung in the stillness of the room like a plea he knew he didn’t deserve to make.

Stanley ran upstairs, breathless from the urgency in Fiddleford’s voice. Whatever had happened wasn't good by the tone alone. Had a gnome gotten inside again? He sure hopes not.

He glanced around, eyes narrowing when he saw Ford’s door ajar. Pushing it open, he found Fiddleford kneeling beside the bed, memory gun clutched in his hands, tears streaking his face as they fell onto the device.

“Fiddleford, what’s going on?” Stanley asked, worry and confusion blending in his voice, trying to get more insight as to what exactly he was witnessing.

Without lifting his gaze, Fiddleford held the gun out to him. “The gun…take it.”

Stanley didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside Fiddleford, his movements deliberate yet strangely tender, as if answering to his unspoken cry for help. His hand closed around the memory gun, prying it free from Fiddleford’s trembling grip. For a brief moment, he studied it, his expression unreadable, the weight of it heavy in his hands.

Then, without warning, he rose to his feet and hurled it to the ground with a force that made the room tremble. The sound of shattering glass and twisting metal rang out, sharp and final, as the gun splintered into fragments that scattered like a thousand unspoken regrets across the wooden floor.

Fiddleford stared, frozen in shock, his breath catching as he took in the destruction of his most precious creation. The room felt impossibly still, the silence broken only by his voice rising in a cracked, anguished cry.

“Stanley, what the hell are you doin'?!” he shouted, scrambling toward the broken remains, his hands hovering uselessly above the pieces. His voice cracked with disbelief and rage, his most prized creation reduced to ruins. “Do you have any idea—any idea—what you’ve just done? I put everythin' into this! Sweat, blood, tears—hell, even a part of my soul!”

Stanley’s chest heaved, his knuckles white as his fists curled at his sides. His voice, when it came, was low and steady, laced with something fierce and unyielding. “And you were about to put the rest of yourself into it and I’m not gonna let you do it. Not while I’m here.”

Stanley knelt beside him, his hand pressing into the scattered shards littering the floor, sharp edges biting into his palm. He didn’t care. His eyes locked on Fiddleford’s, the rawness in his gaze cutting deeper than any shard ever could.

“The way you look at that...thing” Stanley’s voice was quiet, but there was a tremor of emotion beneath it, the kind that begged to be heard. “I know that look. I’ve seen it in others. I’ve seen it in myself, and I’m not gonna stand here and let you destroy yourself like this.”

His palm pressed harder against the glass, a faint shiver running through his body as memories clawed their way to the surface—memories of his own hands gripping cold steel, of nights spent staring down the barrel, imagining endings he was too afraid to begin. He swallowed thickly, his voice cracking as he added, “I don’t want to lose you, Fiddleford. Not like this.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, Fiddleford’s breath hitched. It wasn’t the words themselves that struck him—it was the way Stanley said his name, soft and raw, as though speaking it hurt more than keeping silent. The sound of it made him feel small, like a scolded child, but also…seen, in a way that terrified him.

“I’m sorry, Lee,” Fiddleford whispered, his eyes drifting to the shattered remnants of his greatest and most damning invention. It lay there in pieces, a fitting symbol for everything he had ruined.

“Don’t be,” Stanley replied, his tone gentler now, though his hand remained firm against the shards. “At least you told me where it was now that you found it.” He reached up, resting a steady hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder, squeezing it like an anchor. His brow furrowed slightly as he asked, “But what were you doing here?”

Fiddleford’s lips tightened, his expression shifting into something almost painfully guilty. He hadn’t just found the gun—he had hidden it here. And now that he was caught, there was no use lying. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Stanley’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frown tinged with reluctant understanding. “So you hid it here, huh?” he murmured, the weight of the revelation hanging heavy in the air. His hand didn’t leave Fiddleford’s shoulder, though; if anything, his grip tightened, as if refusing to let go of the man who had already slipped too far into the dark.

Fiddleford nodded, shame burning in his cheeks. He couldn’t bear to meet Stanley’s gaze, afraid of the judgment he’d see there. But before he could pull away entirely, Stanley moved closer, his hand shifting to the back of Fiddleford’s neck as he pulled him into a sudden, fierce embrace.

“You’re an idiot, Fiddleford,” Stanley muttered, his voice thick and breaking. His arms tightened around him, holding him as though he might disappear if he let go. “I could’ve lost you. And you didn’t say a damn thing. You truly are an idiot.”

“I know,” Fiddleford whispered back, his voice trembling as he returned the embrace. The warmth of Stanley’s hold, the sheer stubborn strength of it, cracked something open in him that he hadn’t realized was still intact. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

Stanley exhaled shakily, resting his chin on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare try something like this again,” he said, his voice soft but fierce. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, you hear? Whatever happens, whatever you’re dealing with— You’re not alone.”

Fiddleford swallowed the lump in his throat, letting the words sink in, their weight both comforting and terrifying. He clung to Stanley a little tighter, his voice barely audible as he whispered,

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

The two men lingered in each other’s embrace, neither ready to let go. Fiddleford’s mind, however, was already halfway out of it, overwhelmed by everything that had just happened. The warmth was comforting, sure, but he’d just watched his "baby"—the memory gun—be destroyed, reduced to nothing but shards and pieces. He hadn’t expected Stanley to just break it, he assumed Stanley would take the gun and hide it again, but of course, Stanley was too unpredictable for expectations.

“Hey, Fiddlesticks, stop overthinking. I can practically see smoke coming out of your ears,” Stanley joked, pulling back slightly. He pressed a hand to steady himself, only to wince as shards of glass dug deeper into his skin.

Fiddleford noticed immediately and grabbed Stanley’s wrist to inspect the wound. “Stanley, what on earth were you thinking?” He asked, confused and a bit irritated. Now he’d have to pull out every tiny shard and clean the wound.

Stanley shrugged, meeting his gaze with a hint of defiance. “I dunno, what were you thinking when you held the gun?”

“Touché.” Fiddleford huffed, pushing down the irritation as he rose from the floor.

“Where are you going?” Stanley asked.

“To get the first-aid kit” Fiddleford replied, heading out.

“Wait—hang on, I’m coming with you.” Stanley scrambled to his feet, not about to be left alone in Ford’s room and wanting to make sure Fiddleford didn’t get any funny ideas while alone.

--------

Minutes later, they were on the couch, Fiddleford hunched over Stanley’s hand, carefully plucking out the glass shards with a pair of tweezers. Stanley tried to stay silent but couldn’t help letting out the occasional hiss of pain.

Fiddleford worked slowly, a bit more forceful with a few shards than strictly necessary—a little petty revenge for what Stanley had done to his precious "baby". He continued in silence until Stanley spoke.

“So, why’d you call for me back then?” Stanley asked, catching Fiddleford off guard.

“I'm not sure” Fiddleford paused and then took another glass shard out, there were just 5 more to go “I guess I got tired of forgetting”

“Care to elaborate?” Stanley prodded.

Fiddleford sighed, annoyance flashing briefly across his face. But he answered, his voice softening. “I realized that the more I used that thing—The more I lost... I kept losing the people I cared for, over and over. My wife, my son, my friends, Ford…and a chunk of my reputation along the way.” He grimaced, no doubt recalling one of those times he’d wandered into town raving and scaring half the folks there. “I just…didn’t want to lose anyone else. But I knew I didn’t have it in me to fix things alone.”

Fiddleford tugged the last shard free, and Stanley gave him a rare, soft smile. “Fiddleford...if you ever need help, I’m here for you, never doubt it” A glimmer of gratitude flickered in Fiddleford’s eyes, but before he could fully take in the moment, Stanley added, “And also, you just admitted you do care about me deep down. You can’t deny it—you do love me.”

Fiddleford shot him a pointed glare. “Like I said before, Stanley, any love I could have for you is buried under heaps of contempt” He pressed down on one of the small wounds a bit too firmly, smiling with a sadistic edge. Stanley let a hiss out at that.

“Keep that up, and I’m not letting you treat my wounds anymore,” Stanley grumbled, but his eyes sparkled with humor.

“Fine by me” Fiddleford replied, letting Stanley’s hand fall and standing up, already halfway to the door.

“Wait, you can’t just leave me like this!” Stanley called out with mock indignation.

“Oh, but I can.” Fiddleford’s sardonic smile lingered. “Give me one good reason why I should help you.”

“I could spit in your food when you’re not looking,” Stanley replied with a grin that was equally mocking and mischievous.

Fiddleford sighed, his smile disappearing as he sat back down. “Fine. You win.”

Stanley chuckled, and Fiddleford soon followed, relenting as he resumed cleaning the wound. He sprayed antiseptic over it, earning another pained hiss from Stanley.

“Oopsie” he said with feigned innocence, his smile unfaltering as Stanley glared back at him.

---------

Night had fallen, and Fiddleford laid awake on the makeshift bed he’d set up on the couch, alone with his thoughts. It was only nine, not especially late, but he’d excused himself to bed early after dinner.

Stanley had asked him if he’d wanted to join him for a drink on the porch, but Fiddleford had declined with a “Maybe tomorrow.” After the events of today he wasn't in the mood to celebrate anymore. Stanley just nodded and went out to drink alone.

But now, restless and unable to sleep, Fiddleford reconsidered. Maybe he could use the fresh air—and maybe even a drink.

He stepped out onto the porch, shivering a little at the refreshing bite of the night air. There was Stanley, with a relaxed expression, sitting on the floor of the porch, leaning back with one hand and the other holding a beer.

“Hey, Fiddlesticks, thought you were asleep,” Stanley greeted him, holding up an extra bottle. “Want a drink?”

Without a word, Fiddleford took the bottle and sat down beside him. He cracked it open and took a long sip, savoring the familiar burn; it had been a while since his last drink. They sat in companionable silence for a while, but while Stanley sipped slowly, Fiddleford seemed intent on drowning his thoughts. He was already on his fourth bottle by the time Stanley finished his second.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Stanley chuckled, plucking the bottle out of Fiddleford’s hand. “At this rate, you’re gonna end up completely wasted”

Fiddleford shot him a glare, both at the nickname and the interruption. “I’m not in the mood for your games, Stanley. Just give it back,” he muttered, words slightly slurred.

“Yeah, no. You’ve had more than enough.” Stanley placed the bottle out of reach.

Fiddleford frowned, trying to argue. “You’re talkin’ nonsense. I’m fine.” But the more he spoke, the more obvious it became that he was anything but fine.

“Nope, no more drinks for you,” Stanley said firmly.

Fiddleford went silent, but Stanley soon heard a quiet sniffle. He looked over and saw Fiddleford wiping his eyes, his expression heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“Wait, are you crying because I took your drink?” Stanley tried hard not to laugh, though his lips quirked in a smirk.

“No, I’m not cryin’,” Fiddleford mumbled, though the sniffles betrayed him, each word increasingly slurred.

Stanley wished he had a camera right now, he wanted to take a photo for later black mail. Instead—due to the lack of a camera—, he placed a reassuring hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder, pulling him a little closer.

“Oh, don’t be a crybaby, Fiddlesticks,” He teased softly. “Didn't take you for the emotional drunk type” Stanley laughed softly.

At the warmth of his touch, Fiddleford stopped crying, leaning in to rest his head on Stanley’s shoulder. A deep calm washed over him, he let himself enjoy the moment, the alcohol preventing any self depreciating thought from being born. He closed his eyes and stayed quiet, enjoying the stillness of the moment.

But apparently, he remained quiet for too long, Stanley was already giving him a worried look. He hesitated before giving Fiddleford a light shake. “You okay, Fiddlesticks?”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford murmured, looking up at him with a lopsided, drunken smile. “I just… I just don’t want this moment to end.” He leaned fully against Stanley, all pretense gone.

Stanley felt heat rise to his face, caught off guard but unsure if he wanted to pull away. It wasn’t anything he’d regret, and he could definitely tease Fiddleford about this later. So, with a smirk and a gentle sigh, he let Fiddleford stay close, both of them savoring the unexpected comfort of each other’s company. He was going to let the man do as he wanted, let him have this moment.

Soon Fiddleford’s face nestled into the crook of Stanley’s neck, warm breath brushing his skin. He wasn’t doing anything—just hiding there, snuggling closer, like he’d found a refuge. Stanley was trying to hold himself together, his heart racing at Fiddleford’s proximity and boldness, no doubt courtesy of the alcohol. He worried that Fiddleford might regret this tomorrow, like he had done previously, he also couldn’t shake the suspicion that his friend was projecting his feelings for Ford onto him in his drunken haze. That was the only explanation for such behavior.

“Alright, Fiddlesticks. Time for bed.” Stanley stood up quickly, and Fiddleford nearly toppled forward before Stanley caught him, holding him steady and close as they entered the shack.

“I don’t want to,” Fiddleford protested, pouting as he tried to wriggle free.

“You’ve gotta. You’re too drunk to even stand” Stanley replied firmly.

“But I don’t want you to go away yet,” Fiddleford muttered, clinging to him.

Stanley chuckled softly, settling him down on the sofa. “Trust me, if you were sober, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

Fiddleford huffed, grumbling, and tried to stay on the sofa, but before long, he slipped off, ending up sprawled on the floor, still shifting restlessly. Stanley looked at him, torn between amusement and pity, then finally decided to move him somewhere more comfortable.

He helped Fiddleford into his room—Stanley’s room now, technically—and tucked him into bed, hopefully he wouldn't fall again given the broader space. Stanley was about to leave, when he heard a soft, pleading voice.

“Stay, please” Fiddleford murmured. The words cut through Stanley like a knife; he’d been on the other end of that request before. It brought memories of that night.

“Fiddleford, you need to sleep,” he replied gently.

“I don’t want to sleep yet. Stay.” Fiddleford’s tone grew firmer, even bossy, apparently alcohol made his confidence peak too “I don’t want you to leave again.”

Stanley’s blood ran cold at that. Was Fiddleford mistaking him for Ford or something? What did he mean by “again”? Was that the reason why he was so clingy? He’d suspected it earlier, but now he was almost sure that was the case. And yet, a small part of him hoped it wasn’t. He leaned in closer, searching Fiddleford’s face with a hint of desperation.

“Fiddleford… you know who I am, right?”

Fiddleford gave a lazy laugh. “Of course I know who you are!"

“Then...” Stanley started “Who am I?”

“You’re Lee, obviously!” He chuckled as if Stanley had asked the dumbest question in the world. “And here I thought I was the one with memory problems.”

Relief washed over Stanley after hearing the nickname and cheerful laugh that came along it. The good news were that Fiddleford's half working mind did recognize him as his own individual. The bad news were that now he knew Fiddleford did actually see him as his own person, and therefore had actually asked him —of all people— to stay.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Stanley said, masking his conflicted thoughts with a casual tone. “You’re fine here.”

“I’ll sleep on the couch too, then. I want to be close to you,” Fiddleford insisted, slurring just enough to let his guard slip entirely. “I miss your warmth.”

Stanley stilled, his curiosity piqued. “What do you mean by that?”

“Last time we slept together,” Fiddleford said, his tone a little dramatic, or maybe he wasn't making it dramatic on purpose and it was just the way he acted under the influence. All things considered he did get quite emotional over little things. “You left me alone with my thoughts when morning came. It was… it wasn’t nice.” He pouted, the expression almost endearing, however he wanted to protest, argue it was Fiddleford who indirectly told him to “go away” after asking him to make breakfast, that was until it clicked for Stanley—Fiddleford remembered that morning.

“When did you remember?” Stanley asked, voice softer.

“Today” Fiddleford replied, sinking into himself as he hugged his knees, his face suddenly shadowed.

"Was that why you were holding the—?" Before Stanley could finish, Fiddleford was already replying

“Yes...I was ashamed of what I did… I wanted to forget it. But I’m tired of forgettin’ everythin’, of fightin’ who I am. It’s so unfair, and I just want… just for once… to let myself feel what I feel.”

Tears welled up in his eyes, and Stanley reached out, brushing his hand gently through Fiddleford’s hair. Fiddleford leaned into the touch, closing his eyes as if to soak up the comfort he’d been denying himself.

“I’m just so tired,” Fiddleford whispered, voice trembling. “I don't want to deny my feelings anymore, and right now, what I want to feel…” He reached out, hands finding the collar of Stanley's shirt “...is your warmth.”

He pulled the man down by the collar until he tumbled into his arms. Fiddleford’s embrace was tight, almost desperate, but Stanley could tell he didn’t even realize it; he just needed someone by his side, someone to ground him.

Stanley sighed, giving into the man's antics, they were almost theatric. “Alright, alright… I’ll stay. Just don’t try anything funny.” He relaxed against Fiddleford’s chest, feeling his breath slow as they settled together. Fiddleford just wanted Stanley to stay by his side this time, maybe he could deal with all those horrible thoughts with Stanley next to him. He reached out to tighten the embrace, a hand on Stanley's waist while the other went to his head.

Stanley's breath hitched for a moment as he felt Fiddleford's hands. The hand on his head offered a soft touch, combing through his hair gently and once he realized it was only that, he let a small sigh out. He sank into the other's warmth, enjoying the fragile moment that threatened to break by the time the morning light came.

Chapter Text

Laying in bed together —again— Fiddleford and Stanley remained still, their arms loosely wrapped around each other, both wide awake but neither daring to break the silence. The air was thick with a hint of tension, as each man grappled with thoughts about the previous night.

Stanley was already regretting his decision to stay, knowing he had crossed a line that couldn’t be so easily ignored. This wasn’t like a one-night stand where he could just walk away, forget, and move on. They didn't have sex and that somehow made everything worse for Stanley— Who was a firm believer of the notions of casual sex. He could always tell himself that they were blowing some steam off and nothing else if that was the case.

However, that was not the case; they had shared a moment far too intimate and that's what scared Stanley the most. The vulnerability of it, the fact that Fiddleford decided to show that side of such raw emotion and dare to ask him to stay. And Stanley? He wasn't sure if he was ready to face whatever came after this.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford was mentally kicking himself as last night’s events replayed in his mind. Not only had he begged Stanley to stay, but cried in front of him —Thrice in the same day—, invaded his personal space, pulled him into his bed and on top of him. The cherry on top was his confession, saying things he had sworn to bury, and now—well, here he was, stuck with the aftermath of his own vulnerability.

Stanley’s head was still resting on his chest and Fiddleford shifted a bit, hoping to find some comfort despite the weight of his own embarrassment. He then noticed Stanley was awake, his first instinct was to remain silent and pretend he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he could also pretend as if nothing happened, look for the memory gun and— Oh right, Stanley broke it. Well, guess he was now damned with having to live with the consequences of his actions. Time to say something. With a sigh, he finally broke the silence.

“Stanley, you’re awake, aren’t you?” Fiddleford asked softly.

Stanley nodded without lifting his head, sinking further into Fiddleford’s chest, as if he could somehow hide there. The truth was, he was mortified by the proximity, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it.

“So... just how much did I say last night?” Fiddleford asked, a hint of dread in his voice, silently vowing to never drink again.

Stanley shifted, his voice barely more than a mumble. “Enough to have me stay.”

“Ah…” Fiddleford let out a sigh, feeling a fresh wave of shame creep in. “Do you…want me to go?” He asked hesitantly, wondering if maybe Stanley had stayed out of nothing more than pity. Perhaps it would be better if he went away, go and save what was left of his dignity. Fiddleford was too ashamed to remain in this position with him, knowing that he had only made a fool of himself by giving that half-assed confession

“No. Let’s… stay like this a bit longer. If that’s alright with you.” Stanley’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with a hint of embarrassment “But you can go if you want—I wouldn’t mind.” He did, in fact, mind Fiddleford leaving the room but he wasn't about to admit that. There had been enough confessions in such a short time.

Fiddleford opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. Stanley was already getting anxious at what the other could say, maybe the man was ashamed again or embarrassed, maybe he should be the one to go away. Stanley was about to remove himself from on top, preparing to pull away, when he felt a pair of hands reaching out almost instinctively, one landing on Stanley’s head, and another at his back, keeping him close.

“Let’s just—” Fiddleford finally managed, his voice soft. “Let’s just stay like this a little longer.”

Stanley wasn't about to protest, far too centered on the hand that rested on top of his head, petting and combing his hair. He could get used to this, he loved this casual affection, so gentle and loving.

“I… I like when you do that” Stanley murmured, as he leaned into Fiddleford’s touch.

“Then I reckon I should do it more often.” Fiddleford gave a faint chuckle, his hand continuing to trace slow, calming lines through Stanley’s hair.

As Fiddleford’s fingers softly scratched the back of his head, Stanley let his guard drop, sinking fully into the moment. He could ask Fiddleford later what exactly last night had meant—right now, he just wanted to savor this quiet peace. Future Stanley could handle the questions; for now, he was content right where he was.

The quiet held between them, as they lay together. Stanley closed his eyes, letting himself go under such tender care. The touches, so gentle and unhurried, felt like a balm to wounds he barely admitted he carried. Each soft stroke over his hair had a grounding effect, melting his usual defenses bit by bit.

He opened his eyes again, gaze drifting over Fiddleford’s shirt, over the edges of fabric soft and worn, evidence of sleepless nights and long days. It felt strange to be so close, in every sense of the word. Part of him wanted to say something light, a joke or sarcastic comment, but his voice caught before he could find the words. Instead, he took a shaky breath and let it out.

Fiddleford noticed, pausing in his gentle motions. “You alright, Lee?” he murmured, his voice a low warmth, laced with concern.

Stanley could only nod, suddenly aware of his heart pounding a little harder. There was a part of him that wanted to stay wrapped up in this moment, just as it was, but the weight of what lay between them began to settle in. “I just…” he hesitated, swallowing as he searched for the right words, “Just…not used to this kind of thing, I guess.”

A small, sad smile played on Fiddleford’s face as he absorbed the words. He ran his hand along Stanley’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze “Then I guess I’ll just have to make sure you get used to it,” he said quietly, a hint of warmth in his voice.

Stanley let out a breath that was almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Guess I don’t have much of a choice” he mumbled, a faint attempt at humor.

Fiddleford’s gaze softened as he watched Stanley, still holding him close. For all of Stanley’s rough edges, he could see glimpses of the person underneath, the one who’d survived years of hard living and betrayal.

Fiddleford’s hand went back to Stanley’s hair, stroking gently, and Stanley let his eyes close, his breathing slowing as he relaxed fully into Fiddleford’s touch.

Eventually, Fiddleford broke the silence, his voice barely a murmur. “You know, Lee…you don’t have to keep that ‘tough-guy persona’ around me. You don’t have anything to prove"

Stanley’s eyes opened slightly, a flicker of something similar to sadness and surprise crossed his face, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the words linger, absorbing them in a way he hadn’t allowed himself before. He felt Fiddleford’s hand still resting on him, steady and warm, and he knew—at least for this moment—that he was safe.

A part of him wanted to stay in the comfort of Fiddleford’s embrace, but the day was nudging them to move. Stanley blinked up at the ceiling, realizing how long they’d been laying there.

He shifted, finally looking up at Fiddleford. “I think we might have to get up… unless you plan on decoding Ford’s cursed cursive from here.”

Fiddleford let out a soft chuckle, ruffling Stanley’s hair one last time before reluctantly pulling his hand away. “Wouldn’t mind tryin’, but I reckon the journal might need a bit more attention than I’m able to give from bed.” He gave Stanley a small smile as he sat up, stretching his arms over his head.

Stanley followed, pulling himself into a sitting position beside him. "I'll make breakfast, maybe some Stan-cakes to keep us filled" Stanley was already standing up when Fiddleford offered his help cooking.

“Let me help you, maybe make the mix or somethin’” Fiddleford was ready to follow Stanley

“Fiddleford, with all due respect, you suck at measuring ingredients and I don't want mushy Stan-cakes again” Stanley grimaced, remembering the last time he let Fiddleford make the mix. “Also, they are called STAN-cakes for a reason”

“Is that so?” Fiddleford asked, standing up and tugging his shirt straight with false dramatism “Alright then, you do you” He tried to sound offended but a small laugh escaped from him.

As they moved into the kitchen, Stanley grabbed a frying pan, setting it on the stove “So, what’s in the fridge? We bought some strawberries, right?”

Fiddleford opened the fridge and quickly rummaged through it, finding some strawberries, blueberries and raspberries.

“Yeah, they are here— and some blueberries too, maybe you could add them to the mix” he suggested, folding his arms as he left the fruits on the counter “And a fruit salad on the side. Maybe some maple syrup too”

“Sounds good to me” He grabbed some flour and a bowl, ready to prepare the mix “Fiddlesticks, care to set the table and bring the Journal?”

“Alright” Fiddleford replied as he made some space on the table, setting the papers to the other side of it so they could eat together and then get straight into decoding.

Fiddleford absentmindedly flipped through Ford’s dense scribbles and diagrams, muttering under his breath. Stanley couldn’t help but glance over every now and then, catching the determined look on Fiddleford’s face, the way his eyes lit up with focus.

“Finding any sense in there?” Stanley asked, flipping the pancake.

Fiddleford looked up, startled as if he’d forgotten where he was for a moment. “I think so—there’s somethin’ about a sequence here, seems to be related to the frequency needed to activate the portal. Ford’s usin’ that weird alien language again though.”

Stanley snorted, shaking his head. “Figures he’d make it hard on himself. Can’t imagine he made it easy on you either.”

“That man…” Fiddleford smiled faintly, his expression both fond and exasperated. “I swear, he couldn’t resist makin’ a riddle out of breakfast if you let him.” He thumbed the edge of a page, glancing up at Stanley.

Stanley plated the Stan-cakes and fruit salad, adding some maple syrup on top, setting them on the table, one plate next to the other. He watched as Fiddleford continued to scan the journal, already half lost in thought again, and a strange fondness tugged at him. He wasn’t sure he liked feeling it—he wasn’t used to feeling anything like this so easily. But watching Fiddleford work, the focus and the quiet excitement in his eyes, he felt that he could get used to mornings like this.

“Alright, professor, food’s served,” he said, nudging the plate closer to Fiddleford.

Fiddleford looked up, blinking before giving Stanley a grateful nod. “Thanks, Lee.” He took a bite, his gaze flickering back to the journal now and then, as if he couldn’t quite resist.

--------------

After finishing breakfast, they sat together at the table, reading journal 2. Fiddleford and Stanley found quite a lot of trivial information about anomalies, most of the book contained spells and curses with detailed explanations on how to perform them.

Eventually they reached a page that talked about Bill Cipher, Fiddleford was about to skip it when something caught his attention, he read it again.

“That explains a lot...” Were Fiddleford's words as he read

“What does it explain? What did you find?” Stanley inquired, curious as to what exactly that page explained to Fiddleford.

Fiddleford let out a shaky breath and explained.

“Your brother had what I would call a ‘jerk streak’, he sometimes would behave like the biggest idiot in the world and often times hurt himself along the way” Fiddleford's frustration was palpable, the memory of Ford's reckless stunts coming back to him “He wouldn't eat for days and stay inside that weird room full of Bill's tapestries” Fiddleford handed the journal to Stanley, pointing at an specific part of it.

“Possession...” Stanley whispered what he read, he brought the journal closer to him, reading further “So, Bill Cipher... he could take control over Ford.” He traced a finger over Ford’s cursive handwriting, trying to imagine his brother lost to something like that. “Yellow eyes, slit pupils— You think he was possessed during those ‘jerk streaks’?"

“I don't think so, I'm sure of it. You see... there's something I didn't tell you” Fiddleford's tone screamed ‘guilty’ once again, it seemed as if this man always had a secret waiting to be revealed.

Stanley stayed quiet, his gaze piercing. Fiddleford squirmed under the weight of it, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his pants.

“When I first got to the shack, there were a bunch of polaroids scattered in the ground, they were showing Ford doing several questionable things…even the Tv was playing some kind of video of Ford laughing like a maniac” Fiddleford said as Stanley's head tilted, trying to understand what Fiddleford was getting to.

Stanley hadn't seen those polaroids or the video either, he had been far too busy lamenting his brother that he didn't dare to go out much of the portal room.

“I haven't seen those—” Stanley didn't get to finish his sentence, Fiddleford interrupted him by giving a confession that dug his own grave.

“That's because I hid ‘em” Fiddleford's lips tightened, his gaze fixed on his pants

Stanley let out a sigh "And why is that exactly?"

“I thought I had driven Ford slightly into insanity since I used the gun on him, but remembering more closely, he had those yellow eyes whenever he started acting crazy and...” Fiddleford turned to see the other's expression, now looking at a pissed off Stanley, he really did care for his brother, huh? “I hid those so you wouldn't see ‘em, I didn't want you to see your brother like that. I didn't want to see him like that either, knowing it could possibly be my fault” Fiddleford said far too quickly, words slurring every two words or so. A haunting silence stretching between them.

Finally, Stanley spoke, voice calm yet tight, like a rubber band about to snap. "So... that's it then? You just thought hiding the worst of it would help me somehow?”

Fiddleford’s mouth opened, then closed, his gaze flickering between Stanley’s face and the floor. “Yes… No. I don’t know, Stanley. I—I knew what I was doing was wrong. But if you’d seen Ford the way I did...” He shuddered, a haunted look shadowing his face. “He was gone, Stanley. Ford wasn’t himself anymore. And I thought if I could bury that... maybe you wouldn’t have to live with the same haunting memory.”

Stanley scoffed, leaning forward, his fists clenching and unclenching on the table. “And you think not knowing was any better? I’ve been haunted for years by my mistakes and when I came here— after what happened, I could only think it was my fault Ford ended up in this place in the middle of nowhere, immersed into that crazy state! All because a stupid mistake from my teenage years!…But now you come and tell me it was his arrogance that did him in, that all this time… it was Bill twisting his mind. You knew that, Fiddleford, and you kept it from me.”

The guilt on Fiddleford’s face deepened, but he held his ground, eyes steady and dark.

“I wasn’t just hiding it from you, Stanley. I was hiding it from myself, too. Because if I didn’t…” He paused, voice breaking. “If I didn’t, then I’d have to face the fact that I played a part in it. That I was right there with him, and didn't stop him”

Stanley’s jaw tightened, anger ebbing slightly as he heard the anguish beneath Fiddleford’s words. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a long breath. “You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

Fiddleford managed a weak smile, though there was nothing humorous in it. “Believe me, I’ve heard worse. I’ve said worse to myself too”

"That's nothing to be proud of" Stanley replied

They sat in tense silence, the clock ticking away moments heavy with regret. After a long pause, Stanley shook his head, his voice a low rumble.

“I can’t just let this slide, Fiddleford. You hurt Ford— My brother and you also hurt me too. You keep hiding everything from me, as if I couldn't take it.”

“I know you are right” Fiddleford’s voice dropped to a murmur, the words falling from him like a confession. “But you—Stanley, you didn’t see him the way I did. You didn’t have to watch your best friend fall apart piece by piece, to see someone you loved turn into a stranger.” He hesitated, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want you to hate me too.”

Stanley let out a humorless laugh.

“You are right, I didn't see my best friend succumb to his own ego...It was my brother, Fiddleford!” His voice had risen, far too loud.

Fiddleford looked away, the sharp words sinking in. But he didn’t argue; Stanley was right, he had no business winning this argument, he knew that.

Stanley sighed, the anger and pain simmering into something more complicated.

“Look,” he said, voice softening ever so slightly, “If you’re serious about making things right… then you need to be straight with me. No more lies. No more hiding.”

Fiddleford nodded, swallowing hard as he met Stanley’s gaze. “I will. Whatever it takes.”

“Good,” Stanley replied firmly. “Because when Ford gets back, you owe him that too, and don’t think for a second that I’ll let you walk out on him the way you did last time.”

Fiddleford’s face twisted in a grimace, his fingers curling tight in his lap. He nodded, though his gaze held a flicker of fear.

“I won’t run this time. No more hiding.”

They stayed silent, the weight of their conversation pressing down on them, but there was a hint of something else too—a fragile understanding. Stanley looked down at the journal, its pages filled with Ford’s messy sketches of Bill Cipher. The remnants of Ford’s obsession.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “You want to help me bring back Ford? We still have to finish decoding this”

“Yes” Fiddleford exhaled, relief and determination flickering in his expression. “More than anything.”

Stanley flipped through the pages, eyes scanning over the cryptic notes and half-finished formulas. “Then let’s get to it.” He handed the journal back to Fiddleford, his gaze steady. “No more secrets. We’re doing this together.”

Fiddleford accepted the journal, nodding with renewed conviction. He placed it down on the table, his fingers tracing the worn cover, a silent promise to himself and to Stanley.

They settled into the task, working through Ford’s codes and notes with quiet focus, the weight of everything hanging in the air and Fiddleford realized that there was no better moment to finish confessing everything he had hidden than now. He began fidgeting with his fingers, picking at the skin.

Stanley let out a sigh. He placed his hand over Fiddleford’s, stopping his fingers before they could cause further harm. “What is it now?”

Fiddleford looked down at their joined hands, his own trembling slightly. “Stanley… there’s more.”

Stanley’s expression hardened, but he kept his voice steady. “Go on.”

Fiddleford’s eyes darted away, voice shaking as he confessed, “After… After I left the portal project, I started a cult. Well, actually it started way before but that isn't relevant.” Fiddleford corrected himself and shrugged

“I'm sorry, what?” Stanley was perplexed at that new piece of information

“It was a group dedicated to erasing painful memories for people who couldn’t handle them. At first, it was about helping people forget small things, but…” Fiddleford's voice got lower as he spoke “It got out of hand. People started coming to me, asking to erase things they regretted, things they were ashamed of. And some of the times…I erased things they didn't ask me to.”

Stanley’s jaw dropped, and he took his hand back, running it through his hair as he tried to process. “You started a cult...” Stanley whispered as he was internally debating if sharing a bed with Fiddleford was worth the risk considering all the things he had done to others. Maybe he wasn't all that safe as he had thought earlier in the morning.

Fiddleford nodded, guilt pulling at every line of his face. “I thought I was helping people, but I… I crossed too many lines.”

“And what, you thought this was some kind of public service? Do I need to worry about the cult? Fiddleford, this is—” Stanley’s voice was thick with exasperation. He paused, clearly grappling with how deep the betrayal ran. “And Ford?” Stanley’s voice dropped. “Did you plan to do the same to him?”

Fiddleford sighed, having to explain himself once again.

“I was also plannin’ on erasing Ford's memories, about the portal, nothin’ else. Back then I saw it as the only way to save him from himself, that way he would stop the project. That's why I had come here” Fiddleford's voice lowered with each word, maybe he was noticing how messed up his methods truly were.

“Also, don't worry about the cult, I erased everyone's memories of it! So it's okay, they won't come after us” Fiddleford added with a smile, a genuine smile to make matters worse, as if he had done a good deed. Okay, he definitely hadn't realized entirely how messed up his methods were.

Stanley raised his head from his hands and had an expression that could only be described as horrified. Yeah, he definitely shouldn't share a bed with Fiddleford, the man was insane and apparently Stanley had forgotten that bit.

“Fiddleford, I have no words to describe how I'm feeling right now” Stanley's tone lacked any emotion, far too shocked by all the information. “I'm too afraid to ask if there's anything else you are missing”

“I think that's all...” Fiddleford's eyes narrowed as he tried to remember if there was anything else he hadn't mentioned “I don't know if this is relevant but I was planning on building a giant robot after an old college buddy didn't invite me to his party” Fiddleford's tone was casual now, as if it was a normal occurrence to even consider doing that.

Stanley let out a strangled laugh, half in disbelief and half in sheer exasperation. “You’re like a damn petty child, Fiddleford. And a dangerous one at that.”

Fiddleford looked at him, shame and guilt mixing with a touch of self-deprecating humor. “Yeah… I guess you are right”

Fiddleford studied Stanley for a long moment, his face a mask of frustration and something else—maybe sympathy, maybe exhaustion. “You truly are something else, Fiddleford"

Fiddleford’s chuckle was small and shaky. “I know. And I’m sorry for every bit of it, Stanley”

Stanley shook his head, letting out a long sigh as he rubbed his temples.

“Look, in case you are wondering, I don’t hate you, Fiddleford. I don’t know what I feel right now, but… I don’t hate you.” He met Fiddleford’s eyes, his voice softening. “Just promise me, no more secrets.”

Fiddleford nodded, eyes earnest. “I swear, Stanley. I’ll tell you everything from now on.”

“All right. But you’re on thin ice, Fiddlesticks and if you ever pull anything like that on my brother again...” He let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but potent.

“I won’t,” Fiddleford replied, voice steady, though his hands were back to fidgeting, now slightly bloody, Stanley noticed this and placed his hand on top of Fiddleford's once again, stopping the movement.

“Well, let's get back to the journal then!” Stanley said, trying to shift the mood and relax his own nerves. Everytime he thought he had made progress with Fiddleford, he was met by a new secret, he could only hope this was the last of it all.

Chapter Text

A couple of days had passed, Fiddleford and Stanley had decoded most of Journal 2, setting all the necessary inputs in the control room. The portal was almost repaired and they were one journal away from activation. It should’ve been, as Stanley joked, “easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Except it wasn’t “easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

“What do you mean there are no instructions?” Stanley's voice was hoarse, worn thin from long nights and little sleep.

“Means there’s nothing, Lee.” Fiddleford slouched in the chair beside him, drumming his fingers against the table. “No guide, no map, no clues. Ford left us hanging on the location of Journal 3”

Fiddleford let out a long, exasperated groan, slumping forward. “I’m going to kill Ford.” There was an unsettling edge of seriousness in his voice, he seemed determined in actually doing it. Stanley eyed the clock. It was late, and Fiddleford’s dark eye bags had returned with a vengeance.

“Nope, you’re not doing that!” Stanley put a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder. “What you’re gonna do is sleep.” He stood up, tugging Fiddleford up with him.

“I don’t want to sleep! Let me go!” Fiddleford protested half-heartedly, tugging away just enough to be annoying, but it was clear he wasn’t serious about fighting Stanley.

“Nope. Bed. Now,” Stanley commanded, pulling him upstairs and gently pushing him onto his — or maybe it was Fiddleford's bed, the line was blurry at this point. Who was the true owner of the room?— bed. “You’re too exhausted for the couch tonight.” Stanley muttered

After the whole ‘I was going to erase your brother's memory, sorry for not telling you....also, I started a cult!’ Incident. They hadn't gotten to share much moments of tender peace. They had both thrown themselves into the portal work, trying to ignore the weight of what had happened. And while they hadn’t shared a bed since that night, both of them missed it— the quiet comfort, the unspoken closeness.

And that's why Fiddleford cleared his throat, hesitating before he spoke.

“Stanley... I’m not sure I should ask this,” he said, his voice quiet and low, carried by the cold air from the half-open window. “But... would you want to stay? I know it’s more comfortable than the couch; trust me, I know.” He laughed nervously, trying to lighten his own nerves.

“Fiddleford…” Stanley’s voice softened, and Fiddleford’s heart dropped. Well, he was damned, Stanley used his name and not the stupid ‘Fiddlesticks’ he had gotten used to. He was an idiot for ever thinking of letting those words out, he should back track. Could he back track though? The words were already said, maybe he should have stayed silent, when will he learn? God did not have mercy, and he was proof of that. Why did he always have to do something stupid? Why? He should take it back, find some excuse — maybe he could—

“Hey, Fiddleford, you hear me?” Stanley’s voice cut through Fiddleford’s spiraling thoughts. Fiddleford looked up, realizing he’d been staring down at the blankets.

“Gonna be honest... didn’t catch that,” Fiddleford muttered, embarrassment coloring his tone.

“I said it was fine.” Stanley moved closer, nudging him over with a hand. “Now make some room, or I might just change my mind.” Fiddleford scrambled to make space, giving Stanley an apologetic look as he settled in. “And close that window, would you? It’s freezing in here.”

Quickly shutting the window, Fiddleford turned back to find Stanley already burrowing his face into the pillow and the sight made his heart beat just a little faster.

“Stanley?”

“What now?”

“Can I… hold you?” Fiddleford’s voice was soft, almost tentative.

Stanley didn’t answer, but he moved closer, and that was answer enough. Fiddleford slipped his arms around him, feeling the tension ease from both of them.

“Pet my hair” Stanley whispered, barely audible.

“What?” Fiddleford asked, though he’d heard perfectly well.

“Pet my hair…” Stanley’s voice dropped even lower, sounding reluctant and embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, I just couldn’t hear you—” Fiddleford’s lips curled into a smirk and his tone was full of a teasing edge.

“That’s it,You can sleep alone in here.” Stanley shifted, starting to pull away, but Fiddleford tightened his hold.

“I was joking! I swear. I heard you.” Fiddleford's tone was back to being genuine, all teasing dropping once he realized Stanley was serious.

Stanley let a small laugh out and relaxed back against him with a small huff.

“Fine, but get to it, Fiddlesticks.” He pressed himself into Fiddleford’s chest, uncertain of when this closeness had become natural between them. They had shared a bed for a handful of times, yet it felt as though they’d been doing this for years.

“You’re a bit bossy, you know that?” Fiddleford murmured as he began petting Stanley's head, combing the hair with his fingers and scratching the spot behind his ears. Stanley let out a content sound, that he tried to muffle before it came out, but his attempts were futile, Fiddleford heard it and he could only chuckle at the absurdity of this situation.

"You really like this, don't ya?" Fiddleford said as he kept scratching and playing with Stanley's hair.

“Shut up and keep going,” he grumbled, sinking further against Fiddleford.

Fiddleford chuckled softly. He continued, fingers threading through Stanley’s hair, gentle and rhythmic.

“It’s nice, alright? Just keep it up,” Stanley muttered, his voice barely audible as he hid his face deeper into Fiddleford’s chest. Fiddleford felt his heart skip at the softness of the moment, marveling at how someone like Stanley could be so… adorable. The word felt so out of place when describing the man, but it fitted just right for the scene that was in front of him.

“Whatever you want, Lee.” Fiddleford kept up the soothing rhythm, gently petting Stanley’s hair until, eventually, they both drifted off.

-------

When morning light crept into the room, Fiddleford was the first to wake. He blinked groggily, finding Stanley’s face nestled against his chest, his expression peaceful and at ease. Fiddleford could only wish he had that same peace. Every time he woke up like this, everytime his gaze lingered far longer than it should, he could feel the all-too-familiar shame consuming him, though it had dulled now. He knew he could never change who he was, no matter how much he wanted to. Still, it stung.

He carefully shifted out from under Stanley, not wanting to disturb him, and slipped into the bathroom to prepare a bath. A long, warm soak was exactly what he needed to clear his mind, and he sank into the water, letting it ease the tension in his body.

--------

Back in bed, Stanley woke to the absence of warmth, blinking sleepily at the empty space beside him. He heard the faint sound of running water from the bathroom and figured Fiddleford was taking a bath. He let himself lie back, stretching in the bed, relishing the rare peacefulness of the morning.

After a few more minutes, the water stopped, and he heard Fiddleford yell something directed towards him

"Stanley, can you please make something to eat?" Fiddleford had yelled

No response.

Stanley was not going to get up from bed just yet, it was way too early for breakfast and he had no appetite whatsoever.

"Fiddlesticks can wait a little longer" were Stanley's thoughts as he sank further into the bed as he grinned to himself, making no move to rise. His peace was soon disturbed by the entry of Fiddleford into the room.

His hair was damp, hair sticking to his face and some of the longer strands clinging to his neck. He was only wearing a pair of shorts, seemingly having forgotten to bring a shirt along. He always kept forgetting the most basic of things. Fiddleford went to grab a towel from the closet, completely immersed in his train of thought, wondering if he should buy some sort of ‘to do list' notepads. He was blivious to the fact that Stanley had woken up and was watching him with a sly grin.

“Nice view,” Stanley drawled, his tone thick with teasing. Apparently he was already set on embarrassing Fiddleford before breakfast.

Fiddleford nearly jumped, turning sharply to find Stanley laying in bed, looking at him, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“What the—Stanley!” Fiddleford managed, but his flushed face betrayed him, the tips of his ears going red.

“What? Is a man no longer allowed to appreciate the, uh, beauty of another man?” Stanley sat up and then leaned back, giving a dramatic sigh as if wounded.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford warned, face only getting redder as he tried to avert his gaze. “Don’t you dare say another word.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare,” Stanley replied, the smirk only growing as he lazily stretched. “But, you could at least let me know if you’re gonna be strutting around here all shirtless.”

“I am not—strutting!” Fiddleford protested, clutching the towel to his chest as if it were armor. “Go back to sleep!”

Stanley chuckled, clearly enjoying this reaction. “And miss out on this little show?” He gave a low whistle. “Please. It’s the highlight of my morning.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, trying to regain his composure. “You’re hopeless, Stanley.”

“Only because you make it so easy, Fiddlesticks.” Stanley propped himself up on an elbow, still watching Fiddleford with an amused expression. “If you weren't so easy to annoy and embarrass I would have stopped long ago"

“Oh, I’m sure you would.” Fiddleford said, recovering a bit of his usual sass, and throwing the towel in Stanley’s direction hitting him with a small ‘thud’ sound. “I bet you’d drop dead if I actually played along.”

Stanley’s brows lifted in surprise, clearly intrigued. “Is that a challenge, Fidds?”

“Just an observation,” Fiddleford replied, smirking as he moved to the closet they shared with feigning disinterest. He could feel Stanley’s eyes still on him, and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind it so much.

Stanley shifted in his spot, a playful glint in his eyes. “Careful, Fiddlesticks. I’m not sure you’re ready for me to take you up on it.”

“Oh?” Fiddleford glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “And who says I’m not?” He was getting bolder now, letting the teasing slip out just enough to keep Stanley on his toes.

Stanley’s grin widened “I just don't think you have it in you,” he murmured, a bit softer, though his voice still carried that challenging edge.

“Then maybe,” Fiddleford replied, pulling a fresh shirt out of the closet but pausing, “You don’t know me as well as you think.” He tossed the shirt over his shoulder but didn’t put it on just yet, as if daring Stanley to keep looking.

Stanley, for once, was momentarily caught off guard.

The room was quiet for a beat as they held each other’s gaze, the weight of the teasing thickening into something more charged. Fiddleford turned his whole body to look at Stanley, and slowly approached him, making the man's breath hitch at such sight. The man who hadn't dared to even think of kissing another man, was now approaching Stanley with all the confidence in the world. As if any remnants of shame had vanished.

Fiddleford crawled into the bed, still slowly, teasingly and Stanley could only retreat at such proximity. This wasn't his first rodeo, but it sure felt like it.

He kept moving back as Fiddleford approached him, that was until his back hit the wall, making him let a small gasp out. Fiddleford was too close, way too close. Maybe he should tell him he won this time and hope he would back away, Fiddleford definitely ‘had it in him’ and Stanley's thoughts were racing, wondering what would happen next.

Fiddleford's hand approached him, as if he wanted to trap him between the wall and his body. His hand was now lowering and Stanley couldn't tear his eyes away from Fiddleford's gaze, it was so intense he felt as if he was being eaten just by the look alone. Suddenly, the lowering hand retreated with something in hand.

It was the towel. Fiddleford put up all that show, just to get his towel back.

“Keep dreaming, Lee” Fiddleford dragged the nickname in his tongue, face to face with Stanley as he backed away— now with the towel in hand, ready to dry his hair.

Fiddleford left the room, as he dried his hair, leaving a flustered and confused Stanley alone in the room.

“What the hell was that?” Stanley muttered to himself.

------

Apparently, Fiddleford had made it his mission to tease and annoy Stanley as much as possible, fully accepting the unspoken challenge between them.

Stanley was in the kitchen, focused on making breakfast for the two of them, when he felt a familiar presence nearby. Fiddleford had sidled up to the counter, leaning casually with a smirk on his face.

“What ya makin’?” Fiddleford asked, his thick southern drawl dripping with amusement as if the answer were somehow funny.

“Just an omelette and some toast,” Stanley muttered, trying to stay unfazed. He could feel Fiddleford’s gaze lingering on him, which only made him hyper-aware of every move.

“Hmm,” Fiddleford hummed, lips curling slightly, before he strolled over to the table and made himself comfortable, watching Stanley finish up breakfast.

Soon enough, Stan brought over two plates, setting one in front of Fiddleford, and they ate in silence—though the quiet was thick with a tension that neither would acknowledge.

Finally, Fiddleford broke the silence.

“Ya got somethin’ there.” He pointed to the corner of Stanley’s mouth. “Some crumbs, I reckon.”

Stanley swiped his fingers across the spot Fiddleford had pointed to, trying to get rid of the crumbs.

“No, no, other side” Fiddleford said, with that same amused look in his eye.

Stanley tried again but missed.

“Nope. Still there.” Fiddleford sighed dramatically and stood up, crossing over to him. Before Stanley could react, Fiddleford reached out, gently grasping his chin. He brushed his thumb over Stanley’s bottom lip, the touch lingering just a second too long, sending a jolt up Stanley’s spine.

“There,” Fiddleford murmured, his thumb pressing lightly against Stanley’s lip before finally pulling back, his expression smooth and unbothered as he returned to his seat. “All cleaned up.”

Stanley blinked, still feeling the warmth of Fiddleford’s thumb against his lip. He realized, belatedly, that he had been staring.

“What ya lookin’ at?” Fiddleford asked, cocking an eyebrow, his eyes glittering with amusement.

“Nothing much.” Stanley cleared his throat, desperately clawing back some semblance of dignity. He smirked back. “You, uh… you got crumbs too.”

“Oh, do I?” Fiddleford’s grin grew wider, grabbing a napkin with exaggerated grace, dabbing his lips. “Well, ya could help me out, seein’ as I helped you.” He leaned forward, holding Stanley’s gaze with a mischievous look.

Stanley’s cheeks reddened. He opened his mouth to respond, trying to mirror Fiddleford’s teasing confidence. “I… sure, I mean—if you need the help that bad.” He returned the grin, his confidence also returning.

Fiddleford laughed, the sound warm and rich, like he’d won whatever silent game they were playing.

“Oh, don’t worry, sugar,” he replied, voice thick with faux sweetness. “I don't need yer help, but sure do need mine”

Stanley rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are enjoying being a pain in the ass far too much, Fiddlesticks.”

“Oh, that’s for certain.” Fiddleford's mischievous grin remained, clearly satisfied with the flustered look he had brought out of Stanley.

They settled into a comfortable silence, but as they continued eating, Stan found his eyes drifting to Fiddleford again. He wondered when their banter had gone from barbed to… something else entirely, something that made his pulse quicken.

Fiddleford caught him staring again and smirked. “See somethin’ ya like, Lee?”

Stan’s face flushed. He fought to find something witty to say back, but Fiddleford’s gaze was so disarmingly steady that all his usual bravado faded.

“Well,” Stan finally muttered, staring determinedly at his plate, “maybe I do.”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he wasn’t sure how to respond. He glanced down at his hands, fidgeting slightly before speaking, “Careful, or I might start thinkin’ you’re serious.” He said, his tone light but uncertain

Stan snorted, brushing him off. “Yeah, well, don’t let a few looks get to your head. I know how it is.” He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Nothing serious, huh?”

Fiddleford blinked, his face falling as the teasing air between them vanished. “Stanley…I didn't mean it like that” His voice was quiet, almost hurt. He shifted in his seat, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as if steadying himself.

“You didn't?” Stanley frowned, his fork pushing against the omelette with more force than intended.

Fiddleford looked away, his expression conflicted. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and Stanley started to feel a pang of regret twist in his gut, he shouldn't have let those words out, he already knew the answer. No good would come from hearing Fiddleford admit it. When Fiddleford finally spoke, his voice was soft and hesitant, unsure if the right words would even come out.

“I don’t… I don’t always say the right things,” he began, his words slow and measured, “and Lord knows I’ve messed up more times than I can count. But I wouldn’t be sittin’ here, lookin’ at you like this, if I didn’t…” He trailed off, his hand scrubbing over his face before he muttered, almost inaudibly, “If I didn’t care about you.”

Stanley froze. His pulse quickened, but his mind raced with doubts, insecurities clawing at him. Care about him? What did that even mean? Did Fiddleford just mean he enjoyed the company? That he was convenient? The idea of hoping for more made his stomach churn, he let himself hope for more and he ended up regretting it, the memory gun having taken his hopes away— or technically, it was Fiddleford the one who did it. The gun was just a weapon, and weapons are nothing without a yielder. The man chose to forget the first time, now he didn't just because he didn't have the ability to. Fiddleford just wanted a warm body next to him, that's all it was, that's all it must be. No matter what he said.

“Yeah, ‘care’,” Stan muttered, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I guess everyone needs someone to just ‘care’ for. Don’t gotta be me though.”

Fiddleford’s head snapped up, and his brows furrowed in barely hidden frustration. “Stanley, for the love of— Why do you always do this? Why do you make it sound like you’re some… some placeholder?” His voice cracked slightly, and he winced, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean for this to come out this way, but damn it, I—” He paused, exhaling sharply. “I want this. I want you. Not ‘cause you’re just around or ‘cause I’m lonely, but ‘cause you’re you. And I…” He hesitated, visibly struggling to keep his composure. “I know I’m probably sayin’ this all wrong, but it’s the truth.”

Stanley blinked, his chest tightening at the sheer vulnerability in Fiddleford’s words. But even as something inside him ached to believe it, years of rejection and self-doubt screamed at him to push it away, to push him away.

“Fidds,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking. “You don’t gotta say all that. I get it, alright? You don’t have to act like this is more than it is. I’m not—”

“Stop it.” Fiddleford’s voice was sharp, but his hands trembled as they gripped the table. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” His gaze met Stan’s, steady but pained. “You probably think I’m just foolin’ around or that you ain’t worth somethin’ real, but I swear to you, Stanley, that ain’t true. You… you matter to me.”

Stan swallowed hard, the words hitting him harder than any punch he ever received, cutting sharper than any knife he ever held. He wanted to believe those words—God, did he want to—but the fear of being wrong held him back. “You really mean that?” he asked, his voice quiet, as if raising his voice could break the illusion that Fiddleford's words had created.

“I wouldn’t be sittin’ here makin’ a fool of myself otherwise,” Fiddleford replied, his tone softening as he reached across the table. His hand hovered for a moment before resting over Stan’s. “I’m a mess, Stanley. I don’t have all the answers, and I ain’t perfect, but I know how I feel about you. I just wish you’d stop thinkin’ so little of yourself and see that.”

Stan stared at their hands, his throat tightening. The warmth of Fiddleford’s touch was grounding, but the weight of his words left Stan feeling exposed in a way he wasn’t used to. A way he wasn't sure he enjoyed.

“I just…” Stan began, his voice trembling. “I didn’t think you’d… want someone like me. I mean, I’m—”

“Don’t.” Fiddleford cut him off, his voice firm but gentle. “Whatever you think you are, you’re wrong. And I’m tellin’ you right now, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Stan’s chest ached, his walls crumbling under Fiddleford’s earnestness. For once, he didn’t have a quip or a snarky comment to hide behind. Instead, he just squeezed Fiddleford’s hand, his thumb brushing over the knuckles as he whispered, “Guess we’re both a mess, huh?”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, a tremor of relief in his voice. “Yeah, but maybe we’re the kind of mess that works.”

Fiddleford gave him a sheepish smile, his hand brushing gently against Stan’s. “Maybe we are” Stanley returned the smile, although weaker.

------

That night, they slept in the same bed.

Their bodies tangled together, instinctively drawn close as if afraid to let go. Fiddleford’s head rested against Stanley’s chest, his breath warm and even in his sleep, while Stanley’s arm draped protectively around his waist, holding him firmly but with equal gentleness.

Stanley stirred slightly, his hand brushing over Fiddleford’s back, as though reassuring himself that this moment was real. Even in his sleep, Fiddleford responded to the touch, nuzzling closer and his fingers curling loosely against Stanley’s shirt. The weight of the world seemed to fade, leaving only the steady rhythm of their shared breathing.

There were no walls between them, no biting words or insecurities—just warmth, comfort, and the quiet, unspoken promise that they weren’t alone anymore.

Stanley Pines went to sleep feeling like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t so alone after all. Maybe this time it won't end in disaster.

Chapter Text

Stanley and Fiddleford found each other in the basement, sorting through a chaotic array of Ford’s belongings, hoping to find anything that could lead them to the elusive third journal since journal 2 had no clues. They combed through stacks of research papers, meticulously sketched diagrams, and Ford's sketchbooks, filled with drawings that revealed the artist Ford had always been at heart. There were even some sketches Ford had done of Fiddleford playing his banjo. Aside from all the clutter was something Fiddleford recognized too well.

“Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons,” Fiddleford muttered, a hint of amusement in his voice as he held the dusty box.

Stanley huffed a laugh and shook his head as the other held the box. He was tempted to call Fiddleford a ‘nerd’ but refrained the moment he saw the way Fiddleford's eyes lit up ever so slightly. It warmed his heart every time he saw the other man smile or just show the slightest hint of excitement for something. He kept the comment to himself, watching Fiddleford open the box and sorting through the pieces inside.

“I used to play this game with Ford quite a lot in college” Fiddleford said, fidgeting with a dice he took out of the box. He lifted his gaze, now looking at Stanley “Maybe we could all play once he gets back” He said with a smile that Stanley returned.

--------

It had been nearly two hours of searching through the clutter Ford left in the basement. Stanley groaned in frustration as he kicked aside a pile of books they had recently taken out of a nearby shelf.

“There’s nothing in here!” Stanley said exasperated, Fiddleford rolled his eyes and refused to acknowledge Stanley's small tantrum as he continued his searching through the drawers, trying to open the bottom one. His brows furrowed once he realized it was locked.

“There might be somethin’ important here” Fiddleford murmured. "We’ll need a key, though." He let out a small defeated sigh, realizing they now had to look for it. Will this never ending search ever come to an end?

“Fidds,” Stanley said with a grin, cracking his knuckles as he stepped forward. “Let me show you how we got things done in New Jersey” Without further ado, he aimed a powerful kick at the drawer's side, denting the metal and forcing it open as the lock broke. It opened enough to reveal its contents, a collection of scattered pages.

Fiddleford knelt down, sifting through them carefully.

“Well… that works too,” he mumbled, his voice tinged with awe. He soon realized the pages found were from Ford’s journal—likely the third one. His fingers trembled as he flipped through them, quickly scanning for any new revelations about the whereabouts of the third journal.

He paused as he reached pages covered in drawings and full of Ford's cursive writing, all documenting the chaos Bill had caused after Fiddleford had left. There were fragments of conversations between Ford and the demon, seen through a collection of yellow post-it. His breath caught as he read the messages and eyed the pages.

Eventually he reached a particular page soaked in black and red ink, as if the page itself were bleeding. Stanley, leaning over Fiddleford’s shoulder, caught sight of the disturbing message written on the page.

“And if you died out here in the snow, who would even miss you? Turn on the portal…”
Stanley's voice dropped to a whisper as he read aloud, “Fidds… Didn’t you say Ford and Bill had… something?” He turned to Fiddleford, eyes wide and clouded with fear. “What the hell is all this then?”

“I’m… I’m not sure, Stanley.” Fiddleford’s voice wavered. “This… this all seems to have happened after I left.” He reached for another page, noticing a blank spot with tape residue—where a photo had clearly been removed. He quickly read and noticed the page talked about him, the missing photo probably was the one he found in Ford's room.

He sorted through the pages, finding one covered in more polaroids. They were different from the ones he had found, each photo was worse than the last. That piercing yellow gaze looked directly at the camera as it did perverse things to the body it got a hold of. Giving a description is something Fiddleford would be unable to, it was all too much to even process. He could only think about his days on the farm, about all the times he saw the blood run from a hog’s neck. It was far easier to see the blood of an animal than see the one from your best friend. He looked at Stanley who had gotten a hold of that cursed black and red page, his eyes reading the message over and over.

“Stanley…I found some more photos” He whispered as his hands trembled with the polaroids in hand “I swear I didn't know about them, the ones I hid… they— they didn't look like this” The words kept getting stuck in his throat as if they were trying to choke him.

Stanley took a look at the polaroids, his eyes lost all the shine, not even the tears in his eyes reflected any light. He dropped the photos, not wanting to look at such haunting sight anymore. His gaze dropped and landed on another page, one that contained photos of his childhood with Ford. He looked at the photos, more tears falling from his eyes as he took the sight of the both of them smiling. Where did that smile go? He took the page in his hands, pulling it closer to his chest as he looked down at the floor.

“Fiddleford… Bill Cipher’s on the other side of that portal, right?” Stanley asked as his voice cracked.

“Yes…” Fiddleford could only manage a whisper, his voice wavering

Stanley’s grip on the page tightened as he looked at the polaroids again.

“Sixer… he’s with that thing right now. You think he’s…?” Stanley's breath came to a stop as he let the words out, but it soon returned at an uneven pace. A trembling sob escaped, and his hands rose to cover his face, as if wanting to shield himself from the weight of the truth.

Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, watching the man unravel before him. Slowly, he reached out, wrapping an arm around Stanley and gently pulling him into his embrace.

“Stanley… he’s alive. I know it. Ford’s too stubborn to let anything take him down.” His hand moved to Stanley’s hair, stroking it in soothing, rhythmic motions. He remained silent for a moment unsure of what else to say, letting the gesture convey the comfort he couldn’t quite put into words. It struck him then—this was the same broken man he’d found on that first day, yet somehow, it hurt more to see him like this now. “Let it out, Lee. I know it hurts, but I’m here. You’re not alone anymore.” Fiddleford murmured into Stanley's hair, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head.

Stanley’s shoulders shook as he buried his face in Fiddleford’s chest, his cries breaking into shuddering gasps that tore through Fiddleford's heart.

“I miss him, Fidds. I miss my brother so much,” he choked out. “I had the chance to make things right for once, but I only sent him to his death. And if he’s gone— it’s my fault. My fault…”

“Don't say such things” Fiddleford's hold on the man grew tighter as he whispered steady reassurances. “Your brother’s alive, Stanley. None of this is your fault.”

“But it is!” Stanley’s fists clenched the fabric of Fiddleford’s shirt, his voice coming out hoarse and louder than intended. “I ruined his life, he was going to that— That stupid university! and I ruined his chances. I ruined everything for him, I ruined his life and ruined mine along the way.”

“Stanley, I know you didn't intend for things to happen this way,” Fiddleford remained silent for a beat, considering his words before he spoke “but despite everything, you are a good brother, I know that, and so did Ford. He loves you, Stanley, he wouldn't have kept all those photos if he didn't care about you—don’t keep punishing yourself.” Fiddleford kept his tight embrace on the other as silence settled in once again. He could feel every breath Stanley let out, every shuddering gasp and sob. Fiddleford began to regret ever suggesting looking through the basement and wished they had never opened that damned drawer.

"You think he’ll forgive me? For everything?” Stanley’s voice barely rose above a whisper, fragile and uneven. He couldn’t tell if it was the weight of his shame, the raw vulnerability of asking such a question, or simply the exhaustion from crying too much. Maybe it was all of it, tangled together, leaving him unsure which hurt more—the asking or the waiting for an answer.

“I think he will…I hope he does,” Fiddleford said as he pressed a gentle kiss to Stanley’s head. “and if he doesn’t, then I’ll knock some sense into him. I won’t let him hold grudges against you.”

A chuckle escaped Stanley’s lips, despite everything, as he imagined Fiddleford squaring off against his brother. “You stand no chance, Fidds.”

Fiddleford smiled gently, brushing away a tear from Stanley's face with his thumb.

“Maybe not, but I’d still try for you.” He sank his face into the other's hair, letting the moment linger as if wanting Stanley to know that he wasn't alone anymore. He would never be alone again.

“Let’s get out of here. You could use some rest.” Fiddleford murmured and shook Stanley gently, but the man didn't respond. “Are you goin’ to make me carry you?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“You said I wasn’t that heavy…” Stanley mumbled back

Chuckling, Fiddleford hoisted him up, carrying him on his back as they climbed the stairs. Stanley wasn't as light as Fiddleford joked about, but he didn't compare to the hogs from the farm, so Fiddleford managed.

“You’re going to kill my back, Lee,” Fiddleford tried to joke, his voice light, but the silence that followed was heavy and unyielding. Stanley didn’t reply—he didn’t even look up, his face sinking into Fiddleford's shoulder. By now, Fiddleford had come to recognize this pattern: whenever Stanley was deeply affected by something, he would retreat inward, shutting down almost entirely.

Fiddleford sighed, as he reached the couch and set Stanley down, watching him for a moment as he searched for the right words, but everything he said seemed to vanish into the void between them. His mind raced for another approach, and then he remembered something Ford had once shared with him—exercises to calm anxiety. Fiddleford hesitated but decided now might be the time to try them.

He crouched beside the couch, gently taking one of Stanley’s hands in his own. With deliberate care, Fiddleford began to rub the palm, his thumbs pressing in slow, firm strokes from the base to the top, lingering slightly in the center. Ford had told him once that grounding someone in distress often meant engaging their senses or asking questions to pull them back into the moment.

“Stanley, I’m here,” he said softly, his voice steady but warm. “Just focus on me.” He kept his movements slow and soothing, tracing circles over the worn skin of Stanley’s palm. “I need you to listen to me,” he continued, leaning in closer. Still, there was no reply, just the same heavy silence.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, okay? I want you to try and answer them the best you can.” His tone remained calm, though a hint of worry tugged at the edges.

“Who are you? What’s your name?” He asked, his voice gentle but purposeful.

Stanley didn’t respond, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if the question hadn’t even reached him.

“Do you think you can tell me?” Fiddleford tried again, his voice wavering slightly now. Anxiety pricked at the edges of his mind. Maybe this wasn’t working. Maybe he should back off, give Stanley some space to breathe.

It took a moment, but Stanley finally replied with a blank tone “Stanley Pines.”

"That’s right.” Fiddleford’s hands moved to Stanley’s wrist, squeezing gently before returning to his palm. The faintest glimmer of hope sparked in his chest. “And who am I?”

“You’re Fiddlesticks,” Stanley murmured, blinking as he answered in the same flat, distant tone.

“Oh Lord, it’s strange hearing it said like that…” He glanced at Stanley, his brow furrowing in mild concern as his lips tightened “But yeah, that’s me… Fiddlesticks!” He added, his voice tinged with embarrassment and the faintest hint of annoyance at still being associated with such a ridiculous nickname.

Shaking it off, Fiddleford pressed on, asking Stanley more questions. With each answer, Stanley began to stir from his haze, his responses gradually becoming more present but that pained, haunted expression still lingered on his face.

“Alright, last question.” Fiddleford shifted his position, standing from the floor but keeping his grip on Stanley’s hands, now holding both and absentmindedly rubbing them in a steady rhythm. “What do you want for dinner?”

Stanley hesitated for a moment before managing a tired smile. “I know it’s not the healthiest choice, as you always say, but… instant noodles.”

Fiddleford let out a soft laugh, his expression softening as he released Stanley’s hands and gave his shoulder a firm, reassuring squeeze. “Instant noodles it is. Stay put—I’ll take care of everything.”

As Fiddleford headed to the kitchen, Stanley glanced down at his palm, absently rubbing it with his thumb. The simple motion, and the lingering warmth from Fiddleford’s touch, grounded him in the moment. The sensation was soothing, pulling him a little further out of the darkness and back into the present.

However, that brief moment of peace didn't last. The days kept passing by and Stanley kept drifting through them with a constant cloud of frustration and guilt weighing on him.

The time kept going by and there was no progress on the finding of journal 3, and whenever his mind wasn't occupied by that book, it drifted to his brother. Everytime he laid in bed with Fiddleford, he wondered if his brother had the chance to even rest peacefully. He clinged to the warmth that Fiddleford offered, and tried to ignore the fact that his brother probably wasn't near as comfortable as he was. He tried to ignore the thoughts about Ford not being able to enjoy a warm meal or bath wherever he was. He tried to ignore the thoughts that kept telling him that he was taking his place.

The only moments when his thoughts weren't tormenting him, were in his sleep. He had taken to going to bed early and waking up late, his usual spark dulled as the guilt consumed him. Each morning, Fiddleford woke up to Stanley’s arms clinging to him like a lifeline, reluctant to let him go every time. Fiddleford tried to help where he could, he offered his company, his reassurances— anything that might lift Stanley’s spirits, but Stanley seemed stuck in his sorrow.

Some days, Stanley barely left bed, his face constantly streaked with dry tears. More than once had Fiddleford come back from errands to find Stanley asleep, curled up in the sheets, as though sleep could hide him from everything he was feeling.

The list of problems seemed not to end —They never did— they were running out of money, and Ford’s main bank accounts were locked. Which led to Fiddleford —with Stanley’s reluctant approval— starting to sell some of Ford’s taxidermied specimens. It was enough to get by for two or three, but it was a temporary fix, and they both knew it.

One night, Fiddleford sat beside Stanley on the bed, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

“Stanley,” he began softly, “We’re running low on funds, and I was thinking about going back to California. There are some inventions I left behind—one in particular, a prototype for a portable laptop. There were some folks interested on it. I know it’s not ideal, but… would you be alright if I went?”

He gave Stanley’s arm a reassuring squeeze, though he felt anything but certain. The thought of leaving him here, in this state, tore at him.

“Can’t we just keep selling Ford’s stuff?” Stanley’s voice was quiet, hollow.

Fiddleford sighed. “I don’t think Ford would appreciate us selling all of his belongings,” he said gently.

“That’s if he even comes back,” Stanley muttered, bitterness lacing his words.

“Stanley, we’ve talked about this,” Fiddleford said, his hand tightening around Stanley’s arm. “We will bring him back.”

Stanley didn’t respond. Instead, he pulled himself into a tight ball, shoulders shaking as he buried his face in the pillow. Silent tears started to soak through the fabric, and Fiddleford wondered how he had any left.

“Please, don’t leave me alone,” Stanley whispered, voice breaking. “Not here.”

Fiddleford’s heart splintered at the plea, at the raw vulnerability that at some point used to be rare but was now a daily occurrence. He reached out, brushing a hand through Stanley’s hair, feeling the weight of everything they’d endured pressing down on them both.

“I won’t, Lee,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Stanley’s head. “Not now, not ever.”

------------

The following days passed with a subtle but promising shift—Stanley had begun getting out of bed more often, trailing after Fiddleford like a shadow. No longer content to let the weight of their situation keep him down, he found himself intrigued by whatever Fiddleford was up to.

Apparently, Fiddleford had been tinkering with some of his old inventions he had left in the cabin. Most of them were designed to help hunt anomalies, so they weren't all that useful to sell. However, Fiddleford was determined to find something that could help their situation.

One afternoon, as Fiddleford hunched over a mess of blueprints and circuits, Stanley leaned over his shoulder.

“Hey, Fiddlesticks, if you can make a gun that erases memories, can’t you just whip up something that prints more money?” He asked with a sly grin.

Fiddleford shot him a look over his glasses. “That would be illegal, Stanley.”

“So that’s where you draw the line—counterfeit money?” Stanley snickered and raised an eyebrow “Your morals are all over the place, Fidds” He said jokingly

Fiddleford paused, remaining silent for a moment as he let the thought settle in.

“You know, maybe my morals are indeed a little skewed…” He had crossed far too many lines, done things he had never thought of before, and that's why he found himself saying the next words “But what’s another line crossed, right?”

“Wait, you’re actually thinking about making it?” Stanley’s eyes lit up, half in disbelief.

Fiddleford shrugged, picking up a pencil and fidgeting with it idly. “Money might not buy happiness, but it sure keeps the lights on and the shelves stocked.”

“So now you are going to make counterfeit money, huh?” Stanley leaned in closer, hands settling on Fiddleford’s shoulders as he rested his chin on top of Fiddleford’s head. “Didn’t take you for that kind of man, Fiddlesticks.” Stanley said teasingly.

“Says the con man who’s scammed his way through half the country.” Fiddleford gave a soft laugh, reaching up to tousle Stanley’s hair as he tipped his head back, brushing a featherlight kiss against Stanley’s jaw. “You know, I was thinkin’ that maybe we could have some fun with that money”

Stanley flushed, caught off guard by the gentle gesture, though he quickly recovered with a grin as Fiddleford’s suggestion hung in the air.

“Is that so?” he asked, “What kind of fun do you have in mind?”

“Wel…” Fiddleford’s eyes glinted with a familiar, mischievous spark. “If we’re going to be a couple of lawbreakers, we might as well live up to the bit. I’m talkin’ about a night on the town—Get dressed up, find the fanciest restaurant, and pretend we’re rich men without a care in the world. Good food, top-shelf whiskey, and maybe even a little jazz playin’ in the background as we treat ourselves to proper meal for once. Just one night where we forget about all this and act like we’re anyone but ourselves.” Stanley’s face lit up, his grin turning wicked.

“Oh, so you’re taking me out on a date, huh? Fancy suit, candlelight, and everything?” Stanley began teasing Fiddleford, who couldn't care less about it as long as he could see Stanley smile some more.

“Yes, a date, Lee.” Fiddleford chuckled lightly “No worrying about bills or bad memories—just us, having a night to remember.”

“And if I play my cards right…” Stanley lowered his face, now in front of Fiddleford's, his hand resting on his shoulder as he leaned in. “Do I get to kiss you at the end of the night?”

“Maybe…That is if you don’t cause too much trouble of course,” Fiddleford smirked, giving Stanley a teasing look. “All though with the whiskey I’m planning on ordering, I can’t guarantee I’ll be in a position to resist your charms anyways”

“Oh, trouble’s guaranteed, sweetheart,” Stanley replied with a wink. “But you might just like it.”

“Then, I better get to work, don’t you think?” Fiddleford’s smirk turned soft, his hand brushing lightly against Stanley’s as he picked up his pencil again. “Can’t have my date dressed in anything less than the best.”

“Can't wait to get all fancy looking for you” Stanley replied with a smile, already imagining himself and Fiddleford in a suit, sharp and handsome, looking like they had stepped out of a high society party. It was a thought he would have never considered before, but now that it was out there, he couldn’t shake it.

They allowed themselves to dream a little, excitement sparking at the thought of a night just for them.

-----------

“Hey, Stanley!” Fiddleford called from Ford’s old studio—now cluttered with Fiddleford’s blueprints and scattered gadgets. “Come take a look at this!”

Stanley shot up from the couch, abandoning the TV drama he’d been half-watching. He strolled to the door and leaned against the frame with a grin.

“What’s got you all riled up, Fiddlesticks?”

Fiddleford held up a strange, polished contraption that looked like a cross between a cash cannon and a printer. “Look at what this baby can do,” He said, with bright eyes and a grin. “We might not need to worry about money anymore.”

“You are kidding…” Stanley raised his eyebrows, intrigued, and took the machine from Fiddleford’s hands. Any previous disbelief shaking off as he held it "You actually did it! It prints money, right?"

“Not quite. It’s a duplicator,” Fiddleford explained, pulling a twenty dollar bill from his pocket. "First, you take a bill—let’s stick with twenties for now, so it’s less obvious," he explained. “You slide it right here” He said, sliding the bill into the slot, and then pressing a button. “Then you press this button” Just a second later a perfect carbon copy of the bill popped out. “and voilà! It duplicates whatever’s inside!”

“These are identical…” Stanley held the bills up, turning them over, awestruck. “But, if they’re exact copies, we’ll need all kinds of bills to make it believable.”

“Hmm… good point,” Fiddleford said, his enthusiasm faltering just slightly.

However Stanley's grin just grew wider, not feeling disappointed in the slightest as he felt a familiar thrill rise in his chest. It wasn't the first time he had been involved in this kind of situation, but it was the first in which he'll be able to enjoy the benefits that came with the illicit money.

“We better get to work, then! I think we have enough money to duplicate for a night out.” Stanley said excitedly, he was thrilled to have a fun night, and nothing was going to stop him.

Together, they set to work, feeding a variety of bills into the machine and sorting the duplicates from the originals to avoid getting the stack mixed up. By the end, they had a tidy stack ready to fund a night they’d both long deserved.

And so, with a glint of mischief in their eyes, Fiddleford and Stanley set off—ready to take on a little slice of luxury. Fiddleford would perfect his invention later— make it so that it wouldn't make carbon replicas, but similar enough replicas— but right now, he focused on the task at hand, being content knowing that the idea of a date had Stanley far more excited than he had seen in days.

-----------

Soon the late evening came, and they found each other covered in the soft glow of an upscale restaurant, Stanley and Fiddleford sat across from each other, crisp white tablecloths and polished silverware gleaming beneath chandeliers. Stanley leaned back in his chair with a grin, flipping open the menu as his eyes immediately darted to the most expensive items.

“Well, Fiddlesticks,” Stanley said with a mockingly sophisticated drawl, “do we start with the caviar or skip straight to the lobster?”

“I don’t know, Lee, that’s quite the dilemma.” Fiddleford let out a laugh, adjusting his tie in an exaggerated, posh manner. “Though, if we’re indulging tonight, I’d say we order both. After all, one does need options."

They flagged the waiter, and without hesitation, Fiddleford ordered two of the restaurant’s finest whiskeys, aged and smooth. His eyes sparkled with amusement as they gave their elaborate, high-class order—lobster, caviar, truffle pasta, whatever sounded outrageously luxurious. For a moment, they could almost believe they were someone else.

“So…tell me, Mr. Pines,” Fiddleford said with a sly smile, swirling his whiskey glass, “how's the family fortune holding up? Any scandals in the papers I should be aware of?”

“Oh, you know how it is, McGucket. Trust funds, estate feuds—simply impossible to keep it all straight.” Stanley chuckled, playing along. “My cousin’s been trying to buy out my shares in some oil business. I told him, ‘You’ll have to pry them from my cold, dead hands!’” He finished off dramatically as he took the glass of whisky to his lips, taking a long sip.

“Sounds dreadful,” Fiddleford replied with a grin, shaking his head in mock horror. “As for me, well, I’ve practically run out of room in my third yacht. Had to call in a decorator, and wouldn’t you know it, he didn’t understand a thing about my vision!”

The two of them laughed, clinking glasses as they settled into their roles, each exaggerating their airs until they both dissolved into giggles. It was ridiculous, and yet they let themselves go, lost in the fantasy of being two untouchable, carefree men with more money than problems.

Eventually, their plates arrived, beautifully arranged with lobster, drizzled sauces, and garnishes that looked too perfect to eat. They exchanged glances of approval before diving in, and it wasn’t long before their conversation shifted from playful mockery to simple joys.

“Hard to believe food like this exists, huh? I haven't eaten anything like this before” Stanley murmured, savoring a bite. He looked at Fiddleford, his face lit up with rare contentment. “Hell, I haven't even been to a restaurant in years!”

“You haven't?” Fiddleford asked as he bit into a piece of truffle

“Fidds, darling, I'm a con man. That tells you enough” Stanley said with his fork lingering in the air and Fiddleford let a small laugh out. “However, I could get used to this kind of life”

“Yeah. Almost like we could live a life like this, and just... be happy.” Fiddleford murmured with a faint smile

"Maybe we’re already halfway there," Stanley replied, a little quieter, meeting Fiddleford’s eyes.

They lingered in that silence for a moment, a gentle warmth building between them. Stanley, feeling bold, reached across the table, brushing his fingers over Fiddleford’s hand, not caring if anyone sees them.

“Tell me, Fidds, do I get to kiss you? I have been behaving pretty well” Stanley smirked

Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he smiled and moved his hand closer.

“Stanley, I saw you steal the silverware” Fiddleford said as he let out a faint chuckle “You are not behaving!”

Stanley laughed along him, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of Fiddleford’s hand until their fingers intertwined on the table. “That doesn't answer my question, Fidds”

Fiddleford smiled faintly, if he could, he would have leaned in, and given Stanley the kiss he had been waiting for so long, the kiss he also had been waiting to give. But they couldn't, not here, not with everyone around and Stanley understood that. They gave each other one last look as their hands parted.

They didn’t need to say anything else as they continued eating and ignored everyone else once again.

“Thank you for tonight, Fiddleford. This… this really means a lot.” Stanley said, his voice soft and gentle.

“Anything for you, Lee,” Fiddleford replied, his voice full of sincerity “Tonight, we’re just two rich fools in love with life”

“Exactly that, Fidds.” Stanley chuckled, his eyes softening. “Just two fools in paradise”

-----------

Soon the magical night was over, the car parked near the woods as they walked back to the cabin under the quiet blanket of stars. Stanley and Fiddleford strolled side by side, both lingering in the warmth of each other and the happiness still buzzing from that dinner. Once they reached the porch, Stanley struggled to find the key of the door, he let out a sigh and lifted his gaze towards Fiddleford, about to ask him to open the door for him, but his breath caught at the sight. The man stood by his side, the soft glow of the moonlight casting gentle shadows across his face that made all his features stand out. Even in the dark night, he could see all the light freckles that peppered Fiddleford's face.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, as if wanting to preserve the moment forever in their memories. Stanley felt his pulse quicken at the sight of his lover. The gentle moonlight made Fiddleford's face seem younger, more hopeful, with no worries or wrinkles product of stress. The only proof of his suffering was the burn scar that the memory gun had left, but even then, there was a beauty to Fiddleford that Stanley would never be able to describe.

Stanley couldn't recall the moment his hand found Fiddleford's cheek, he just found himself so entangled in the moment he couldn't bring himself to care as his thumb brushed softly across Fiddleford’s cheek. His fingers lingered, tracing the warmth of his skin as if he were committing the feeling to memory, grounding himself in this fragile, perfect moment. He leaned closer, both of their breaths becoming one with how close they were to one another.

“May I?” Stanley asked, his voice low, almost shy, the question holding both hope and hesitation. His thumb moved lightly along Fiddleford’s cheekbone, his own heart thudding as he waited for an answer.

Fiddleford’s gaze softened as he took a breath, his lips parting just slightly. He gave the smallest nod and replied with a whisper

“You may,” Fiddleford leaned in, meeting Stanley halfway and letting his eyes flutter shut as their lips met for the first time.

The kiss was soft, tentative, their movements gentle as they found each other, a sweetness they hadn’t dared touch until now. It was a slow, delicate kiss, filled with the longing and patience of two people who had waited too long. Stanley’s hands held Fiddleford’s face, his thumb still brushing in tender circles as if afraid that the moment might slip away.

Fiddleford’s hands rested on Stanley’s shoulders, his fingers curling slightly as his lips trembled slightly against Stanley’s. He sighed softly, the sound becoming muffled by their kiss as they let the weight of the world fade away. He let himself go, feeling himself sink into Stanley.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads touched, breaths mingling in the cool night air. Fiddleford’s eyes opened slowly, his gaze meeting Stanley’s, his expression a mix of joy and wonder mixed with a bit of disbelief that this was real, that it had finally happened.

“I never thought I’d have something like this,” Fiddleford murmured, his voice thick with emotion and a certain sadness “Have someone like you”

Stanley’s hands slid from Fiddleford’s cheek to rest over the other’s chest, feeling the steady and comforting beat of the heart beneath his palms. “Me neither, Fidds.”

Their gazes held, both feeling the weight and beauty of the kiss settle over them, something precious they hadn’t dared believe they could have. It was a memory that was theirs alone, only the woods were witness of their love, filled with the quiet wonder of two people who had finally, after everything, found peace, if only for a night at least. Nothing else mattered— it was just the two of them, two fools in paradise, together under the stars.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford was crouched in a dusty corner of the cabin, thumbing through a stack of vinyl records he knew too well. He handled them with care, his fingers brushing away some of the dust that had set from not being played in so long. Each cover of the vinyl bore marks of age, some with Stanford’s handwriting in the corners. He lingered on a particular title, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

The sound of shuffling footsteps drew his attention. Stanley appeared in the doorway, barefoot and tousled from sleep, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. He paused, leaning against the frame, and tilted his head as he watched Fiddleford shift through the collection.

“What’re you digging up this early?” Stanley asked, his voice rough from sleep but tinged with curiosity.

“Your brother’s vinyls.” Fiddleford held up a record, his eyes glinting with muted amusement. “Stanford had a bit of soul in him after all.”

“Soul?” Stanley snorted, setting his mug on a nearby side table. “Pretty sure that nerd just thought it made him look sophisticated.”

“I actually gifted him some of these” Fiddleford straightened, brushing dust off his hands as he studied the record. “This one’s swing—Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman. Ever danced to swing?”

“Swing? Nah.” Stanley raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a lazy smirk. “Can’t say I’ve ever set foot in that world.”

“Well,” Fiddleford said, his tone turning light, almost playful, “there’s a first time for everything.”

The record player crackled to life, filling the cabin with a smooth and lively rhythm as Fiddleford set the vinyl. He adjusted the needle carefully, his expression momentarily thoughtful before he stepped back and crossed his arms, surveying Stanley with a sharp gleam in his eye.

“Well now, Lee,” he said, his drawl slow and deliberate, “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me you’ve got two left feet.”

“You’re kidding, right? You want me to dance to this?” Stanley said, caught off guard by the sudden challenge in Fiddleford’s tone.

Fiddleford didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusted his glasses, then took a step forward, closing the space between them.

“You’re always boastin’ about what a smooth operator you are,” His voice was teasing and smooth as he let the words out. “Prove it.”

Stanley chuckled, accepting the challenge “Alright, Fidds. You’re on.”

Fiddleford hesitated for only a moment before reaching for Stanley’s hand. His grip was firm, and he tugged Stanley toward the center of the room with surprising resolve.

“Ain’t no need to overthink it. Just follow my lead,” He said, his tone a mix of confidence and caution as he placed Stanley’s hand on his shoulder and rested his own on Stanley’s waist.

Stanley blinked at him. “Wait—you’re leading?”

Fiddleford smirked mischievously as he let a small laugh out. “What, you think I don’t know how? I’ll have you know, I learned this back in college. I used to dance quite a lot with—” He stopped mid sentence quite abruptly, clearing his throat. “Well, never mind. Just—keep up.” Fiddleford ignored Stanley's confused look as he resumed with what he had in mind.

They started with awkward, shuffling steps, Fiddleford leading with surprising confidence. His hand was steady in Stanley’s, his other pressed lightly to Stanley’s waist, every now and then departing as he set onto doing a spin. He moved his feet with the grace of a man who had years worth of practice while Stanley tried to follow, stumbling here and there.

“How the hell are you doing that?” Stanley questioned, staring dumbfounded at the way Fiddleford moved with such ease, the heel of his boots clicking against the floorboards

“I'm just having fun” Fiddleford replied as he took Stanley's hands in his “Just relax! You dance with the grace of a drunk ox” Fiddleford teased, his laughter bright and infectious.

“Hey! this drunk ox is trying” Stanley shot back, grinning as he nearly tripped over his own feet.

As the trumpets swelled, Fiddleford spun himself under Stanley’s arm, the movement quick and fluid.

“See? Easy!” he declared, but the smugness was short-lived when Stanley pulled him into a clumsy turn, nearly toppling them both.

“Easy, huh?” Stanley said, catching him before they hit the floor.

Fiddleford shook his head but couldn’t hide his smile.

“Maybe swing isn't your thing” He teased “Guess not all us are given such talent—” He misstepped, his heel catching on the edge of the rug. Apparently everything he says always comes back to bite him, he stumbled, preparing for the fall but Stanley caught him, steadying him with a hand on his back.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Stanley said, grinning mockingly “You alright?”

“Yeah, I just got too carried away” Fiddleford rolled his eyes as he set his hands on Stanley's shoulders “It's been a while since I danced”

“Oh I can tell” Stanley said

“Excuse me? You say that as if you weren't the one who could barely keep up” Fiddleford replied with a half smile “Didn't you say you were a total charmer on the dance floor?” He raised an eyebrow, his face getting closer to Stanley's

“Darling, swing just isn't my thing as you say, I'm more of a Rock and Disco guy” Stanley pulled Fiddleford closer, their breaths mingling into one. “I bet I could rock your world with a few moves”

“Bet you could” Fiddleford replied with a sly smile

Their movements came to a stop against the music's tempo and wishes. Stanley leaned in, closing the small gap between them, brushing their lips together in a kiss that was deliberate and unhurried. His hand slid up to the back of Fiddleford’s neck, meeting the growing hair from his scalp. Fiddleford hesitated briefly before giving into it, his fingers curling into Stanley’s shirt as the kiss took his breath away.

Stanley’s lips moved with a quiet intensity that left no room for hesitation and for a moment, Fiddleford seemed to match him, his grip tightening as his body leaned closer, wanting more. Their lips parted but it wasn't long until Stanley’s lips were occupied, trailing from Fiddleford's mouth to the curve of his jaw, providing him with light kisses that threatened to go lower. There was a subtle shift, a quiet determination with each kiss that Fiddleford wasn't sure he was ready to face.

“Lee,” he murmured, his voice low, almost apologetic. His hands lowered and pressed against Stanley’s chest, not with force but with enough intent to pause him. Stanley pulled back, his brow furrowing slightly as he searched Fiddleford’s face.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice soft as his grip on Fiddleford loosened. “Need a second to breathe?”

Fiddleford hesitated, his eyes darting away as if searching for the right words. He nodded faintly “Yeah... somethin’ like that.”

Stanley stepped back, his expression easy at first, as though he believed the moment had simply overwhelmed them both. But then his gaze lingered on Fiddleford’s face a beat too long, and something shifted in his eyes—an unspoken understanding dawning.

“Fidds,” he started, his voice quiet and uncertain. “Did I—”

“It’s fine,” Fiddleford interrupted quickly, his tone carefully even accompanied by a small smile as he waved off dismissively “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. I just... wasn’t expectin’...” He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. “I think maybe I got ahead of myself.” Stanley’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides.

“I didn’t mean to push you,” he said, his words slow, almost hesitant. “I thought...” He stopped. “I thought it was alright.”

“It was… I thought it was” Fiddleford said quickly, his hand rising in reassurance before falling away again. “I just—”

“It's okay, you don't have to explain yourself” Stanley said in a soft reassuring voice “I get it. No rush, yeah?”

“Yeah” Fiddleford replied, though his voice wavered slightly. He offered a faint smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I’ll... I'll go take a quick smoke” Stanley hesitated, his hands hovering uselessly for a moment before he stepped back further, creating space between them.

Fiddleford nodded, his fingers brushing absently at his neck as Stanley turned toward the door. “Stanley?” he called after him, his voice quiet.

Stanley paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“You aren't that bad at swing,” Fiddleford said, his voice lighter and easing the tension slightly.

“Thanks, Fidds.” Stanley’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Maybe we could dance again some other time”

With those last words Stanley disappeared from his sight. Fiddleford stared at the record player for a moment longer, the warmth of the earlier dance now replaced by a quiet, restless ache he couldn’t quite shake.

----

Stanley leaned against the porch railing, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. He took a drag, letting the smoke sit heavy in his chest before exhaling slowly into the crisp morning air. The sun had barely begun to crest the trees, but the light already felt too sharp, too revealing. Revealing what he felt, and he felt…

Like a complete idiot.

Stanley ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He could still feel the way Fiddleford's hands rested on his chest—not pulling him closer, but holding him back. He should have noticed sooner, instead, he’d barreled ahead like always, too caught up in the moment to realize he was crossing a line.

The soft creak of the door made him glance back. Fiddleford stepped outside, Stanley straightened instinctively, but he didn’t say anything, watching as Fiddleford closed the door behind him as he rested against the railway, right next to him. He gestured towards Stanley's hand, silently asking for a drag of the cigarette.

“Smokin' alone doesn't suit you” Fiddleford said as Stanley passed the cigarette to him. They both remained silent, letting the scent of the smoke cling to their clothes as they stared into the distance of the woods.

After a moment, Fiddleford spoke, his voice hesitant. “Stanley… about earlier—”

“Sorry about that,” Stanley cut him off, his tone low but steady. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable”

“It’s okay, really” Fiddleford shook his head, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

Stanley glanced sideways at him. Fiddleford’s shoulders were tense, his fingers fidgeting with the cigarette.

“Stanley, this is... all so new to me,” Fiddleford murmured “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know, Fidds.” Stanley shifted a bit closer “If I ever push it too far again, let me know. I know this whole thing— it all happened so fast and not in the best conditions either” Stanley's words stumbled against one another as soon as they found their way out from his mouth. “Just— Let me know if I ever mess up again. I wouldn't want to ruin this”

“Thank you, Lee. But it’s... it’s more than that.” Fiddleford managed a smile, but it was fragile. His gaze fell, his fingers turning the cigarette absently as he handed it back. “It’s everything. Everything is so new, I’ve never let myself feel this much before.”

Stanley was quiet for a second, drawing from the cigarette before asking softly, “What do you mean?” Fiddleford’s expression hardened, a flicker of old pain surfacing.

“I grew up in a... a religious household, the kind where those old, leather-bound Bibles sit next to every bed, the kind of household where you are expected to read every night from it, repeat the words over and over until they’re etched into your brain.” He chuckled, a hollow sound devoid of any humour. “You know the saying, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’?”

“No, I haven't heard it” Stanley tilted his head “What does it mean?”

Fiddleford sighed, the weight of years pressing on him.

“It’s from Proverbs. Proverbs 13:24,” He muttered, his voice catching as he forced yet another laugh, this time sounding broken, as if he was falling apart. “Can you believe it? I still remember the exact verse, and probably can quote it word for word.”

Stanley reached out, placing a cautious yet steadying hand on Fiddleford's shoulder, listening with uncharacteristic quiet.

“The verse says, ‘Those who spare the rod hate their children, but those who love them are diligent to discipline them,’ or somethin’ close to that,” Fiddleford’s voice turned bitter as he handed the cigarette back to Stanley “My father— He wasn’t a cruel man, not exactly... but he believed in that verse like it was gospel, and well, it was the gospel!” He exclaimed, that bitterness akin to tobacco lingered in each word as the smoke clouded the morning air “When he noticed I wasn’t too interested in girls…things got rough. He made damn sure I was... ‘disciplined.’” His jaw tightened and gaze distant.

Stanley dropped the cigarette, not noticing as it smoldered on the wooden boards. “Fiddleford... I don’t even know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anythin’.” Fiddleford said with a steady but fractured voice. “I just... I want you to know. Why I behaved the way I did the day I used the memory gun, it's just that sometimes... sometimes it all just feels like too much.”

“Then keep going, keep talking to me if you need to. I’m listening.” Stanley said as he gave a reassuring squeeze to Fiddleford's shoulder.

Fiddleford nodded, his voice a thread of raw honesty.

“I’m scared, Stanley. I’m scared of makin’ mistakes, of messin’ this up because I'm too afraid of the past, I don't want to lose you. And I’m sorry if I ever pull away, if I’m not—” He rubbed his temples, a flush spreading across his cheeks as he searched for words. “If I'm not ready to give back what you give me.I... I just need time.”

They both fell silent for a second, watching the trees sway gently in the wind, the soft chirping of birds filling the space between them.

Stanley eventually leaned over, letting his head rest against Fiddleford’s shoulder, a warm, grounding weight.

“You don’t have to rush anything, Fidds. I just want to be by your side. That’s all I need.” Stanley whispered, his words full of honesty

Fiddleford placed his hand gently over Stanley’s head, letting it rest there as he closed his eyes for a second before he spoke.

“I can say the same, Lee” Fiddleford said as he let the time stretch, hesitating before he let the next words out “I love you” A blush made its way to Stanley's face as he heard the words being said with such gentleness.

“I love you too, Fidds” Stanley sank further into Fiddleford's shoulder, feeling the warmth of the other as he let the words float in the cool morning air.

Chapter Text

Time is unforgiving, it goes by even when you want it to stop. There was no real progress on the finding of journal 3 even as the days and even weeks flew by. They’d scoured every inch of the cabin, every shadow in the forest, even the alien ship again —Fiddleford had been quite pleased by this, as he was able to get some samples of the plants— There was no rock they hadn't checked under, and yet there was nothing.

It was the middle of July now, the dead center of summer, and the heat inside the cabin was unbearable. Both Stanley and Fiddleford felt like they were just waiting out time, and each day, the search seemed more futile. Ford's journal might as well have been buried six feet under in the North Pole.

“Stanley?” Fiddleford said his name as he lay sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over his eyes, looking utterly defeated by the heat.

“Yeah?” Stanley grumbled, fanning himself half-heartedly.

“Can you make some lemonade?” Fiddleford asked, his voice pleading. “I swear, if I don’t cool down soon, I’m gonna melt right into this couch.”

Stanley groaned, reluctant. “I’d love to, darling, but I don’t think I can even drag myself to the kitchen.” He slouched further, as though the mere thought had drained him of any remaining energy.

“Oh, come on,” Fiddleford coaxed, managing a weak smile. “Just one glass. It’s either that or I perish right here.”

With a theatrical sigh, Stanley finally got up. “Alright, fine.”

Fiddleford chuckled as Stanley made his way to the kitchen, grumbling the whole way, though Fiddleford couldn’t help but feel a warmth at the simplicity of it all. Even with time being unforgiving, they managed to get by, having fallen into a domestic rhythm that felt comfortable and mundane in a good way.

Ever since they came up with the idea of the money printer machine — or 'Cash Flash' as Stanley calls it— things became far easier. There was no more need to worry about monetary problems, and they were also able to treat themselves to a night out every now and then. But that wasn't the best part of it all, at least not to Fiddleford. For him, the best part was getting to wake up everyday next to the man he loved.

It was all too simple, too perfect. They fell into the act of a married couple, and he wished they could be like one, but it was not possible with the world as it was.

However, in moments like this, not even the restless heat or his reasoning about impossibilities could stop him from daydreaming: A ring on his finger, and one in Stanley's. A beautiful matching set they had picked together at some fancy jewelry shop.

A smile crossed his face for a second, but his daydreaming got interrupted as Stanley returned, handing Fiddleford a glass of cold lemonade he had just made.

“Here. You better enjoy it, ‘cause that took every ounce of energy I had left.” Stanley said

Fiddleford took a grateful sip, savoring the coolness, but the contentment didn’t last. Life was too perfect as it was right now and perfection is unattainable, an impossibility that is always threatening to break apart. He set down the glass, his expression shifting to something heavier, and finally broke the silence.

“Stanley... my mom’s birthday’s comin’ up.” Fiddleford said.

“And how’s that relevant?” Stanley asked with indifference, Fiddleford shot him a quick glare that made the man backtrack on his words “Sorry”

“As I was saying” Fiddleford shot another glare, not wanting to get interrupted again “I have to go to the family meeting for it. They’ll expect me there, and... I’m gonna have to face my father, and everyone else,” He added, a frown settling on his face. “They’ll all have plenty to say about the divorce, too.”

“Yikes, Fiddlesticks.” Stanley winced. “Sounds like a setup for disaster.” Stanley sat down next to Fiddleford and leaned in, instinctively about to wrap an arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders, but stopped short, remembering the unbearable heat. “Why don’t you just skip it? They can’t make you go, can they?”

“You’d think so, but no. If I don't show up I would only make it worse—fuel for the rumor mill.” Fiddleford gave a resigned shrug as he let out a sigh “Regardless of what I do, they are going to tear me apart like coyotes...I'm going to end up like Matilda!” Fiddleford exclaimed

“Who's Matilda?” Stanley asked slightly concerned

“She was one of the farm cats, one night she went out and...” He spaced out for a second, remembering “The coyotes only left her tail...” Fiddleford's tone was grim as he stared down to his glass of lemonade “So yeah, I have to go to that stupid reunion!”

“I guess, but you don't have to if you don't want” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke “However if you do go, just remember you won’t have to deal with that madness forever.” Stanley said, trying to offer some comfort

Fiddleford smiled, but it was tinged with a weariness that only came from years of putting on a mask around his family. “Thanks, Lee. I guess I’ll just have to grin and bear it, as they say.”

Stanley reached out, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, no matter what they throw at you, you’re not alone in this. You’ve got me.”

A bit of color rose to Fiddleford’s cheeks as he glanced at Stanley.

“Yeah, I do” Fiddleford murmured and leaned closer to Stanley, taking another sip of his lemonade, grateful for more than just the cool relief.

------

Soon came the day of the dreadful family reunion. Fiddleford walked into the dining room of his old home, greeted by the familiar scent of his mother’s cooking and the warm hum of family conversation. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel at home, nostalgia washing over him as he took in the scene. His mother caught sight of him and broke into a smile, stretching her arms out as she walked over.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up!” She said, embracing him with a surprising warmth. “It’s been too long, honey. You should come around more often.”

“I know, Mama,” he murmured, the small comfort of her hug steadying him. “I’ve missed you too.”

They made small talk as they walked to the table, his mother fussing over him as she poured him a glass of iced tea. The whole family sat down at the table, some of his cousins were there too, chatting with his siblings. His father who sat at the end of the table gave him a brief nod, a small but rare acknowledgment. As they settled in, his mother began chatting about this and that, catching him up on all the family news, her voice kind and full of warmth as she set on refilling the glasses until she finally sat down.

“Do you remember Cousin Millie’s youngest? She just got married, you know—big, beautiful ceremony in the community church, everyone there to support her,” His mother shared, a fond smile on her face. “She found herself a nice man, comes from a good family too. They’ll do just fine.”

“Oh,” Fiddleford said, nodding. “Good for her. I wish ‘em all the happiness.”

“I can say the same” His mother said and remained silent for a beat, the clinging of cutlery against the dishes being the only sound that occupied the room. Everyone seemed to be too silent for a family reunion, that was until his mother broke the silence with further commentary “You could’ve found yourself the same happiness, couldn’t you?” she said gently, though her eyes had taken on a faintly reproachful gleam. “You had a good wife once, a really lovely woman.”

“Emma and I… ” Fiddleford shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at his drink. “We just weren’t right for each other, Mama. People grow apart, y’know?”

“Yes, that’s what you keep sayin’,” his mother replied, her voice soft but with an edge. “But what was it, really, Fiddleford? Because your family’s been hearin’ a lot of stories. ‘Bout how you’re living out there alone. Or, not so alone…” Her words trailed off, a hint of something darker there, almost as if she were baiting him.

His father cleared his throat, setting his fork down with deliberate slowness.

“Your mother’s right. Seems to us there’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’. Divorcing Emma so suddenly, runnin’ off to live out in the woods…” He looked at Fiddleford straight in the eye, his gaze unyielding. “Tell us the truth, son. What’s really going on out there?”

Fiddleford swallowed, his throat tightening. “I’m just workin’ on some research, Pa. Nothin’ more to it.”

“Research,” his father repeated, his mouth twisting in mild disdain. “Is that what you’re callin’ it? Livin’ out there, shuttin’ yourself away from your family, your obligations… all to do what, exactly? Play around with your… machines?”

“It’s not like that,” Fiddleford replied, trying to keep his voice calm. “It’s important work, Pa. I've been workin’ on some prototypes and there are people interested in seein’ what I can do” He offered that as an excuse, knowing he couldn't explain the fact that he had worked in creating an interdimensional portal.

His mother’s smile had faded, her eyes now lined with disappointment.

“And does this work really matter more than your family, Fiddleford? Because from where we’re sittin’, it looks like you’ve chosen to throw away everythin’ we raised you to value. You had a home, a wife, even a kid… and you’ve given it all up to run off with that Stanford Pines and do exactly what?”

His mother’s words hung heavily in the air, and Fiddleford’s heart sank. “Mama, it’s not like that. Ford… I'm just helping him with his research, he's a friend of mine”

“Is he?” his father cut in, his voice lowering to a menacing tone. “Because it doesn’t look that way to us, don't act all innocent, I know what kind of filth you are. It may not look that way to you, but it sure does look that way to anyone else. People been talkin’, Fiddleford. About you leavin’ your wife. About you shackin’ up with some man.”

The warmth in the room had vanished entirely, replaced by a frigid judgment that pressed in on him from every side, even the silence from his siblings and cousins pierced through him. They knew better than to get involved, even the younger ones remained silent, focusing on their food, ignoring how everything went down. Fiddleford’s hands clenched under the table, his gaze dropping momentarily to his lap as he tried to keep his composure.

“Pa… you don’t understand. I've been helping Ford with his research, I swear. I'm his assistant, he offered me a job and I—”

His father sneered. “Helpin’ him with his research. You think we’re fools, son? That we can’t see what’s goin’ on here?”

“Your father’s right,” his mother added, her voice growing harder. “This isn’t how we raised you. The Fiddleford we raised was decent, God-fearing. He wasn’t one to throw away his family for… for some ‘friendship’ with another man.”

The shame he’d kept buried for so long started rising, clawing its way up his throat as he sat there, feeling smaller and smaller with each word they threw at him. Every word tore him apart, bit by bit, leaving exposed the scared child he used to be. The one who feared his father reprimands and hits.

“God only knows what’s gotten into you,” his father continued, shaking his head. “Turnin’ your back on a good wife, isolatin’ yourself from your own kin… what kinda life do you think you’re livin’ out there, hmm? A good Christian life?” He leaned forward, his gaze as cold as steel. “No, I don’t think so. I think you’ve forgotten what’s right and wrong, boy.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Fiddleford replied quietly, but his voice was trembling. “I’m—I’m tryin’ to do what’s right for me.”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me” his mother scoffed, her tone now openly scornful. “We raised you to know better, Fiddleford. We taught you the right way. But I don’t recognize the man sittin’ at this table.”

“Mama… Pa… please, just… try to understand.” Fiddleford felt his heart pounding, his palms damp with sweat as he fought to keep himself together. “It’s not what you’re thinkin’.”

“No, I think it’s exactly what we’re thinkin’,” his father snapped. “You’ve chosen this path. Chosen to throw away your family and your decency for some godless, shameful life out there with another man. Do you even have any idea what people are sayin’ about you?”

“The neighbors, the church… Everyone is talking, and you are only confirming what they had suspected for so long, Fiddleford.” His mother’s voice was like a knife twisting deeper with every word. “They’re all wonderin’ what’s become of you. What you’ve turned into.”

Fiddleford looked away, trying to block out their voices, but the shame and guilt were sinking in, poisoning every thought. He hadn’t come here to be judged, but they were tearing him apart with every accusation, every look of disgust.

“Don’t you dare look away,” his father’s voice came sharp and unforgiving. “This is what you chose, seems like no beating was enough for you, and you’re ashamed because deep down, you know you’ve gone against everything you were taught. Everything we gave you.”

Fiddleford clenched his jaw, feeling the last bits of warmth drain from his face. “I thought… I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he whispered, barely able to speak over the lump in his throat.

“Oh, we’d be happy to see you,” his mother replied icily, “If you were still the son we knew. The son who cared about his family, his faith, his reputation. But look at you.” She shook her head, her face filled with open contempt. “You’ve shamed us all, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford rose from the table, unable to bear it any longer, feeling the eyes of everyone follow him with a mixture of disgust and disappointment. He felt their judgment like a brand on his skin, a searing reminder that, no matter what he did, he’d never be free from the weight of their expectations and their scorn. He could at least be glad that it didn't get physical this time.

-------

Fiddleford sat on the porch of his childhood home, staring out into the dusk as the familiar sounds of the evening surrounded him, the crickets chirped, barely being able to be heard over the constant sound of the leaves of the trees hitting against one another.

The creak of the door behind him signaled his mother’s approach, there was no warmth in her voice as she spoke.

“You’ve got a call,” she said, her tone flat and cold. “Get inside and deal with it.”

With a sense of dread, Fiddleford got back inside and picked up the wired phone, his heart quickening at the thought of Stanley reaching out. He had given him the number for emergencies, and it had been weighing on his mind that something might have gone wrong.

“Stanley, right now is not—” he started, but his words were abruptly cut off by a high-pitched voice that made his heart lurch.

“Daddy! I knew you were going to be at Grandma’s house! It was her birthday after all” Tate, it was Tate.

Fiddleford’s breath caught in his throat. It was Tate—his son.

“Tate? How did you—? Does your mom know you’re calling?” he rushed to ask, a mix of excitement and panic flooding through him.

“Nope! She’s asleep, so I have to be extra quiet” Tate giggled softly, the innocence in his voice piercing through Fiddleford’s defenses.

“Alright, son,” he said, managing a brief smile despite the tension tightening in his chest. He had longed to talk to Tate, but knew that Emma would cut the call short if she found out. “How’s everythin’ at home? Are you doin’ okay?”

“Yep!” Tate exclaimed, his enthusiasm almost infectious. “Oops, that was too loud” He lowered his voice. “Everything is okay, but Mommy has been a little stressed lately.”

Fiddleford’s heart sank. “And why is that?”

“I don’t know, but she keeps saying something about school 'fleas' and tuition” Tate replied innocently.

“Don’t you mean fees?” Fiddleford corrected gently, trying to hide his concern.

“Yeah, that! She keeps talking about them over the phone” Tate chirped, then paused, letting the silence stretch after not hearing his father's reply “Daddy, when are you coming back?”

Fiddleford’s mouth went dry, the question hanging in the air like a heavy weight.

“Tate, I already told you—” he began, bracing himself for the familiar explanation of the circumstances of the divorce, the custody arrangements.

“No!” Tate yelled, his voice filled with an anguish that twisted Fiddleford’s heart. “No, I don’t want to hear that again! That’s not my question!” Fiddleford could hear his son’s breath hitching, the unmistakable sound of tears welling up.

“Tate, honey, please don’t cry,” Fiddleford pleaded, his chest tightening with each sob that escaped from the other end of the line. “Please, Tate.”

“No! I want you to come back! You promised you would be back, you said you were going away for some months, and now you are gone!” Tate’s cries escalated into desperate sobs, each word piercing Fiddleford’s soul. “You are a liar! Liar! You said you would be back!”

Fiddleford felt his stomach twist violently, the emotional blow reverberating through him. It felt as if the ground had shifted beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him whole. He had prepared for so many things today, but nothing could have prepared him for the heartbreak in his son’s words. This couldn't get any worse, or so he thought.

Just then, he heard another voice on the line, sharp and full of concern.

“Tate, darling, what are you doing? Why are you crying?” Emma’s voice cut through the turmoil, his heart plummeted as he heard Emma's voice getting closer.

Fiddleford froze, the air around him thick, he couldn't bring himself to breathe it. He hesitated, caught in a moment of paralyzing silence, his mind racing through the years of shared history now marred by his failures. The reality of the situation clawed at his chest, sharp and unrelenting, squeezing his ribs until it hurt to stand. He could almost feel her gaze boring into him from miles away, filled with judgment and resentment. Filled with the kind of anger he knew he deserved, the kind of anger no words would be able to pacify and that's why he hesitated the moment he opened his mouth.

Everything was getting out of hand, Emma grabbed the phone and finally directed her words towards Fiddleford after so long. Even if she didn't know it was him.

“Who is this?”

“Emma, I—” His words got cut off by static, the line went silent.

Chapter Text

The day after, Fiddleford returned to the cabin, his face was drawn and shoulders slumped. He barely looked around as he walked through the door, heading straight to the room he shared with Stanley without a word. Stanley, who was hunched over a pile of papers at the table, glanced up, noticing the blank expression on Fiddleford's face as he passed by.

Stanley’s brows knit together with worry as he watched Fiddleford disappear upstairs. He looked at the papers one last time before he stood up quickly and followed, sensing something had gone wrong at that reunion.

Opening the door, he found Fiddleford sitting at the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. The skin on his fingers was raw, as if he’d been picking at it for hours, every anxious thought carved into the redness of his fingertips.

“Fiddleford,” Stanley called softly, moving to sit beside him. “What happened out there?”

At first, Fiddleford didn’t answer, just stared down at his hands, shoulders tense. Then, in a low, broken whisper, he finally spoke.

“I’m the worst, Stanley,” he muttered. “I’ve hurt so many people… and for what?”

“Hey, look, I don't know much about your folks, except for the fact that they are terrible” Stanley looked at him, worry etched across his face. “but what could you possibly have done to them that's worse than what they did to you?… What did they say to you?”

“What didn’t they say!” Fiddleford replied, bitterness thickening his voice. His gaze darkened as he recalled it, his words barely more than a rasp. “They… they shunned me, Stanley. Officially. Said I’m no longer welcome at family reunions once I left... I'm no longer even welcome to— Be part of the family.” His voice caught, and he pressed a hand over his mouth, his chest heaving as he fought back a sob.

“Fiddleford, I’m so sorry. That’s… that’s messed up.” Stanley felt his stomach twist, a mix of anger and pity swirling inside him. He placed a cautious hand on Fiddleford’s back, rubbing gentle circles. Fiddleford swallowed hard, but his tears started to break through.

“I tried to explain,” he choked out. “I wanted them to understand… but all they did was judge me, they wouldn't let me say a thing. They kept twistin’ every word I said! and I hate that they were right...they were right about everything’, I deserved those words” His sobs tore through the otherwise silent room. Stanley shook his head, his hand moving to grip Fiddleford's shoulder firmly.

“You don’t deserve that. Not one bit.” His voice softened as he continued. “You’re a good man, Fiddleford. They can’t see it ‘cause they’re stuck in their ways. But I see it.”

Fiddleford looked up, his eyes red as a tear slipped down his cheek.

“I just… I feel like I failed everyone. Emma, Tate… now even my parents. It’s like… maybe they’re right about me.” Fiddleford said

“What do Emma and Tate have to do in this conversation?” Stanley asked, confused as to why he was bringing up their names all of the sudden since Fiddleford barely spoke about them.

“I left them behind, Stanley” Fiddleford said “The reason I didn't take the chance to go back to them when you offered it... It was because I'm no longer allowed to go back into their lives. Emma doesn't want me near them, near Tate. I left him behind”

Fiddleford continued explaining everything that happened— the divorce, the custody terms settled, the fact that he had yet to pay some of the pensions, and how even though his ex-wife begged him to come back, he remained here, next to Ford. Stanley felt a certain sympathy as Fiddleford spoke—he had seen enough of Fiddleford’s suffering to know this wasn’t easy for him. But the more he heard, the more a familiar feeling came back to him. Disgust.

Fiddleford left his kid behind and hadn't even paid the pension. Stanley’s jaw clenched, as he remembered his own father. His father had been there, but not truly present the way he wished he had. He had also been the one to set Stanley's twisted fate once he tossed him out the door.

“I know he misses me, Stanley. I could hear it in his voice… but maybe he’s better off. I’ve only been a disappointment to him,” Fiddleford’s voice wavered as he continued, “I left him to be raised in a mess of a situation. Maybe Emma’s right keepin' me at a distance.”

Stanley couldn’t hold back any longer, trying to mask his anger as he spoke

“Look, Fiddleford, I get it. You’ve been through hell. But that kid is reaching out to you, and you’re just… what? Sitting here, moping?” His tone came out sharper than he intended, but he couldn’t help it. “I know what it's like to grow up with a father that doesn't give a shit about you. You’ve got a chance to be there for him, and you’re dragging your feet?”

Fiddleford’s face went pale, and he looked down at his hands, even more red now that he had begun picking at his skin again. Stanley quickly held one of his hands when he noticed.

“It’s not that simple, Stanley. I… I don’t even know where to start. Everythin’ I do feels like the wrong choice.”

Stanley let out a frustrated sigh, running his free hand through his hair. He could feel his anger mixing with sympathy. He knew how it felt to be on both sides of this equation—to feel abandoned, but also feel like a failure, to fail your own family.

“Look,” he said, trying to rein in his emotions, “I’m not saying it’s easy. Hell, I know how much you’re dealing with right now. But that doesn’t mean you get to just… back off! You owe it to that kid to be there, to at least try. You don’t want him growing up thinking his dad didn’t give a damn.” Stanley looked at Fiddleford with a stern face, he was serious, dead serious.

Fiddleford swallowed, his face tightening as he nodded, though his expression was still heavy with guilt.

“I… I know. I know you’re right.” His voice was barely a whisper, his shoulders slumping even further. “It’s just… I don’t know how to be the dad he deserves.”

“Join the club.” Stanley gave a short, bitter laugh, surprising himself and Fiddleford. He quickly apologized, realizing he had gotten way too carried away by his feelings. “Fiddleford, just try to get your shit together, for his sake. Doesn’t matter if you’re perfect. Just show up, give him a chance to see that you care. Kids can forgive a lot if they know they’re loved.”

Fiddleford took a deep breath, nodding, a hint of resolve finally breaking through his haze of shame and self-doubt.

“I guess… I owe him that much”

Stanley leaned back, giving him a long, steady look.

“Good. And if Emma or your folks give you hell for it, I'm ready to show them what this Jersey boy can do” Stanley let himself joke a bit, trying to lighten the mood.

A ghost of a smile crossed Fiddleford’s lips, he looked at Stanley with a flicker of hope.

“Thank you, Lee. I really needed that reality check”

Stanley just nodded, patting Fiddleford’s shoulder, a silent reassurance between them. He wasn’t about to let the man off the hook easily, but he also wasn’t about to let him face this alone.

“You better do things right Fidds” Stanley stood up and stretched “Do it for the kid”

“I will try” Fiddleford said as he gave a light smile “Also, where are you going to? It's quite late already”

“While you were away I had to deal with some stuff my brother left pending, some documents and letters” He rubbed his face “I'm still sorting through them” he yawned as he took one last stretch, a faint sadness clinging to his face as he spoke ”I've gotten really good at forging his signature” Were Stanley's final words as he left the room.

------------

The day Fiddleford resolved to meet with his lawyer in California, he felt both a cautious optimism and a gut-wrenching dread. He had to go back to Palo Alto and have a meet up with not only him, but Emma. The lawyer had laid out the facts plainly: Fiddleford had the legal right to see his son, maybe even request partial custody, but his troubled history complicated things. First, he’d have to undergo mental evaluations, jump through bureaucratic hoops and prove he was fit to be a father again. Every step felt like a reminder of how far he’d fallen.

When the day of his meeting with Emma arrived, he walked up to their old home—the place they’d built together and then left broken. He knocked, heart pounding, half-expecting her not to answer. But the door swung open, and there she stood, her gaze cool, guarded and tired.

She led him into the kitchen without a word, a place once filled with warmth now sharp with distance.

“So, let me get this straight,” Emma sighed, pressing her fingers to her temples, as if trying to massage away the disappointment written across her face. “You want partial custody of Tate?”

“Yes.” He said it firmly, but his insides were crumbling. He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times, and yet he still felt unsteady.

Emma’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. “And what, you think you can just come back here, hire a fancy lawyer, and take him away from me?”

“Emma, it’s not like that, let me—Tate is not here right?” Fiddleford abruptly stopped himself to ask the question, not wanting his son to hear this kind of conversation.

“Tate is with my sister, we are free to say things as they are” Emma replied plainly “Now, enlighten me, Fiddleford! Tell me what this doesn't look like, because to me it seems like you just come back, no warning or anything before I suddenly get a call from my lawyer telling me you want to get partial custody of Tate. Haven't you taken enough from me?” Emma asked as her voice broke, she was now walking towards the dining table, setting her hands on the border of it, looking down at the floor as if trying to gain back her composure “You are unfit to care for him, and you know it”

“Emma I was mentally unwell—” Fiddleford continued to try and explain but got cut short again

“And you aren't now?” Emma raised her head and shot him a glare.

Fiddleford stayed silent for a second before he spoke again.

“I wasn’t in any state to be there for you or for Tate. I… I know I failed you both, but I’m trying now. I just want to see him. I want to make things right” He said, his speech rehearsed.

“Fiddleford, I honestly can't believe you have the nerve to come back to this house” Emma's gaze returned to the floor, not being able to look at Fiddleford due to the extent of her rage “You left me here, alone with Tate and bills to pay. And for what? So you could go live with your 'friend' in the woods?”

“Emma listen, I did it to get us a better life, for Tate, for us. You knew how well the pay was” Fiddleford tried to justify himself even though he knew it was all futile

“You say that, but you haven't sent a single dime in quite a while” A bitter smile crept to Emma's face

“I'm aware of that, I already discussed that matter with my lawyer. I'm going to pay the pension I know I owe” Fiddleford tried not to falter to the truth being said by Emma “Please Emma, I'm sorry, I just want to see him"

“Fiddleford you left me here, you left your child alone and...” Emma's voice broke as she took a shuddering breath “You knew that we had plans once you came back. You were going to set up your electronics business, we were planning on buying a new house and—” Some tears began to spill, betraying her as Fiddleford did.

“Emma I'm sorry for breaking my promise, I'm sure we can get to an arrangement regarding that sort—”

“Fiddleford, this is not about the house” Emma interrupted, her voice plain and rough as her gaze hardened, and yet, somehow, her eyes were soft, confused and uncertain. “This is about everything you took from me and from Tate, and yet you get to live your stupid fantasy of living alone in the woods with that Pines man” She said, her voice full of contempt that had been storing for a while now “I'm sure that if the lawyer heard what kind of man you are...” She stopped talking and began to laugh bitterly, in a way that made Fiddleford shiver.

“Emma— please, please don't do that” Fiddleford begged, feeling the blood drain from his face, no speech could have prepared him for this. “Emma, please, I don't want Tate to think in such a way of me”

“So you admit it, huh?” Emma's laughter had died and directed Fiddleford a sad smile tinged with something akin to mockery. She saw how Fiddleford's expression shifted, now having realized he dug his own grave.

“Can I at least give Tate a proper goodbye?” Fiddleford asked in a broken whisper

Emma laughed again, and Fiddleford wasn't sure what came next after this. Would she even allow him a goodbye?

“You know, Fiddleford, I wasn't exactly excited to get married. You were not the kind of man I expected” The conversation took a sudden turn that Fiddleford found weird and out of place.

"I'm sorry Emma, but I don't understand what you are tryin’ to get to" Fiddleford said with a tone full of uncertainty and fear

Emma just sighed again and one of her hands found its way to her face, covering it slightly.

“This wasn't the life I wanted, this...” She began to explain, but her words seemed to get stuck “I never wanted to get married, never even wanted a man by my side— and just so you know, Fiddleford, I'm not of your kind” Emma looked at him, making sure the words got straight to him “Women don't compel me, either. No one does. I knew I was doing wrong in marrying you” She shook her head and looked down at where her ring used to be "I knew you married me to maintain the looks and I did the same. So who was I to argue?"

"You knew?” Fiddleford whispered, the realization hitting him “Emma I'm so sorry, I didn't know." Fiddleford replied, feeling a weird sympathy towards her mixed with disgust towards himself. He wasn't as good at pretending as he thought.

Emma looked at him, her gaze cold, reddened eyes piercing through him. She looked broken, torn apart now that everything she ever wanted came back to the front of her mind, only to be met by the cruel reality.

“You didn't know, and that's exactly what makes it worse.” She said, letting a shaky breath out “You didn't know I was in here for the looks too, you probably thought I was in love— and well, I did love you...just not in the way I was expected to.” Emma's gaze softened, her eyes watery and her cheeks red "I loved you Fiddleford, you were my friend and father of my child...and yet, you left me behind" Emma started to approach him.

“Things got out of hand, it was never my intention to do that” Fiddleford took a step back every time she gave a step forward.

“Fiddleford I no longer care about your apologies, they are meaningless,” Emma said “I do however, care for Tate. I might not have wanted the life of a house wife with a child to look for, this is far from my dreams” She looked away for a second, staring blankly at nothing until she came back to herself “....but I love Tate with my whole heart, I would die for him and do anything to keep him happy” She stated, her voice rough and serious, as if giving a declaration that was meant for the whole world to hear.

“I would do the same and that's why I came back” Fiddleford replied, his voice soft, gentle. No longer trying to keep up the facade of an untouchable man; It had broken long ago, there was no use in trying to regain such a role.

“Listen, I'm too tired of this, of everything. Back when you were in Oregon, I was accepted into one of the local art academies, they liked my portfolio— The one you helped me make” She smiled sadly as she remembered, she looked over at the couch and took a seat, the conversation had taken too much energy out of her and there was only so much emotion she could take in a day.

“And you didn't go because I didn't come back…” Fiddleford finished the the idea for her

“Yeah...there was also not enough money for it, I had to pay Tate's tuition for this school year to come” Her voice was devoid of emotion “Fiddleford, you messed up really badly”

“I know” Fiddleford said as he took a seat on the other extreme of the couch

“You still have a chance with Tate, so fix things while you can” Emma directed him a tired smile, her wrinkles and eyes bags product of the stress were now more evident and Fiddleford could feel the guilt creeping back before hope could fully set in after the words heard.

“Emma, you mean to say that—?” Fiddleford's voice got cut by the lump on his throat, unsure if he should let himself hope "Emma please tell me this is not a joke, please tell me you are being honest" Fiddleford resorted to begging again, wanting to hear Emma say what she meant directly. Not wanting to get his hopes up.

“It's exactly what I'm saying, I will give you a chance to make things right with Tate” Emma replied with a soft voice, yet still tinged with the same tiredness her face expressed.

“Thank you Emma— This means so much to me, thank you, thank you.” Fiddleford began to sob as he thanked Emma

“Shush, I'm still not done with you. I need to make sure you will live up to your part of the arrangement” Emma spoke seriously yet again “I will let you take Tate with you for the rest of the summer, but I need things to be on paper before I let you do anything else. I’m not risking Tate’s heart again.”

Fiddleford was now smiling brightly, this was far more than what he had expected.

“Emma, I promise I will do anything for you to let me have Tate back if only for a while, I will— I swear and I'm sorry for everything I caused”

“You better be sorry, and make sure to take good care of him” She gave him a long, searching look, and for the first time in a long while, there was a hint of the woman he once knew. “Take good care of him” she murmured again, her voice still tinged with sadness. “I’m too tired, Fiddleford. I don't know how much I can take of this. So please, don't mess this up." She looked at Fiddleford with a expression that tore the man's heart.

“I won't, I swear” Fiddleford said with determination “I swear I won't”

------

After a series of meetings with both Emma and his lawyer, they had gotten to an agreement in which Fiddleford was allowed to care for Tate from Saturday to Monday. That agreement would be sealed once Fiddleford settled back in Palo Alto. Until then, he could request to take Tate for vacations with his mother's permission and signature on paper. Emma agreed to let Tate stay with Fiddleford for the remaining time of Summer vacations, saying it would be a good chance to let them both have what they crave. Emma would be able to breathe at last and focus on herself, while Fiddleford would be able to mend his relationship with Tate.

Fiddleford was finally allowed to see Tate again. He returned to Emma's house with a suitcase of his own. He had been meaning to take the prototypes he left behind now that everything was settled. He didn't even get to knock the door before it swung open and Tate came out of the house, throwing himself at his dad, hugging him as he cried.

“Daddy!” Tate hugged his dad tighter “I missed you so much” he began to sob and Fiddleford picked him up, pulling him close to his chest as Tate hid his face on his dad's shoulder

“I missed you too, son” Fiddleford couldn't stop his voice from breaking, and soon tears were falling as he held him tighter “I missed you so much...” Fiddleford muttered, he could barely get the words out as he rubbed Tate's back. It felt like a dream, to have his son back, to hold him this way. He could only wish it wasn't a dream, and if it was, he didn't want to wake up. He could die in his sleep for all he cared. He held his son impossibly close to him, letting him cry everything out as he followed the same trail.

From the threshold of the house, Emma stood, taking the sight of such a scene. Silently acknowledging to herself that maybe she took the right choice this time.

Chapter Text

“Alright, Tate, listen,” Fiddleford began, kneeling down to face his son just outside the cabin porch. “I know we're far from home, and it's going to be a little tricky to get used to, but I’m going to make sure you have a great summer here— even if there’s not much left of it.” He muttered the last part

Tate nodded, his expression serious but curious.

“You’re gonna meet my friend, Stanley,” Fiddleford continued. “The one I told you about. Now, he might look a bit intimidating, but he’s got a soft heart. He’s a good man, someone you can trust.” Fiddleford straightened up and gave Tate a reassuring smile. "Alright?"

"Alright!" Tate chirped, grabbing his suitcase eagerly. “I get my own room here, right?”

“Yep! I told Stanley to clean out the storage room just for you,” Fiddleford replied with a smile. “It’s a big space, and we can make it comfy. After we settle in, we can even go shopping at the mall to pick out some things, to make it feel like yours.”

Fiddleford opened the door, and there was Stanley, standing stiffly in the entryway, holding a cake with a slightly awkward smile. His mullet looked freshly trimmed, and he was even clean-shaven.

"Welcome back!” Stanley said, smiling a bit too broadly.

Tate tilted his head, eyeing Stanley with confusion. “Daddy, is that Stanford? He looks like him” he asked.

Fiddleford cringed, trying not to look at Stanley’s expression. “No— sweetie. That’s Stanley—the friend I told you about.”

“Oh! Good, ‘cause Mommy doesn’t like Stanford!” Tate announced cheerfully.

Stanley’s smile faltered, but he managed a chuckle.

"Yeah, I can see why" Stanley said as he set the cake down on the table and crouched down to Tate’s level. “You must be Tate. Fiddleford told me a lot about you. He really loves you, kid.” Stanley gave Tate’s hair a little ruffle, and Tate giggled.

“And Daddy told me a lot about you! He talked about you the whole trip” Tate replied with a huge smile. “He said you’re a really good friend.”

Fiddleford’s face went red as Stanley glanced his way with a gentle smile.

“Yeah, we’re really good friends,” Stanley replied, holding Fiddleford’s gaze for a moment. Shaking himself back to the present, Stanley turned to Tate with a playful grin. "Well, kid, I got a cake just for you. The fancy ice cream kind! Want a bite?”

"Yeah!” Tate darted forward, his little fingers reaching for the cake.

“Whoa, hold on there, speed demon!” Stanley laughed, pulling the cake just out of Tate’s reach. “Let me cut it first, okay?”

But Tate, undeterred, managed to lean forward and take a bite right off the edge of the cake.

“Hey! You little rascal!” Stanley groaned, pulling the cake back as Tate pouted, reaching up.

“Give it back!” Tate tried to reach up again “You said it was for me” The kid pouted as he continued to reach up.

“It is for you, but you can’t eat the whole thing at once. You’ll freeze your brain!” Stanley laughed as he tried to push Tate off “Go sit at the table and I'll give you some cake, you can even have some more after dinner”

Tate laughed and clambered up into a chair, waiting for his slice. Fiddleford admired with warmth the scene unfold, it seemed like Tate was already getting along with Stanley, he was a natural with kids. Stanley set the cake down, cutting a generous slice for each of them, with Tate’s piece being the biggest. Seeing Tate’s easy laughter and the way Stanley treated him made Fiddleford’s heart swell.

As Stanley and Tate dug into their slices, Fiddleford allowed himself a fleeting thought—a little fantasy of what it might be like if he and Stanley had more moments like this. He let himself wonder what it would be like once they moved to California, Palo Alto. He had discussed the matter over phone with Stanley, and luckily for the both of them, he wasn't banned in that state—yet. He wondered if more moments like this could happen, just the three of them, acting like any other family…But they weren't like other families, he couldn't call this a family for Tate's sake. He shook the thought off as soon as it came, as much as he wanted to indulge in such fantasy, he knew he couldn't set that example for Tate.

To Tate, Stanley was his friend, and that's how it would remain and that's one of the reasons why Stanley now slept on the couch, while Fiddleford took back the spare room. Stanley had insisted he’d be fine sleeping there and told Fiddleford to take the bed. Stanley was ready to sacrifice any commodity and the warmth of Fiddleford's embrace if it meant he could be with his child, besides it was just for a few weeks.

In the passing days the house was filled with laughter, Stanley always finding a way to entertain Tate, making him smile which in return brought the same happiness to Fiddleford. Seeing his favorite people in the world be so close brought him a peaceful warmth to his chest. Even in the silent night, he was at peace.

-----

That night, the cabin was quiet except for the soft creak of the old wood shifting under the cool breeze, with no one to witness it save for the hands of the old clock that was in Fiddleford's room. Fiddleford stirred, eyes fluttering open to the dim glow of moonlight filtering through the window. He looked at the clock and sighed, rolling onto his side and hoping for a few more hours of peace.

Then he heard it.

A faint, broken sound—someone crying. Tate.

He sat up quickly, his pulse quickening as he pulled his slippers on and made his way down the hall. The crying grew louder with each step, muffled but heart-wrenching. Fiddleford’s hands trembled as he pushed open Tate’s door. The boy was curled up on his bed, shoulders shaking, face hidden in his pillow. His sobs were quiet but raw, like he was trying to keep them in and failing.

“Tate?” Fiddleford’s voice wavered, thick with concern. “What happened?” The boy gasped, startled, and wiped his face hastily, sitting up.

“I—I'm fine.” His voice cracked, betraying the lie. “It’s nothing.” Fiddleford stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. He knelt beside the bed, his heart aching at the sight of his son trying to put on a brave face, just like he always did.

“You’re cryin’, Tate. That ain’t nothin’.” Fiddleford said gently

“I… I had a nightmare.” Tate’s lips trembled, and he clenched his fists in his lap.

“What kinda nightmare?” Fiddleford asked and Tate’s eyes welled with fresh tears, his voice came out as a whisper.

“I dreamt you were gone again. You left me.” His chest heaved, and he wiped at his cheeks furiously. “I couldn’t find you. No matter how much I looked. And… and it felt real. It felt just like before.”

Fiddleford’s heart shattered. He reached out and gently cupped Tate’s face, his thumbs wiping away the tears that kept falling.

“Oh, Tate… I ain’t leavin’. Not again. I swear it.” His voice broke, thick with guilt and sorrow. “I’m sorry, son. I know I hurt you. I know I—” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I was a damn fool to ever walk away, but I won't this time.”

“But what if you do? What if something happens? What if you forget about me again?” Tate sniffled, his lips wobbling.

Fiddleford shook his head

“No. That won’t happen. You’re my boy. My son. I couldn’t forget you if I tried.” He let out a shuddering breath. “I made mistakes. Big ones. But I’m here now, Tate. And I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me.” Tate looked at his dad, his eyes still full of tears as he threw himself into his father’s arms, clinging to him tightly.

“I don’t wanna lose you.” His voice was muffled against Fiddleford’s chest, but the words were still clear.

“You won’t.” Fiddleford said as his arm wrapped around Tate, holding him close. “You won’t lose me, Tate. I’m right here.” He kissed the top of his son’s head, his voice soft but firm. “And I’m stayin’.”

For a long time, they sat like that, wrapped in each other’s arms until Tate’s breathing slowed, his sobs quieting. His grip on Fiddleford loosened, but he didn’t pull away.

“Can you… stay with me tonight?” Tate whispered and Fiddleford smiled softly, brushing a stray curl from Tate’s forehead.

“Of course I can” He helped Tate scoot over and climbed into the bed, right beside him. Tate quickly moved and nestled against his father, his head resting on Fiddleford’s chest, who in return held him close, stroking his hair in gentle, soothing motions. “Go on and rest now, sugar. I’ll always be here for you”

Tate sighed, his body relaxing.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

-------

The morning light crept in gently, illuminating the cabin with a soft golden glow.

Stanley wandered through the hallways, muttering under his breath as he rubbed his neck. He’d been up for a while and was currently looking for Fiddleford.

The man wasn’t in his room, so he reached towards Tate’s door, expecting to see him there. He pushed the door open, cautiously, peering inside.

What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Fiddleford lay on the bed, still fast asleep, with Tate curled up against him. They were tangled together like they belonged there, their breathing soft and steady. Tate’s small hand rested on his father’s chest, and Fiddleford’s arm was wrapped protectively around him.

Stanley’s chest tightened at the sight. There was a tenderness there, a fragile kind of peace that they both deserved. Fiddleford looked so at calm, less burdened by the weight of his memories and past. Tate, too, seemed content, his face free of the worry a kid should never have.

Stanley stood there for a moment, watching them in silence as he smiled. He stepped back quietly, closing the door with a soft click. He made his way downstairs and towards the kitchen, shaking his head with a small smile. He started a pot of coffee, and began to prepare the mix for some pancakes, getting breakfast ready for the three of them.

Some minutes later, he heard footsteps coming from the stairs. Fiddleford shuffled into the kitchen, his hair a wild mess and his glasses slightly askew. He rubbed his eyes and let out a yawn, looking half-asleep still.

“Morning,” Stan greeted, pouring him a cup of coffee.

“Mornin’,” Fiddleford mumbled, his voice rough from sleep. He took the cup Stan offered, savoring the warmth from the coffee. Stanley turned on the stove and began making the pancakes, they both stayed in comfortable silence until Fiddleford spoke.

“I'm heading to the mall later, to pick up some clothes for Tate. Want to tag along?” Fiddleford asked, watching Stanley flip one of his iconic Stan-cakes, one of the recipes Tate had come to love and Stanley couldn't help but make variations of it almost every morning. Fiddleford, on the other hand, was already growing tired of them.

“I'd love to, but I think you two should get some father-son time in,” Stanley suggested and directed him a warm smile as he replied, turning his focus back to the pancake. “Besides, I need to manage some of Ford's mail, keep up the usual replies so folks don’t start asking questions.”

“Alright. We are also passing by the café, I’ll bring you back a slice of that cake you like.” Fiddleford said with a smile. Stanley hummed in reply and they both fell into silence once again.

Fiddleford started tapping his mug, humming a tune as he glanced around, noticing Tate was still upstairs and probably sleeping. He leaned in closer to Stanley and set one of his hands on top of the cheek of him.

“Stanley, come here.” Fiddleford whispered as he pulled the man closer, caressing his face before pulling him into a soft, lingering kiss. And then another, and another. Each kiss lasted longer than the previous one. As they pulled away, Stanley grinned against Fiddleford's lips.

“You seem to miss my kisses, don't you Fidds—” But his words were cut off as Fiddleford pulled him into another, deeper kiss that took Stanley by surprise.

“I miss you, Lee,” Fiddleford murmured, as he pulled away, their foreheads pressed together and lips barely apart. “I miss your arms around me at night... I need you close, I need you so badly” Fiddleford pulled him into another kiss.

“Fiddleford you’re gonna drive me insane if you say things like that,” Stanley whispered out of breath, his hands sliding to Fiddleford’s waist and tugging him nearer. “Is this alright? Is it okay if I...?”

Fiddleford got closer to Stanley, and whispered next to his ear, voice hushed and inviting.

“Just do it, Lee.”

Stanley didn’t need any more invitation as he began trailing warm kisses along Fiddleford's jaw, lingering with each press of his lips, occasionally letting his tongue stick out and glide across the skin, savoring every second. He held Fiddleford tight, hands moving lower, gripping his hips and pulling him flush against him. The heat between them kept growing as Fiddleford moved his head to the side, allowing Stanley's lips and tongue to trail his neck with ease.

He let Stanley do as he pleased, Fiddleford needed this as much as him. He needed this closeness, to feel every bit of skin, to feel those arms around him once again. They melted into each other, both wanting nothing more than to lose themselves in the moment.

But their moment was abruptly interrupted as a burnt smell wafted through the kitchen. Stanley’s eyes shot open, and he glanced over to see that one of the Stan-cakes had somehow caught on fire. How was that even possible?

“Oh, fuck! Fiddleford, give me a hand here!” Stanley quickly lifted the pan from the stove as smoke curled into the air.

“On it!” Fiddleford grabbed his cup of coffee and threw it at the pan—but it splashed a bit too wide, some of it hitting Stanley. His shirt was now soaked and clinging to him, making him shiver slightly.

Stanley looked down at his shirt and then at Fiddleford.

“Great aim, Fiddlesticks,” he muttered, half-amused, half-annoyed.

“Hey, it’s not my fault! You’re the one who left the stove on” Fiddleford shot back with a grin. Stanley let out a hearty laugh.

“Yeah, but you just had to come over here and charm me, didn’t you? I'm just a man, Fidds—a mere mortal, enslaved by the flesh or... however it goes.” They both burst out laughing, the smoke, the burnt pancake, and the wet shirt all fading into something to smile about until a small voice broke the laughter in the kitchen.

“Whoa, what happened here?” Tate asked, standing in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His hair was a mess, and he was still in his pajamas, looking curiously at the chaos before him. Stanley turned to Tate, shirt clinging to his chest.

“Morning, kid. Your dad tried to assassinate me with a cup of coffee.” Stanley said, Fiddleford just rolled his eyes, pulling Tate closer and ruffling his hair and Tate giggled.

“You’re funny, Mr. Stanley.” His eyes lit up as he caught sight of the pancake still in the pan. “Is that one of your Stan-cakes?”

“Well, it was,” Stanley said, smirking as he poked at the blackened pancake. “But your dad distracted me, and now it’s a work of modern art. Let me whip up some fresh ones.”

Tate climbed into a chair at the table, bouncing slightly. “I want the biggest one this time!”

“Kid, you always get the biggest one,” Stanley replied with a mock-grumble, grabbing the batter. “But you’ve got it, boss.”

As Stanley started on the pancakes again, Fiddleford poured Tate a glass of orange juice and joined him at the table.

“So, what’s the plan today, Tate? Think you can survive a trip to the mall with me?” Fiddleford asked

“Are we getting any toys?” Tate asked, his eyes wide with excitement and Fiddleford chuckled.

“We’ll see. First, we’re getting you some new clothes, your mom said you also needed new shoes for this school year. Then, maybe…we can check out the toy store.” Fiddleford said

“Sounds like a bribe to me,” Stanley quipped, flipping a perfectly golden pancake. “Parenting 101.”

“Works like a charm,” Fiddleford shot back, grinning. “You’ll figure it out someday.” Stanley paused for a moment, a wistful look crossing his face before he shook it off.

“Maybe. But for now, I’m just the pancake guy.” Stanley said with a small smile.

As Stanley brought over the plate, Tate cheered and grabbed his fork.

The three of them dug into breakfast, the sound of lighthearted conversation filling the room. Tate peppered Stanley with questions about everything from his favorite dinosaur to whether he could bench press a bear, while Fiddleford occasionally interjected to keep the conversation grounded. It felt effortless, like they’d been doing this for years.

At one point, Tate leaned over and whispered to Fiddleford, loud enough for Stanley to hear.

“Daddy, I think Mr. Stanley would be a great babysitter.” Tate said with a smile

Stanley nearly choked on his coffee, and Fiddleford smirked. “Oh, he’d love to take care of you, wouldn’t you, Lee?”

“Babysitting you, kid? That’s a full-time job,” Stanley said, ruffling Tate’s hair as the boy laughed.

As the morning sunlight streamed into the kitchen, Fiddleford couldn’t help but let his earlier thoughts resurface. Moments like this were rare—simple, joyful, and brimming with warmth. Even if they weren’t a traditional family, for now, they were enough.

--------

Fiddleford and Tate headed out, their first stop was the café within the mall. The place was cozy, with the scent of freshly baked pastries and coffee lingering in the air. Fiddleford sat across from Tate, watching him dig into a slice of chocolate cake with quiet amusement.

“You’ve got a bit of frosting on your face,” Fiddleford said with a chuckle, reaching over to wipe a smear off Tate’s cheek with his thumb and Tate scrunched his nose

“I can do it myself, I'm not a little kid!” he declared before taking another bite.

“Sure Tate” Fiddleford let out a small laugh after seeing him pout “How’s school been?” Fiddleford asked, settling back into his chair.

“It’s fine I guess, I'm not that excited to go back” Tate replied uninterested, but then brightened. “Oh! But I made some new friends! Emily and Mathew.”

“Really? Tell me all about them, how did you meet them?” Fiddleford said with a smile

“I met Mathew one recess, he is from another class so I don't see him much, but he lives near home so we can always talk after school is over” Tate said beaming as he recounted more and more of his time spent with Mathew.

“And what about Emily?” Fiddleford asked

“The teacher sat her next to me one day, she is really nice” Tate flushed, poking at his cake with his fork. “She taught me how to make string bracelets and the beaded ones too. She even gifted me one and I made one for her” Tate lifted his hand, showing the bracelet he wore on his wrist.

“Uh-huh.” Fiddleford leaned in with a teasing smile “Sounds like a really good friend”

“Dad,” Tate groaned, his face turning even redder. “She’s just a friend!”

“Alright, son” Fiddleford said between laughs, which made Tate go even redder

Tate rolled his eyes, finishing off the last bite of his cake. As he chewed, he suddenly looked up, curiosity shining in his eyes.

“How did you meet Mr. Stanley?” Tate asked

Fiddleford stiffened for a moment, caught off guard. He took a sip of coffee to buy himself time, carefully crafting his response.

“I met him through Ford. He… helped us out with some of the research we were doin’.” Fiddleford said

Tate tilted his head. “So he worked with you both?”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford lied, forcing a smile.

Tate hummed in thought, his fork tapping lightly against the plate.

“I like him. He is cool.”

“I guess that's one way to put it” Fiddleford smiled, his cheeks flushed lightly, something that Tate noticed.

“Do you like him too?” Tate asked

“Of course I do, he is my friend” Fiddleford said a little nervous

Tate narrowed his eyes, swinging his legs under the table. Both of them remained silent for a second too long until Tate spoke again.

“Do you think he’d teach me how to box? He looks like he knows how.” Tate asked with a smile

Fiddleford chuckled, relieved by the shift of the conversation

“Maybe. We’ll see.” He replied

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, Fiddleford couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a peaceful moment like this, and he silently vowed to hold onto it. Tate broke the silence once again, his voice soft but sincere.

“I missed you, Dad.”

Fiddleford’s throat tightened, and he leaned forward to take Tate’s hand in his.

“I missed you too, son. More than you know.”

Tate squeezed his hand, a content smile spreading across his face. “I’m glad we’re together again.”

Fiddleford felt the guilt creeping back, but instead he focused on the warmth of his boy’s hand in his.

“Me too, Tate. Me too.” Fiddleford said.

----

They eventually headed out of the café, the mall was buzzing with people as Fiddleford and Tate walked around, weaving in and out of stores. They’d already picked out some shirts and shorts for Tate, and now Fiddleford was eyeing a pair of sturdy sneakers.

“What do you think, Tate? Pretty cool, huh?” Fiddleford asked, noticing how the shoes had little wheels on the back.

Tate nodded, but his attention seemed elsewhere. Fiddleford followed his gaze to a display near the back of the store, where a sleek telescope stood, angled upward as if inviting stargazers to explore. Tate’s eyes lit up, and he tugged on Fiddleford’s sleeve, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“Daddy! Can we get that telescope?” Tate asked, his voice full of wonder. “I read in one of my school books that Mars is visible without one but I want to see if it’s really red!” Fiddleford smiled, admiring Tate’s enthusiasm.

“You know, that’s a mighty fine idea, Tate. I used to know a little somethin' about astronomy—and cosmology too. Guess I could teach you a thing or two.” Fiddleford began to eye the telescope

Tate grinned. “Really? Like about all the planets and stars?”

“Of course.” Fiddleford's fingers grazed the metallic surface of the telescope, an idea sparkling "And hey! If we get that telescope, maybe tonight we could set up a tent and go camping in the woods, have a camping trip for ourselves as we stargaze!” Fiddleford's enthusiasm grew with each word and Tate’s face lit up even brighter.

“Yes! We could make marshmallows and tell stories! Just you and me.”

“That’s the spirit, son,” Fiddleford said, ruffling Tate’s hair. “Alright, then. Let’s get you those sneakers, grab the telescope, and head on out of here.” Fiddleford said as he requested one of the nearby employees to bring one of the boxes to the checkout.

After paying, they carefully loaded the telescope into the car, Tate chattering excitedly the whole way home about everything he wanted to see. By the time they pulled up to the cabin, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the clearing.

Fiddleford parked the car and headed inside the cabin with Tate. The cabin door creaked open as they stepped inside, their arms full of shopping bags and the telescope box. Tate set his bags down and stretched, yawning softly.

“Y’all have fun?” came Stanley’s voice from the living room.

“Sure did. Got everythin’ Tate needed. And maybe a little somethin’ for you, too.” Fiddleford said

“You mean the cake?” Stanley asked with a smile as he approached the two.

“Guess I ain’t as sneaky as I thought.” Fiddleford said with a smile as he moved to the kitchen. Setting the cake on the table.

“You literally said you'll bring me cake this morning.” Stanley crossed his arms, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Is it the raspberry one?”

“Yeah, raspberry.” Fiddleford opened the box on the table, revealing the delicate slice of cake, its deep red filling peeking through layers of vanilla sponge and cream. Stan raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. Tate watched the exchange quietly, his eyes darting from his dad to Stanley, and then back to his dad.

“I’ll put my stuff away.” Tate said as he took one of the bags with clothes.

“Good idea” Fiddleford said, patting his son’s shoulder.

Once Tate left, Stanley approached the table, his gaze softening as he looked at the cake.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Fiddleford’s voice was gentle. “I thought you deserved a sweet treat.”

Stan grabbed a fork, taking a slow bite.

“Damn. This is so good.” Stanley said as he savored the tartness of the raspberry that paired perfectly with the sweet cream.

Fiddleford chuckled. “Glad you like it.”

Stan took another bite, then looked up at Fiddleford, his expression serious but warm. “You really think about me a lot, don’t you?”

Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t look away.

“I do.” Fiddleford said and Stanley set the fork down, stepping closer. Their eyes met, the weight of their feelings hanging between them. Stan reached out, gently taking Fiddleford’s hand. His thumb brushed over Fiddleford’s knuckles, the warmth of the other being felt through such a simple act.

“I love you Fidds” Stan murmured.

“I love you too” Fiddleford swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied “I love you so much”

Stanley smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Fiddleford’s lips. It was slow and tender, filled with gratitude and longing. When they pulled apart, Fiddleford rested his forehead against Stanley’s, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“Thank you,” Stanley whispered.

“For the cake?” Fiddleford asked confused

“For everything.” Stanley said with a smile

Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s hand, unsure of what to reply as his heart swelled with affection.

They sat together at the table, sharing bites of cake in comfortable silence. Unbeknownst to them, Tate stood near the doorway, peeking into the kitchen. He saw the way his father and Stanley sat close, their hands brushing occasionally, the way they shared quiet laughter.

Tate noticed the smile that seemed to never leave his father's face now, and he smiled back even though he knew his dad wouldn't see it.

“Daddy really likes Mr.Stanley” Tate whispered to himself. He turned and tiptoed back to his room, leaving the two men to their moment of peace.

----

Night eventually fell and Fiddleford began looking for some sleep sacks and a tent. He asked Stanley where he had moved the things of the storage room and Stanley guided him to a small room where he had put most of the stuff. Quickly finding the sleeping sacks and tents.

“So you two are having a camping trip out in the woods, huh?” Stanley asked as he handed the items to Fiddleford

“Yeah, I wanted to spend more time with him as you say” Fiddleford smiled, already heading out of the room but Stanley held his hand, stopping him before he could open the door

“I guess I won't see you for dinner, neither later at night” Stanley approached Fiddleford “So let me kiss you goodbye before you go” Stanley grabbed Fiddleford by the chin and gave him a quick kiss. “Now go and have fun with Tate, don't go too deep into the woods and take care” Stanley said as he let him go

“Alright” Fiddleford pulled away with a smile, but before leaving he decided on returning the favor, giving Stanley another quick kiss “Good night, Lee”

Stanley smiled as Fiddleford left the room “Good night, Fidds”

-------

Fiddleford started setting up the campfire, he then noticed how Tate began to take photos of everything —including Fiddleford and himself— with a Polaroid camera. He had been taking lots of photos ever since he asked Fiddleford to repair an old camera he found, and Fiddleford did more than repair, he improved it. The camera could now print photo after photo without needing a break, and little Tate abused that feature, taking photos everyday, all day.

After taking pictures, Tate began to fumble with the telescope, taking it out of the box, unable to wait to try it out and soon, they were huddled by the crackling fire, the telescope angled towards the sky, pointing at a particular bright 'star' that Fiddleford had found for them.

“Now, that there’s Mars,” Fiddleford pointed at the 'star'

“It looks like any other star to me” Tate said unamused and Fiddleford laughed

“Yeah, it does look like any other star, but take a closer look. It doesn't twinkle” Fiddleford said as he pointed at Mars and then another star “You see?”

“Wow, you are right, it doesn't twinkle” Tate's unamused tone shifted, being impressed by that new bit of information

“Take a look through the lens and tell me what you see.” Tate squinted into the telescope and gasped softly.

“It really is red as they say!”

Fiddleford smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment contrasting with the cold night

“See? All sorts of wonders out there, just waitin' for us to find 'em.”

They spent the rest of the night pointing out constellations, naming planets, and sharing stories by the campfire. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the two. Tate sat cross-legged on a log, carefully rotating his marshmallow over the flames while Fidleford sat beside him, the quiet night wrapping around them like a blanket.

“Careful not to burn it” Fiddleford teased, watching his son’s marshmallow slowly turn golden.

“I like ‘em a little crispy.” Tate said nonchalantly

The night was silent aside from the sound coming from the crackling fire and the crickets that sung, hidden beneath logs and leaves. Tate pulled his marshmallow from the flames and carefully slid it onto a cracker, squishing it with a piece of chocolate before taking a bite. Tate then glanced up at his father, his expression thoughtful.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, bud?”

Tate hesitated, staring into the fire.

“Are you… are you coming back home?”

Fiddleford froze for a moment, his heart aching at the question. He took a deep breath, setting his stick down.

“I won’t be goin’ back to our old house, Tate.” His voice was soft, but steady.

“Oh.” Tate’s shoulders slumped slightly, his gaze dropping to the dirt.

“But that doesn't mean I won’t be close by,” Fiddleford continued, leaning in a little. “I’m gonna go back to Palo Alto.”

“Really?” Tate’s head snapped up.

Fiddleford nodded.

“I don’t want to miss any more of your life. I’ll find a place nearby. That way we can spend more time together, just like we used to.”

Tate’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was still a trace of sadness in his eyes. “It’s not the same, though. Our house… it was home.”

Fiddleford’s chest tightened. He reached over, placing a hand on Tate’s shoulder.

“I know. And I’m sorry I can’t go back home.” He swallowed hard. “But home ain’t just a place. It’s where the people you love are. And you’re my home, Tate.”

Tate blinked, his eyes glistening in the firelight

“I’ll always be there for you, no matter what. I promise.”

Tate smiled, a little bigger this time.

“I’m glad you’re coming back.”

“Me too.”

They sat in silence for a while longer, roasting another round of marshmallows.

“Hey, Dad?”

“Yeah?”

Tate grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief that went unnoticed by Fiddleford.

“Think Mr. Stanley likes marshmallows?” Tate asked, bringing the man into topic.

Fiddleford laughed, shaking his head. “Probably not. Man’s more of a ‘whiskey by the fire’ type.”

After a few minutes, Tate looked up again, his expression curious.

“So… does Mr. Stanley make you happy?” The kid asked

“What makes you ask that?” Fiddleford blinked, startled by the question.

Tate shrugged, taking a bite of his marshmallow.

“You smile a lot when he’s around.” Tate said and Fiddleford chuckled softly, feeling warmth creep into his cheeks.

“Yeah, I guess he does make me happy.” Fiddleford replied with a smile while Tate grinned.

“Good.” He leaned back, watching the embers flicker in the fire.

“He is a really good friend” Fiddleford said

“I bet he is.” Was all Tate said as the fire burned, he leaned against his father’s side, resting his head on Fiddleford’s shoulder. Fiddleford wrapped an arm around him, holding him close, feeling the warmth of the fire and the comfort of his son’s presence. The soft murmur of crickets surrounding them as they spent the time together. Fiddleford looked at the crickets that jumped from one leaf to the other, bringing back memories of his childhood on the farm.

“I used to catch crickets when I was a kid,” Fiddleford said, pointing at one of them. “There were lots of them on the farm. My brother used to put them in a jar and set them free in Mama's room, she would scream like crazy every time! It was hilarious” Fiddleford smiled at the memory, but soon felt sadness creeping in, that same nostalgia he felt back at his parents house, coming back. He missed home as much as Tate did. Tate noticed the subtle shift in his father's expression, not knowing what caused him such a sudden sadness.

“You want to try and catch some?” Tate asked, already standing up from his spot and wanting to distract his dad from whatever he was thinking “Maybe we can bring some home and scare Mr. Stanley!” Tate soon hurried to look through his backpack, finding an empty container where he had previously stored some snacks. “We can put them here!”

Fiddleford smiled at the idea, it sure would be fun to prank Stanley.

“Count me in, let's do this” Fiddleford stood up and tried to catch one of them, but failed miserably, falling to the ground “Ugh, I'm not as fast as I used to be” Fiddleford said, rubbing his back, that movement alone earning a low groan out of him and Tate laughed.

“You are turning into an old man, daddy! Old man McGucket, they should call you!” Tate kept laughing as he tried to catch a cricket, being successful in the task

“That's a terrible name, please don't ever call me that” Fiddleford said with a laugh and tried to catch another cricket, this time being able to “Pass me the container I got one!” He said with pride, maybe he wasn't that old. At least not old enough to be called ‘Old Man McGucket’.

They kept at it, catching cricket after cricket and the container soon filled. Tate spotted one last cricket resting on the surface of a tree, he went to try and catch it, but as soon as his hands hit the surface, the cricket disappeared.

“Aw, I wasn't fast enough” Tate pouted and as he retreated his hands from the tree he felt something weird, it was cold like metal. “Daddy! Come take a look at this weird tree”

“What is it, Tate?” Fiddleford asked, his voice laced with sleep, it was far too late, he was already prepping the tent and sacks for them to sleep in.

“This tree is weird, touch it!” Tate said and Fiddleford did as instructed, feeling a shiver run through him at the contact of the cold surface. He pressed on it, noticing how the surface sank slightly.

“Tate, how about you go to the tent and get some sleep?” Fiddleford suggested nervously.

“I don't want to sleep yet” Tate replied but he was already yawning

“If you go to bed right now, I will buy ya somethin’ nice tomorrow” Fiddleford said with urgency, needing to know what was behind the metal surface.

“Deal!” Tate exclaimed and rushed back to the tent

As Tate disappeared into the tent, Fiddleford remained behind, his gaze drawn to the curious metal surface. His fingers brushed across it, the cold metal sending a shiver up his spine. It was too deliberate, too out of place. With a furrowed brow, he knelt and pressed his palm against it, feeling the faint vibrations beneath — like the hum of a long-forgotten machine, waiting to be awakened.

He hesitated for a moment, heart pounding in his chest. Whatever this was, it wasn’t an accident. It had been left here. Hidden.

Taking a deep breath, Fiddleford pushed the metal panel down. His fingers found the edge and, with a grunt of effort, he pried it open.

Inside, nestled in the darkness, was something that made his breath catch in his throat.

One of his inventions.

It was simple, a mechanical lock Ford had once asked him to design. Memories flooded his mind: late nights in the lab, Ford’s voice echoing with excitement as they pieced together ideas. Fiddleford’s hands trembled slightly as he traced the edges of the device, his mind racing.

His fingers found the switch, already dusty from the time that had passed. Without thinking, he flipped it.

The ground near him rumbled.

Fiddleford stumbled back, heart hammering as a patch of dirt shifted and parted, revealing a square-shaped hole in the earth. Dust swirled in the moonlight as the cover slid aside with a heavy thunk.

Breathing hard, Fiddleford moved forward, the urgency in his chest mounting. His knees hit the ground as he peered into the hole, his eyes straining to see what lay inside.

There it was —a weathered, familiar object.

His hands shook as he reached down, fingers brushing against the worn cover. Carefully, reverently, he lifted it from the earth. The weight of it was both familiar and foreign, like holding a piece of his past made real.

Fiddleford’s breath hitched. His eyes glistened under the pale moonlight as he held it up. There it was…

Journal 3

Chapter Text

Fiddleford and Tate were now heading to the cabin, finally getting out of the deep woods. Fiddleford bursted through the cabin door as soon as he took sight of it, his face alight with excitement. He gave Tate a gentle nudge toward the living room.

“Tate, stay here and put on something to watch for a bit, alright?” he said quickly.

“Okay, Daddy” Tate replied, eyeing him curiously as Fiddleford hurried up the stairs.

He dashed into the bedroom to find Stanley sprawled out, fast asleep. Fiddleford felt a pang of guilt about waking him up, but Stanley needed to be informed of this. He rushed over to the bed and shook Stanley’s shoulder gently but urgently.

“Stanley! Wake up! I have great news!” Fiddleford half-whispered, unable to contain his excitement that broke into a grin.

Stanley grumbled, barely cracking an eye open.

“Fidds... what is it? Can’t it wait?” he mumbled, clearly wanting to drift back into sleep. Fiddleford chuckled, pulling his hand back and standing up straight.

“Oh, sure, it can wait…” he said, holding Journal 3 behind his back with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “The journal can definitely wait.”

Stanley’s eyes snapped open at the mention of the journal and he bolted upright.

“Wait, you found it? Journal 3?!” he exclaimed, his grogginess vanishing instantly. He reached out, his face lighting up as Fiddleford brought the journal forward, holding it out with a triumphant smile.

“Right here,” Fiddleford said, handing it over. Stanley grabbed it and flipped through the pages frantically until he reached the instructions for activating the portal. His eyes welled up with tears, and his hands trembled as he looked up at Fiddleford.

“Fidds... I can’t believe it,” Stanley whispered, his voice breaking. “We’re gonna get my brother back.” Stanley stood up and brought Fiddleford close, hugging him and pulling him onto the bed.

“Yes, Lee, we’re bringing your brother back,” Fiddleford murmured, pressing a series of gentle kisses along Stanley’s tear-streaked cheeks, one after the other. “I told you we’d find a way.”

Stanley cupped Fiddleford’s face, pulling him into a kiss that was soft, filled with everything they couldn’t put into words—the relief, the gratitude, the love that had built between them for so long. Fiddleford melted into the kiss, his hands sliding up to rest on Stanley’s shoulders, gripping him tightly.

“You’re incredible, Fidds,” Stanley murmured.

“I know,” Fiddleford replied with a teasing smile, and Stanley could only laugh. “It’s going to take some time, probably a few days for the portal to load everything and analyze the data... but it’s happening. We’re so close, Lee.”

Stanley smiled, his hand moved up, his fingers tangled in Fiddleford’s hair as he whispered the next words.

“Fidds, I love you... like crazy. You saved me, you know that?”

“You’re the one who saved me.” Fiddleford said softly, his hand sliding up to cradle Stanley’s head. The moment stretched as they held each other's gaze, smiling tenderly to one another.

“Let's wait until Tate goes back home with his mom to activate the portal” Fiddleford said while retreating from the hug “I wouldn't want anything to happen to him”

“We only have like a week left with him, right?” Stanley said as he sat up.

“Yeah, I was thinkin' that I could stay home today and finish adding the necessary instructions to the portal” Fiddleford straightened his back as he rested against the wall “Could you take him somewhere? Maybe to the park and have some ice cream, he likes the strawberry flavored ones”

“Sounds good to me” Stanley replied with a smile.

-----------

Stanley went to fetch Tate, who was delighted at the idea of a walk. The boy eagerly grabbed his sneakers, already out the door before Stanley could even remind him to tie his laces.

The park was lively, the sun casting a golden glow over the playground. Kids ran around laughing and shouting, their energy boundless. Tate joined them almost immediately, running toward the swings while Stanley found a bench nearby, sitting down with his arms crossed.

He kept his eyes on Tate, watching as the boy played tag with some other kids, his laughter ringing out clearly above the other voices and Stanley couldn't help but smile a little. However, as the minutes stretched on his smile vanished, Stanley remained seated on the bench, trying to keep his mind clear.

Against the popular belief, Stanley thought quite a lot.

His thoughts began to wander. His gaze drifted to the tree line beyond the playground, and his mind was somewhere else entirely.

The journal.

Now that Journal 3 was in their possession, they could bring Ford back. Stanley should feel happy —excited—, and he did feel that way, yet he couldn't keep his stomach from twisting at the thought of his brother coming back. His brother had been gone for so long, lost on the other side of that portal. And now? Now he might come back home.

Stanley leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his foot bouncing anxiously.

Could he fix things? Could he finally make things right?

Doubt crept in, speaking in that old familiar voice that would tear him apart every night with the thoughts of ‘what if’ and right now, he wondered…What if…?

‘What if Ford doesn’t forgive me?’

‘What if Ford hates me?’

He stared at his hands, calloused and scarred from years of mistakes. He could still hear Ford’s voice from that day—the disappointment, the desperation, the raw fear that clung to his skin.

‘I pushed him to his doom. I'm the reason he fell through that portal.’

Stanley’s leg bounced faster as his thoughts spiraled. He just wanted Ford back, wanted to see him again, to know he was okay. To have his brother—his family—again. But… What if it was too late? What if he turned on the portal and nothing came out of it?

Stanley sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He needed to stop thinking about this. The portal wasn't even ready, and it wouldn't be until a few more days. There was no use in worrying about something that hadn’t happened. Everything was fine, everything will be fine. There's no reason to worry just yet. He sighed once again as he lifted his head.

He glanced up, looking for Tate.

His heart stopped.

Tate wasn’t on the playground. He wasn’t by the swings or the slide. He wasn’t anywhere.

Stanley shot up from the bench, his eyes darting frantically across the park. His chest tightened as panic surged through him.

“Tate?” he called out, his voice sharp and strained. “Tate!”

He started moving, his heart pounding, scanning the area for any sign of the boy.

‘What if he is lost? What if I don't find him? What if—’

“Mr. Stanley!” Tate’s voice called out from behind him.

Stanley whipped around, relief washing over him as he saw Tate walking toward him, holding something in his hand.

“Where the heck were you?” Stanley said, his tone a mixture of panic and anger. “I told you not to wander off! You scared the life outta me, kid!”

Tate looked sheepish but unbothered by Stanley’s scolding, completely dismissing it as he replied.

“I was looking for a four-leaf clover.” Tate said

Stanley blinked, caught off guard.

“A four-leaf clover? What for?”

Tate grinned and clutched the clover close to his chest.

“It’s a secret. I can’t tell you yet.”

Stanley stared at him, baffled, but he didn’t push on the question. Instead, he knelt down, putting a firm hand on Tate’s shoulder.

“Don’t wander off again, okay? I mean it. If you’re gonna look for clovers or whatever, you tell me first. Got it?” Stanley said and Tate nodded.

“Got it.” The kid replied as he carefully put the clover in the pocket of his shorts.

Stanley sighed as he stood, taking Tate’s hand.

“Come on. Let’s get some ice cream.”

------

The ice cream shop near the park smelled of sugar and freshly baked waffle cones. Tate’s eyes lit up as he stared at the colorful options behind the glass.

Stanley opted for a plain vanilla cone. Tate, on the other hand, excitedly ordered a massive bowl topped with everything you could imagine—sprinkles, chocolate chips, gummy bears, whipped cream, pretty much all the toppings the store offered. Stanley was grateful for the existence of the ‘Cash Flash’, he wouldn't have been able to afford such an ice cream without it.

With their ice cream in hand, they began wandering along the tree-lined paths, enjoying the peaceful day.

“Mr. Stanley?” Tate called his name, looking up at Stanley, his tone hesitant as if he was about to say something that shouldn't be said out loud.

“Yes, Tate?” Stanley glanced down at the kid

“Why do you live with my dad?” Tate asked and Stanley remained silent for a second.

“I'm going through a rough patch in life and your dad offered me a place to stay” Stanley replied smoothly with no doubt, he was a good liar.

“Hm, if you say so” however Tate knew it was a lie, it doesn't matter if you are a good liar when the other person already knows more than what they let on. Tate took a spoonful of his ice cream, making sure to grab some gummy bears, savoring the ice cream before he spoke again “Why does my mom hate Stanford? She seems to really hate your brother”

“How did you know Stanford is my brother?” Stanley asked curiously

“You've got the same last name, I might be a kid, but I’m not dumb.” Tate replied plainly “You also look the same, I've seen a photo or two of him”

“Alright, fair point.” Stanley chuckled, realizing how silly his question truly was.

“Tell me the truth Mr. Stanley” Tate frowned as he looked down at his ice cream. “My mom called your brother a… a ‘boy toy.’ I don’t know what that means, but it sure didn’t sound nice the way she said it. So… what happened between Stanford and my dad?” Tate questioned, still looking down.

Stanley's brow furrowed the same way as he crouched down, however his expression softened as he took Tate’s small hands in his own.

“Tate, listen to me—don’t ever say that word again, okay? Your dad and my brother… They are friends. Stanford offered him a job here. That’s all.”

“Then why is mommy mad? Isn't a job something adults want?” Tate asked as if Stanley could possibly answer that question

Stanley sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for a way to explain something so complicated.

“I don’t know, buddy. Adults sometimes get upset for reasons that are hard to explain. It’s not always simple.” Stanley offered as an answer although he knew it would not fulfill Tate's wish for more information.

Tate fell silent, staring down at his ice cream bowl, absentmindedly stirring his ice cream. Finally, he spoke up.

“I lied.” he said

"Lied about what?" Stanley inquired

“About Mommy being mad.” Tate took a small, hesitant spoonful of ice cream, glancing up at Stanley. “She’s not mad anymore. She sounded… happy when she called me a few days ago.”

“Oh, is that so? What did she tell you during that call?” Stanley asked, wanting to know more.

A tiny smile appeared on Tate’s face, his eyes brightening.

“She said she sold one of her art pieces. And— and someone even hired her to paint their portrait! She sounded really happy. Happier than she’s been in a long time.” He paused, savoring the memory before continuing. “She said she’s gonna turn Daddy’s old workshop into an art studio and teach me to paint when I get back.” Tate said with a smile.

“That sounds like a really nice plan, Tate. I'm glad your mom is doing just fine” Stanley was genuinely happy to know Emma was doing better and thriving. Fiddleford had truly done more than 'mess things up' with her, and Stanley could only imagine how hurt she was. All while he found himself tangled with Fiddleford in bed. Fiddleford truly was something else...

“Yeah, she’s happy now,” Tate murmured, his smile fading slightly. “She wasn’t happy with Daddy... and Daddy wasn’t happy with her.” His voice wavered, and his eyes filled with unshed tears.

Stanley’s heart ached at the sight. He reached over and gently brushed a tear from Tate’s cheek.

“Oh, Tate, sometimes… sometimes people just aren’t meant to be together. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t love each other at some point. They both love you very much, and that’s why they’re working hard to make things right, so they can take care of you, together” Stanley said with a gentle smile, seeking to comfort Tate.

“No, Mr. Stanley, they didn’t love each other!” Tate’s voice was louder now, catching the attention of a few passersby. Embarrassed, Stanley guided Tate over to a quieter spot, away from prying eyes.

“Come on, Tate,” Stanley murmured, gently squeezing his shoulder. “I know it may not seem that way, but they did love each other.” Stanley offered that white lie, knowing no kid should ever hear that their parents never truly loved each other.

Tate shook his head fiercely, his cheeks flushed.

“No, they didn’t,” he insisted. “They didn't kiss like in movies, or held their hands while going out, they didn't look at each other the way you and Daddy do” Tate's sobs grew louder and Stanley felt his heart stop for a second.

Then his heart came back to life, bringing with each beat a wave of panic.

“Tate… what do you mean?”

“I’m not some dumb kid, Mr. Stanley. I’ve seen the way you look at each other.” Tate wiped at his eyes, frustration mingling with his sadness

“Tate, your dad and I are friends” Stanley said plainly but gentle, trying to get the words through

“Friends don't kiss each other” Tate replied as he stopped crying and Stanley's heart stopped again. He could only hope Tate hadn't seen them that time they were in the kitchen, he begged to all the gods he knew it was any other time but that.

Just as he was finishing his prayer to any God that would take pity on him, Tate spoke.

“I saw you kiss him after we got back from the mall”

Stanley suddenly remembered how to breathe. Sure, it was bad the kid had seen that, but at least he didn't see his dad almost getting pushed on top of the counter during a passionate make out session.

“Look kiddo, I don't know what to say but I promise you your daddy is okay” Stanley tried to reassure the kid and directed him a small, sheepish smile.

“I know” Tate’s breathing started to settle, though his eyes were still watery. “I know, he seems happy,” he mumbled, looking down. “He looks happy by your side, I just wanted to ask you to treat my daddy right, he was sad with Mommy and so was her...but with you, he smiles more often”

"Tate—" Stanley wanted to say something but got cut off

“No! Let me finish!” Tate pouted as he crossed his arms “I want you to treat my daddy right, don't make him cry!....or maybe do, he made mommy cry a lot…" Tate seemed lost in indecision “Whatever, doesn't matter! They both made each other sad! But I don't want to see daddy sad anymore, so make him happy”

Stanley felt a lump in his throat as he looked into Tate’s earnest, pleading eyes.

“Alright, kid,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ll do my best.” Stanley directed him a smile and Tate’s face brightened slightly, a hint of his usual cheer returning. “Also, don't tell your mom please”

Tate nodded, pretending to zip his lips and threw away an imaginary key.

“I won’t tell Mommy. But…” He looked up with a mischievous grin. “I want another ice cream.”

Stanley chuckled, shaking his head.

“You little rascal. Alright, fine. Another ice cream it is.”

Stanley led Tate back to the ice cream shop, a smile lingering on his face. He’d have to explain this whole conversation to Fiddleford later… Stanley could only hope he wouldn't end him for not denying everything until his last dying breath.

“Mr. Stanley?” Tate looked up and grabbed Stanley's hand as they walked

“Yes, Tate?” Stanley held his hand lightly

“Having one dad is cool, but having two is even cooler!” Tate said with a wide smile.

Stanley’s chest tightened at Tate’s words, an unexpected warmth filling him as he looked down at the kid, who was happily swinging their joined hands. Tate’s innocent, hopeful smile seemed to shine brighter than the sun-dappled park around them, and Stanley found himself at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected Tate to take to him so easily, let alone to start imagining him as part of his family.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You really think it’s that cool, huh?”

“Yeah! If you become my dad then you have to give me a gift when my birthday comes,” Tate said cheerfully, his eyes shining with excitement. “And if Mommy finds another dad, I would get even more gifts! Four parents! Four gifts! Wouldn’t that be awesome?” He beamed up at Stanley with his childlike optimism.

“Sounds pretty awesome to me” Stanley laughed and squeezed Tate's hand gently. “You know, kid,” he began, his voice low and a bit gruff as he fought to keep his emotions in check, “You’re a pretty cool kid yourself. I wouldn’t mind calling you my son.”

He tugged Stanley's hand, wanting to get the man's attention as he got closer to him.

“Then…” Tate looked up and hugged Stanley’s arm, clinging to him. “Maybe you and Daddy can stay together forever” Stanley’s throat tightened again.

“I sure hope so. I'll make you and your Daddy happy, I promise” He looked down at Tate’s hopeful face, feeling the weight of his words.

This kid believed in him, trusted him with his heart, and in that moment, Stanley knew he’d do everything he could to be the kind of man Tate could look up to. The kind of person who’d deserve to be called his dad.

“Alright, kid,” Stanley said, clearing his throat. “How about that second ice cream, huh?” Tate’s grin returned in full force.

“Yes, please!” he exclaimed, bouncing with excitement. As they continued their walk back to the ice cream shop, hand in hand. Stanley couldn’t help but smile, feeling the kind of warmth he hadn’t known he craved. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

“Forgot what?” Stanley tilted his head as he asked

“I almost forgot to take a photo!” Tate said while looking through the small backpack he carried, taking out the small polaroid camera. He carried it everywhere nowadays. “Come down here, let's take a photo!” Stanley crouched down to Tate's level and the kid stretched his arms as he held the camera in front of them.

“Smile!” Tate exclaimed as he took the photo.

---------

Stanley and Tate headed back to the cabin, night was soon to come. Tate happily swung their joined hands as he talked about his friends and school, telling Stanley all kinds of stories.

“And then I found this really cool rock by the beach and gave it to Emily. She loved it! and even added it to her collection” Tate said, launching into a detailed description of Emily’s rock collection and Stanley chuckled at such display of enthusiasm.

“You know, my brother’s got some pretty cool rocks. Maybe I could snag one for Emily.” Stanley had previously seen some really nice turquoise rocks among his brother's stuff. Surely he wouldn't miss them.

They got to the porch of the cabin, and as they stepped inside, they found Fiddleford sprawled on the couch, completely exhausted. Tate sprinted over and threw his arms around him, nearly knocking the wind out of him, but that didn't stop Fiddleford from hugging him back, smiling.

“How was your day out with Stanley?” Fiddleford asked, his voice tired and hoarse.

“It was awesome! Dad bought me double ice cream, and I told him all about my friends at school!” Tate said

“That’s real nice, sweetie,” Fiddleford replied, with a tired smile—until something clicked. His expression turned to confusion. “Wait… what did you just call Stanley?”

Tate’s face went pale.

“Uh… nothing.”

Fiddleford’s gaze snapped to Stanley, and then back to his son.

“Tate, honey, can you go to your room? I need a quick word with Stanley.” Fiddleford said

Tate didn’t need to be told twice; he rushed upstairs, sensing the tension in Fiddleford’s voice. As soon as Tate was out of earshot, Fiddleford turned to Stanley.

“Stanley, I leave you alone with Tate for one day—one day—and he’s calling you ‘Dad’? What on earth happened?” Fiddleford asked, exhaustion clinging to his every word.

Stanley shifted uncomfortably in his spot by door.

“He just… he figured out what’s between us.” Stanley said and Fiddleford pressed his fingers to his forehead, his face a mix of frustration and dread.

“And you couldn’t just lie?” Fiddleford said annoyed.

“I tried but he saw us kissing” Stanley admitted and Fiddleford's head shot up with an horrorized expression, all color left his face as he stood up from the couch. “Don’t worry! It was the time when you got back from the mall. Not the others!”

Fiddleford froze mid-step, eyes wide.

“As if that makes it better!”

“Look, it’s not a big deal. He’s not gonna tell Emma. He said it’ll remain a secret if that’s what’s worrying you.” Stanley said, trying to calm down Fiddleford, who instead of calming down, only became more frantic. Fiddleford’s face twisted with horror. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, his voice growing tight.

“Stanley, he’s a kid! You don’t just tell a kid it’s okay to keep secrets from his mother! Do you know what kind of mixed message that sends?” Stanley opened his mouth to respond, but Fiddleford was already pacing, faster with each step. “Especially when it’s somethin’ folks ‘round here would twist into somethin’ ugly. People love to talk.” His voice cracked, panic creeping in. “And it won’t just be me they’re whisperin’ about—it’ll be Tate. My boy!”

“Fiddleford—” Stanley stepped forward cautiously, but it was too late, Fiddleford was already spiraling.

“I—I’ve been reckless. Careless.” He started pacing, running a hand through his hair. “What if he slips up? What if someone else hears? Kids don’t understand discretion, Stanley! You have no idea what people around here would do if they got wind of this.”

“Hey, calm down—”

“No! Don’t tell me to calm down! You don’t understand.” Fiddleford’s voice cracked, raw with emotion, his throat tightening in an uncomfortable knot. “They’ll look at Tate differently. They’ll treat him differently! I’ve seen it happen before. Kids get bullied, ostracized—called names for things they don’t even understand yet.” Fiddleford stopped dead in his tracks as his gaze fell somewhere distant “And God forbid someone accuses me of being… inappropriate.” He winced, like the word itself caused him physical pain. “People could say things…they could take him away from me…Oh Lord. They could take him away, they could say I'm unfit, everyone will speak” Fiddleford said as his panicked rant became as frantic as his breathing.

Stanley’s jaw clenched, his expression growing serious mixed with something similar to pity. He stepped closer to Fiddleford, gripping his shoulders to still him.

“Fidds. Breathe.”

Fiddleford’s chest heaved, his eyes darting around the room like he was trying to find a way out. His hands shook at his sides. He was trembling, the raw fear being too much for him.

Stanley, unsure of what else to do, pulled him into a hug, holding him firmly, one hand cradling the back of Fiddleford’s head, the other rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

For a moment, Fiddleford stood stiff in his arms. Then he sagged against Stanley, his hands clutching the front of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. A broken sob escaped Fiddleford, muffled against Stanley’s shoulder.

“I’m scared,” Fiddleford whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “I’m scared of what people will say. What they’ll do. Not to me—I don’t care what they say about me. But Tate—” His voice broke again. “I’m supposed to protect him. And now… I’m terrified. I’ve put a target on his back!” Stanley tightened his embrace, his heart aching at the vulnerability in Fiddleford’s words.

“You have done the best you could, this is not your fault. Don’t you dare think otherwise.” Stanley said and Fiddleford shook his head against Stanley’s shoulder.

“People are cruel, Stanley. They see somethin’ different—somethin’ they don’t understand—and they tear it apart. I can’t let that happen to Tate. I can't” Fiddleford said in-between sobs

“We won't let it happen. I'm not gonna let anyone mess with us” Stanley said firmly

“But what if they do?” Fiddleford whispered. “What if someone hears somethin’ and starts spreadin’ rumors? People always listen when they shouldn't”

“That won't happen, I promise you everything will be alright” Stanley tried to reassure him as he pulled back just enough to look Fiddleford in the eye.

“You don’t understand. It’s different for you.” Fiddleford sniffled, wiping at his eyes with a shaking hand and Stanley huffed at what he said.

“What, you think I don’t know what it’s like to be judged? To have people look at me and assume the worst?” He cupped Fiddleford’s face, thumbs gently wiping away stray tears. “I’ve been called every name in the book, Fiddleford. And you know what? I stopped caring. The only people whose opinions matter are the ones who care about you.”

“And what about Tate?” Fiddleford’s lip trembled as he spoke, and Stanley’s expression softened.

“That boy loves you. You’ve done what you could to keep him safe and happy. He’s not gonna see you any different.” Stanley replied as Fiddleford let out a shaky breath.

“But what if he talks?” Fiddleford said

“He won't” Stanley said “We’ll talk to him before that happens”

Fiddleford blinked.

“What?”

Stanley’s hands slid down to rest on Fiddleford’s arms, moving up and down in a soothing gesture.

“Let’s talk with Tate. Clear up any misunderstandings.” He squeezed Fiddleford’s arms gently. “He already knows about us, there's nothing we can do aside from explaining. Everything will be okay, so don't waste your tears, alright?”

Fiddleford hesitated, his mind still racing. But the sincerity in Stanley’s expression—and the warmth of his touch—made him nod.

“Alright.” Fiddleford said in a still shaky voice, but firmer than before.

“And for the record…” Stanley stood on the tip of his toes, pressing a quick kiss to Fiddleford's forehead “I don’t regret any of those kisses.”

Fiddleford huffed, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks.

“You truly are something else.” Fidleford said.

“Yeah, but you like me that way.”

Fiddleford glanced at him, his smile soft and genuine.

“I do.” Fiddleford said as he huffed out a laugh. “I do like you that way”.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this?” Fiddleford asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he stood outside Tate’s bedroom door. His hand hovered nervously over the wood, his other gripping the edge of his shirt like it might anchor him.

“Yeah. Better to get it out in the open than let the kid's mind wander. He deserves to know where we stand.” Stanley said, leaning casually against the doorframe with a confidence he didn’t quite feel.

Fiddleford exhaled slowly, gathering his resolve.

“Alright,” he murmured, lifting his hand to knock gently. From inside, Tate’s bright voice called out.

“Come in!”

Fiddleford pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges sounding louder than it should have in the quiet house. Tate was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a comic book splayed across his lap. When he saw them enter, he immediately set it aside.

“Hi, Dad. Hi, Mr. Stanley,” Tate greeted, his tone as chipper as ever.

“Hey, kiddo,” Fiddleford said with a small smile, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. His weight caused the mattress to dip slightly. Stanley, on the other hand, lingered near the door, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, the picture of casual ease— except for the way his gaze softened when it landed on Fiddleford. “We wanted to talk to you,” Fiddleford began, his tone gentle but serious. Tate tilted his head, curiosity written all over his face.

“Is this about you and Mr. Stanley?” Tate asked bluntly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Because I already know you’re together. It’s kinda obvious.”

Fiddleford blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by his son's forwardness.

“You guys are really in love,” Tate picked up his comic book and started flipping through the pages nonchalantly. “I saw you kiss, like, twice. And you’re always looking at each other all mushy. It’s not hard to figure out.”

Stanley couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. Fiddleford directed a quick glare to Stanley before clearing his throat, trying to recover his composure.

“Alright, so you already know. That’s... that’s good, I suppose. But we still wanted to talk to you about it, to make sure you really understand.” Fiddleford said, unsure if the right words were chosen or if there were even right words for this.

“Understand what?” Tate lowered his comic book, his brow furrowing.

“Well,” Fiddleford said carefully, clasping his hands in his lap. “Stanley and I care about each other very much—”

“Like boyfriends?” Tate interrupted, looking between the two of them expectantly.

Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley, who gave a small shrug and a faint smirk, as if to say 'close enough.'

“Yes, like boyfriends” Fiddleford confirmed.

“That’s awesome!” Tate beamed, his eyes lighting up. “So, he’s officially my dad too? Please say yes!”

Stanley’s eyebrows shot up, and for a moment he was caught off guard. Apparently Tate really wanted those birthday gifts. Fiddleford, however, couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, his shoulders shaking with the release of tension.

“Hold on now, sugarcube,” Fiddleford said gently “We’re not rushing into anything, but...” He glanced at Stanley, whose faint nod gave him the courage to continue. “Stanley’s gonna be around for a while, and I don't mean only here, I mean once I go back to Palo Alto too...if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course, it’s alright!” Tate said, practically bouncing. But then his expression turned curious. “Wait, is this why you’re being all serious? ’Cause I already said I think it’s cool.”

Fiddleford’s smile dimmed slightly, his fingers twisting together.

“It’s not just that, son. There’s... something we need to explain. Not everyone is...as happy about people like Stanley and me being together as you are.” Fiddleford said

“What do you mean?” Tate frowned, his youthful face darkening with confusion.

Stanley stepped forward then, crouching down so he was at Tate’s eye level. His usually sharp gaze was softened, his voice steady but kind.

“Some folks out there don’t like it when certain people love each other. They don’t understand it, and sometimes that makes them mean.” Stanley tried to explain the best he could without having to burden the kid with such heavy knowledge.

“That’s stupid,” Tate said, his voice firm with the unshakable conviction of a child. “It’s not like you’re hurting anyone.”

Stanley smiled, reaching out to ruffle Tate’s hair.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, kid. But the world’s not always fair, so we gotta be careful, okay? Especially about who we talk to about this.” Stanley said, standing up

Tate’s face scrunched in thought.

“So... I shouldn’t tell anyone? Not even my friends?”

“For now, it’s probably best to keep it between us,” Fiddleford said gently, though his voice wavered ever so slightly. “And... your mom. I still need to explain it to her.”

“Oh.” Tate’s brows knitted together in concern. “Is she gonna be mad?”

Fiddleford hesitated, his throat tightening.

“I don’t know, son. But that’s not for you to worry about, alright? Stanley and I will handle it.”

Tate nodded solemnly.

“Okay Daddy...but I still think it’s dumb that people care about stuff like that.” Tate said, a frown still on his expression.

“We think so too” Fiddleford replied, his smile sad but grateful for his son's understanding.

"I think it’s cute. You’re like those couples on TV who are always smooching.” Tate’s grin returned as he suddenly brightened and Stanley couldn't help but chuckle.

“Alright, that’s enough, kid. I think it's time you go to sleep" Stanley said

Fiddleford chuckled along, standing and smoothing his hands over his shirt.

“Stanley is right, it’s way past your bedtime.”

“But I’m not tired!” Tate protested, punctuating the claim with a massive yawn.

“Sure, you’re not. Go on, under the covers.” Fiddleford said with a warm and teasing smile.

Tate sighed dramatically but complied, throwing his arms around Fiddleford for a tight hug.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

“Goodnight, son,” Fiddleford whispered, as he held his son.

Tate turned to Stanley, hesitating for only a moment before stepping forward.

“Goodnight, Dad.”

Stanley’s heart gave a little lurch at the title, but he didn’t let it show.

“Goodnight, kid. Sleep tight.” He said as he patted Tate’s back gently.

As Tate settled under the covers, Fiddleford turned off the lights, and the two men stepped into the hallway, closing the door softly behind them.

Fiddleford leaned against the wall, pressing a hand over his chest as if to steady his heart. His breathing was a bit shaky and his shoulders tense.

“You okay there, Fidds?” Stanley asked, his voice low with concern.

Fiddleford didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Stanley, clutching him like a lifeline. Stanley stiffened, surprised by the sudden embrace, but then he softened, his arms coming up to hold Fiddleford close.

“Hey,” Stanley murmured, rubbing slow circles on Fiddleford’s back. “You did great. The kid’s smart. He gets it. No need to beat yourself up.”

“I just...” Fiddleford’s voice broke as he buried his face in Stanley’s shoulder. “I'm not even sure of what I want to say. Everything is just too much all the time.”

Stanley pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Fiddleford’s watery gaze.

“You’re doing fine, Fidds. Better than fine.” His tone softened. “How about I make you some tea? We’ll watch something dumb, and relax for a bit. Sounds good?” Stanley said as he pushed a stray hair away from Fiddleford's face, who managed a small, tired smile.

“I’d like that. Thank you, Lee.”

They descended the stairs, the tension in Fiddleford’s shoulders easing with each step, though his hands still fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, a habit he had picked up in hopes to keep the integrity of his fingers.

Stanley moved ahead, his movements steady, as he put the kettle on. The soft clatter of mugs and the sound of boiling water filled the quiet space. Fiddleford sank into the worn cushions of the couch, going through the channels, the flickering light of the changing images casting shadows across the dim room.

By the time Stanley approached with two steaming mugs, Fiddleford had stopped on an old black-and-white comedy. He accepted the mug with a quiet “Thank you,” their fingers brushing briefly. It was a small touch, but it steadied him in ways he couldn’t explain.

They sat in companionable silence, the movie’s laugh track punctuating the stillness. Stanley leaned back, one leg propped up on the coffee table, his gaze distant but soft. Fiddleford cradled his mug, staring down into the swirling tea as though it held answers he hadn’t yet found.

The silence, though comforting, became too much for Fiddleford.

“I don’t understand how you do it,” he said suddenly.

“Do what?”

“Remain so calm,” Fiddleford replied, finally lifting his eyes to meet Stanley’s. “You’ve got this way of pulling me out of my head, of saying exactly what I need to hear. Like... nothing ever rattles you.”

Stanley’s laugh was unexpected, a short burst that startled Fiddleford. It wasn’t dismissive, though—just honest and warm.

“What’s so funny?” Fiddleford asked, blinking in surprise.

“Darling,” Stanley said, his tone affectionate as he draped an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers brushing Fiddleford’s shoulder, “it’s easy to look like I’ve got it together when I’m dating a bundle of nerves like you. But don’t let that fool you. I’m just as nervous as you are.”

“Well, you clearly don't let it show” Fiddleford tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face.

Stanley exhaled slowly, the humor fading from his features.

“I'm nervous —terrified even— about everything, Fidds. The portal. Ford. The future.” He hesitated, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes I still find myself wondering about the 'What if's' of my life...What if turning that thing back on is the biggest mistake we ever make? What if it isn't? What if Ford forgives me? What if he doesn't and blames me for everything?” His hand tightened slightly on the arm of the couch. “What if he comes back and he’s not the same person we remember?”

Fiddleford’s tea was forgotten, his hands lowering the mug to the coffee table as he turned toward Stanley.

“Stanley...”

“I’ve been carrying this never ending fear for years, Fidds” Stanley admitted, his voice breaking just slightly. “I just—hell, I don’t want to put it all on you. I don't want to be a burden. You’ve been through enough.”

Fiddleford didn’t hesitate when he reached out, cupping Stanley’s face with both hands, his thumbs gently tracing the lines of worry etched into his face.

“Lee,” he said, his voice steady and sure, “you are not a burden. Not to me, not ever. And if I’ve ever made you feel that way, then I’m sorry. But you don’t have to carry this alone, you hear me? I’m here. Always.”

Stanley stared at him, his breath catching for a moment before he placed his hand over Fiddleford’s. His lips curved into a small, vulnerable smile.

“Thanks, Fidds. Really. But... I’ll be fine. I have always been fine.”

Fiddleford shook his head, his grip firm.

“You don’t have to be fine all the time, Stanley.”

Stanley’s gaze dropped, his defenses faltering under the weight of Fiddleford’s words. After a long pause, he finally nodded.

“Alright,” he murmured. “I get it, Fidds. I'm just a little nervous, nothing worth worrying about. Now stop with all your theatrics" Stanley said with a teasing smile.

Fiddleford ignored that last comment, leaning forward and wrapping Stanley in a fierce hug. He pressed a kiss to Stanley’s temple, his voice steady but fierce.

“I'm serious Stanley. You’re worth everything.”

A weak laugh escaped Stanley, the tension in his shoulders loosening as he held Fiddleford close.

“You’re too good to me, y’know that?”

“Someone’s gotta be” Fiddleford teased, his tone lighter now, though his arms didn’t let go.

They stayed that way for a while, Fiddleford resting against Stanley’s chest as the television continued its cheerful chatter. Slowly, Fiddleford’s breathing softened, the weight of exhaustion pulling him under.

Stanley glanced down, watching as his partner’s features relaxed in sleep. He looked so at peace, so content, and Stanley’s heart ached with a mix of love and guilt. This man—this brilliant, stubborn, kind-hearted man—had been through hell, and yet here he was, offering Stanley comfort and hope.

Stanley sighed quietly, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t stop his mind from circling back to Ford, to the portal, to the weight of everything waiting for them. As Stanley watched him sleep, his thoughts began to spiral. He remembered why Fiddleford had come to the shack in the first place—to erase Ford’s memories. And once Ford came back, Stanley would have to explain everything.

Stanley groaned softly, running a hand through his hair.

“Where do I even start?” he muttered to himself. But then Fiddleford shifted, letting out a soft snore, and Stanley’s worries quieted.

“Guess it can wait,” he said with a smile.

Carefully, Stanley scooped Fiddleford into his arms and carried him upstairs. He laid him down gently on the bed, tucking the blankets around him. Just as he turned to leave, a hand caught his wrist.

“Stay,” Fiddleford murmured, his eyes half-lidded but filled with warmth. “Tate already knows, anyway.”

Stanley chuckled softly, sliding into bed beside him. He wrapped an arm around Fiddleford, pulling him close.

As Fiddleford drifted back to sleep in his embrace, Stanley closed his eyes, letting the quiet comfort of the moment wash over him.

-----

The next morning, Fiddleford and Stanley stood in the basement, staring at the portal. The silence far too loud, it might as well be noise. Fiddleford inputted the last of the portal’s commands as he stepped back, wiping his hands on his pants.

“That’s it” Fiddleford announced with finality.

Stanley raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it? Seriously, that’s....it?”

“Yeah, pretty much. There's still the activation process but this is pretty much it” Fiddleford shrugged. “Now we just... wait.”

“Huh... anticlimactic.” Stanley crossed his arms, eyeing the portal warily.

“You’re tellin’ me.” Fiddleford sighed and leaned against the console, looking everywhere but the portal. After a pause, he added, “For everything we’ve been through, this is a bit underwhelming, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, it sure is.” Stanley nodded, the quiet between them stretching uncomfortably.

Unable to stand the silence, Fiddleford began to hum a tune—soft and slow at first, then louder as he tapped his fingers against the console rhythmically. Stanley smirked at the small habit but stayed quiet, waiting for Fiddleford to break the tension.

“Lee,” Fiddleford said suddenly, his voice low, “do you think Bill will get through the portal?” Stanley glanced at him.

“It’s a possibility, you have said yourself” He said plainly.

Fiddleford groaned and covered his face with his hands.

“Great. Fantastic. That’s just what I wanted to hear” He muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“However,” Stanley said, holding up a hand, “I might’ve found a way to stop him.” He reached for Journal 1 on the nearby desk and flipped it open to a specific page. He jabbed a finger at an entry about unicorns. “Unicorn hair. Apparently, it can create barriers to block weird supernatural junk. If it can keep Bill from getting inside places, maybe we can use it to keep him from getting outside the portal.”

“Stanley, you’re a genius!” Fiddleford’s eyes lit up, his excitement was palpable, but as quickly as it came, worry crept back into his expression. “But there’s one problem... We’d have to find unicorns. And then convince ‘em to give us their hair willingly. I reckon that’s gonna be a tall order.”

Stanley smirked and casually pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Wait, he still kept it there? Huh. He then flipped it open with a practiced flick.

“Or,” he said with a mischievous grin, “we skip the asking part and just... knock them out and take the hair!”

“Stanley Pines! You can’t just assault unicorns! That’s wrong!” Fiddleford said exasperated.

“It’s wrong.” Stanley nodded mockingly, then shrugged. “And efficient!”

Fiddleford shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve sliced through steel.

“We’re not resortin’ to violence, Lee. I mean it.” Fiddleford said with finality and Stanley raised his hands in mock surrender, the blade glinting in his grip.

“Fine, fine. We’ll do it your way. But don’t come crying to me when those sparkly horses turn out to be jerks. Ford wrote some really interesting entries about them” Stanley said with a grin.

Fiddleford ignored the jab, already deep in thought.

“Alright, here’s the plan: you go hunt down those unicorns and politely —Politely, I repeat— ask for their hair, and I’ll stay back and take care of Tate.” Fiddleford said plainly

“Piece of cake. How hard could it be to sweet-talk a bunch of unicorns?” Stanley sheathed his blade with a confident grin and Fiddleford gave him a flat look.

“If they run you through with their horns, I don’t wanna hear about it.”

“Relax,” Stanley said, patting him on the shoulder. “This is gonna be so easy!”

---------

“You reek of cheap whiskey and impurity” were the unicorn’s first words the moment its gleaming eyes landed on Stanley.

Stanley blinked, utterly perplexed.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said you aren’t pure of heart” CelestaBellebethaBelle —the unicorn— sniffed, tossing his mane with an air of superiority.

Stanley scoffed, folding his arms.

“Yeah, I know that, genius. But I’m just a little surprised by your attitude. Aren’t unicorns supposed to be, I don’t know, kind and cute or...something?”

“I am kind!” the unicorn said haughtily. “To those who deserve it. Not to some filthy and impure human like you.”

Stanley groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, buddy,” he said, pulling out his switchblade with a sharp 'snick' and a grin. “You asked for this!”

Before he could charge, a small, familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Mr. Stanley, no!”

Stanley froze mid-step, staring in disbelief as Tate dashed into view, throwing himself between him and the unicorn.

“Tate?! What are you doing here?” Stanley exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be back home with—”

“—Tate, stop running!” Fiddleford’s voice rang out, and moments later, the man himself stumbled into the clearing, panting and out of breath.

“Fiddleford, you too?” Stanley groaned, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Fiddleford huffed, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. “He must’ve overheard somethin’ about you goin’ to meet unicorns and snuck off! I tried to catch him, but—”

“—but I knew they were real!” Tate cried gleefully, already trying to pet the unicorn’s shimmering coat and bombarding it with endless questions about rainbows and magic.

Stanley buried his face in his hands.

“Fidds, now I really can’t take down the unicorn,” he muttered.

“Sorry, Lee. He was too fast,” Fiddleford replied with an apologetic shrug, his eyes trailing to where Tate was excitedly talking to the unimpressed unicorn. An idea suddenly sparked in Stanley’s mind, and he snapped his fingers.

“Hey, Fidds, what if Tate asks for a lock of their hair? They won’t give me any because I’m not ‘pure of heart,’ and you probably aren’t either—”

“Gee, thanks,” Fiddleford deadpanned.

“—but maybe Tate is,” Stanley finished, ignoring the jab.

Fiddleford tilted his head, frowning thoughtfully.

“Huh. That... might actually work.”

The two of them approached Tate, explaining the plan. The boy eagerly nodded and turned to CelestaBellebethaBelle with his brightest smile.

“Excuse me, Mr. Unicorn,” Tate said politely. “Can I have a little bit of your hair? Please? I'm a really good kid!”

The unicorn peered down at him with a scrutinizing gaze before huffing.

“You? A good kid? Ha! You’re as rotten as the cheap whiskey man!”

Stanley gasped, offended. Not by the insult directed towards him, but towards Tate.

“Hey! How dare you talk about Tate like that? I’ll have you know he’s the best kid in the world!” Stanley said, indignation clinging to his voice.

“And I’ll let you know,” Fiddleford added, stepping forward protectively, “That it’s my son who you’re talkin’ about. Tate is nothin’ but a sweet, kind child who’s done no wrong.”

Stanley stepped forward, blade still in hand.

But before things could escalate, Tate raised his hands.

“Wait, wait! Maybe I can become a better kid by doin’ good deeds!” Tate said

Stanley and Fiddleford turned to him in unison.

“What?” Both men said

“Yeah!” Tate beamed. “If I do lots of good things, then I can prove I’m pure of heart!”

Stanley sighed, crossing his arms.

“Tate, it doesn’t work like that. And even if it did, this unicorn is obviously just lying.” Stanley said while pointing with his thumb at the overly shiny horse.

“I have a name, you brute!” the unicorn said, offended.

“Stanley’s right, son,” Fiddleford said while ignoring the unicorn, crouching down to Tate’s level. “You’re already a good kid. That unicorn’s just bein’ mean.”

“But I wanna try!” Tate insisted. “I’ve already got a list of good things I can do!”

Fiddleford glanced at Stanley, who shrugged as if to say, ‘What’s the harm?’

“Alright, son,” Fiddleford relented with a sigh. “I guess we can give it a shot.”

“Yes! Let’s do this!” Tate cheered, pumping his fists in the air as Stanley groaned and rubbed his temples.

“This is gonna be a long day” Stanley muttered.

“Yep,” Fiddleford replied with a small, amused smile. “Sure is going to be”

------

The sun hung high in the sky as Tate embarked on his quest to become “pure of heart,” a wide grin plastered on his face. Stanley and Fiddleford, though somewhat skeptical, trailed behind him, sharing glances that were equal parts exasperation and amusement.

The first stop on Tate’s self-imposed redemption tour was the local park. He spotted a distressed woman pointing at a cat stuck in a tree, its terrified meows echoing through the area. Apparently, the woman's cat got stuck in the tree while trying to catch a bird.

“Mr. Stanley, can you lift me up so I can save the kitty?” Tate clasped his hands together and looked up at Stanley with big, pleading eyes.

Stanley gave him a flat look but couldn’t deny the kid.

“Fine, but if you drop that cat, I’m not catching it.” He said and with a grunt, Stanley hoisted Tate onto his shoulders. “You got him?” Stanley asked, wobbling a little as Tate reached out for the frightened feline.

‘I got him! I got him!”Tate exclaimed, carefully wrapping his arms around the cat.

“There. Good deed done. Can we go now?” Stanley groaned, setting Tate back on the ground.

“Not yet, Mr. Stanley! We’ve got more to do!” Tate chirped, scratching the cat behind the ears before handing it back to its owner.

Their next stop took them to a bustling sidewalk where dozens of tiny snails had wandered onto the path, a minefield for oblivious pedestrians.

Fiddleford knelt down beside Tate, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Alright, son, let’s get these lil’ critters back to the grass before someone squashes ’em.”

Tate eagerly nodded and began carefully picking up snails one by one, giggling as their tiny antennae wiggled.

“They’re so slimy! Ew!” Tate said and Fiddleford chuckled

“That just means they’re healthy, Tate. The slimier, the better.” Fiddleford replied while lowering the snails into the grass.

Stanley stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the two with mild disbelief.

“You really think this is gonna make you ‘pure of heart,’ kid?” Stanley asked with a grimace

“It will!” Tate insisted, placing a particularly large snail onto the grass like it was some kind of royal decree. “Look how happy they are now!”

Stanley grunted but, after a moment, crouched down and started scooping snails with the corner of a piece of paper he found on the street. He muttered under his breath about how ridiculous it was, but there was a small, almost imperceptible smile on his face.

---------

Later, Tate decided they should clean up litter in the area. Armed with garbage bags and a pair of gloves, he dragged Stanley and Fiddleford to a nearby riverbank.

“You’re really taking this whole ‘good deed’ thing seriously, huh?” Stanley asked, raising an eyebrow as Tate struggled to pick up a discarded soda can.

“I have to! It’s for the unicorns!” Tate declared, puffing out his chest with determination. Fiddleford chuckled, patting Tate on the shoulder.

“That’s a good attitude, son. Though I think this is more about bein’ a decent person than impressin’ some magical horses.” Fiddleford said as he picked a trash bag.

“Unicorns” Tate corrected, glaring at Fiddleford in mock seriousness. Stanley just looked at the exchange with disbelief and sighed.

“You’re a weird kid.” Stanley smirked, shaking his head.

Despite his teasing, Stanley found himself filling an entire garbage bag alongside Tate and Fiddleford. When they were done, the riverbank looked much cleaner, and Tate beamed with pride.

“We did it!” he said, throwing his arms into the air.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stanley grumbled, tossing his gloves into the trash bag. “What’s next on your list, kid?”

---------

By the end of the day, Tate was practically glowing with excitement.

“With all that, I should definitely be pure of heart now!” he announced as they made their way back to the unicorns’ clearing. “I’ve done so many good things!” Fiddleford chuckled at Tate's enthusiasm.

“Well, let’s hope all this effort pays off.” Fiddleford said with a smile

As they entered the clearing, CelestaBellebethaBelle regarded them with his usual air of disdain.

“We’re back!” Tate called out, standing tall. “I’ve done a bunch of good deeds! Now I bet you’ll say I’m pure of heart!”

CelestaBellebethaBelle tilted his head, his mane shimmering in the sunlight. He approached Tate slowly, his piercing gaze making the boy shift nervously.

“Well?” Tate asked, gripping his shirt. “What do you think?”

CelestaBellebethaBelle smirked, tossing his radiant mane over his shoulder as he sneered down at Tate.

“Nah, you’re still not pure of heart” he declared, his voice dripping with mockery.

Tate’s jaw dropped, and his little fists clenched at his sides.

“What?! But I did my best!”

“Well, that clearly wasn’t enough, kid,” the unicorn replied, yawning dramatically.

Tate’s eyes brimmed with tears, his voice trembling.

“But— I always do my best! Why is my best never enough?” His composure broke as he turned and ran straight to his dad. Fiddleford knelt down, wrapping his arms around Tate in a hug.

“Now, now, son,” he said softly, his voice steady and warm. “You do your best every day, and that’s more than enough. Don’t you ever let some stuck-up horse tell you otherwise.”

“Unicorn” CelestaBellebethaBelle corrected gruffly.

Stanley sighed and knelt beside Tate, ruffling his hair.

“Hey, don’t cry. You’re a good kid, alright? You don’t need some prissy horse to tell you that.” Stanley said

“Still a unicorn!” CelestaBellebethaBelle corrected once again

“You really think so?” Tate sniffled and looked up at Stanley, his lip quivering.

“Course I do. You’ve got more heart in your little finger than this glittery mule has in its whole body.” Stanley said reassuringly before directing a glare towards the unicorn.

“Excuse me?” CelestaBellebethaBelle snapped, stomping a hoof. “I’ll have you know I am pure grace and majesty, unlike you, filthy humans! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a rainbow to pose in front of.”

The unicorn turned with a dramatic flick of his tail, trotting toward a boulder perfectly framed by a shimmering rainbow. But before he could strike his pose, Stanley lunged forward, grabbed his tail, and yanked him back.

“Whoa, hold up!” CelestaBellebethaBelle shrieked, flailing. “Unhand me, you brute!”

Stanley smirked, pulling out his switchblade.

“This is payback for making the kid cry.” With a quick motion, he sliced a chunk of the unicorn's tail hair clean off.

“HOW DARE YOU?! You filthy, uncivilized human!” CelestaBellebethaBelle gasped, his jaw dropping in horror.

Stanley waved the tuft of hair in his face.

“That’s what you get. And I’m not even done yet.”

He stepped forward, looking ready to throw a punch, but Tate grabbed the back of his shirt, tugging him back.

“Mr. Stanley! Don’t be mean to the unicorn!” Stanley froze, glancing back at Tate's tear streaked face and felt a pang of guilt, realizing he was probably scaring Tate and setting a terrible example.

“Alright, alright, fine. I’ll leave him alone.” Stanley said while rubbing the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed by his actions.

But before the moment could settle, two more unicorns emerged from the trees, trotting up to the commotion. One, a smaller white unicorn with a shimmering silver mane, pointed an accusing hoof at CelestaBellebethaBelle.

“Stop lying to the poor kid, Celeste! The whole ‘pure of heart’ thing is a sham, and you know it!” The unicorn declared

The second unicorn, a gangly one with a pastel mane, nodded.

“Yeah! You just made it up so you could feel superior!” The second unicorn said.

“Ugh, you two ruin everything! I was just having a little fun.” CelestaBellebethaBelle groaned, rolling his eyes.

Tate, still in Fiddleford’s arms, turned red with anger. He clenched his little fists and shouted,

“Forget what I said— DAD, PUNCH THE UNICORN!” Tate yelled still in Fiddleford's embrace, who looked just as surprised as Stanley when Tate said that. However Stanley’s surprise didn't last much as his face lit up.

“You are the boss, kid!” Stanley cracked his knuckles and launched himself at CelestaBellebethaBelle who let out a little ‘ouch’ sound at the first hit. The other unicorns gasped and soon the clearing erupted into chaos as the unicorns charged. Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, muttering under his breath.

“This is ridiculous, he will get killed at this rate” he said, before rolling up his sleeves and jumping into the fray. “Tate, stay right there!” Fiddleford said before getting into the fight, Tate nodded and did as told this time.

Stanley tackled CelestaBellebethaBelle, dodging his flailing hooves as he shrieked

“You’ll ruin my mane!” CelestaBellebethaBelle yelled.

“Oh! I'll do more than that!” Stanley declared

Meanwhile, Fiddleford grabbed the pastel-maned unicorn by the horn, dragging it down with surprising force.

Tate stood on the sidelines, cheering like a sports announcer as he witnessed the fight.

“Go get them! Nice move, Dad! You’ve got this!” Tate then rummaged through his backpack, pulling out his Polaroid camera, snapping photos of the absurd brawl.

Stanley ducked under a kick and grabbed another unicorn by its mane.

“You think you’re so high and mighty, huh?!” He yanked, and a chunk of pastel hair came off in his hand. “I've been to prison three times, this is nothing!"

“MY HAIR!” the unicorn wailed.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford was wrestling another unicorn to the ground. It tried to buck him off, but he held tight.

“The cows at my farm used to put up a better fight!” Fiddleford said with a grin

Eventually, the fight ended with all the unicorns sprawled on the ground, groaning dramatically like they’d been through a war. Their once-pristine manes and tails were now uneven and patchy, tufts of hair littering the clearing.

Stanley dusted off his hands, admiring his work. Fiddleford, laughing breathlessly, pointed at the unicorns.

“Stanley, you took too much hair! They’re practically bald!”

“Nah,” Stanley replied, smirking. “I took just the right amount.”

Tate ran up to them, grinning ear to ear.

“That was awesome!” He hugged Stanley tightly, then turned to Fiddleford. “You guys are the best!”

Stanley and Fiddleford exchanged a glance, both breaking into smiles. With their hard-earned unicorn hair in hand, the trio turned and began to head back home.

“Well,” Stanley said, tossing the switchblade between his hands. “Guess Bill’s not getting through that portal anytime soon.”

“Who's Bill?” Tate asked.

Both Fiddleford and Stanley exchanged a look and decided to remain silent.

“Who's Bill?” Tate asked again with a frown. Stanley looked back at Fiddleford and began to walk faster.

"Stanley?" Fiddleford called his name but Stanley just walked faster once again, putting a distance. "Hey! Don't leave me alone in this!"

Fiddleford was soon running after Stanley and Tate did the same, not wanting to be left behind in the soon to be dark night.

-----

After a long day of fighting unicorns and Olympically ignoring Tate's questions about Bill, the three of them decided on watching a movie. The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the TV, the warm light flickering against the walls. A cheesy action movie blared from the screen, complete with over-the-top explosions and dramatic one-liners. It wasn’t high art, but it didn’t need to be.

Stanley was sprawled on the couch like a king in his throne, his feet propped up on the coffee table while Fiddleford sat by his side —although there was barely space— and with a large bowl of popcorn resting on his lap.

The bowl was already half-empty already, thanks to Tate’s endless snacking who sat beside his dad and on the arm rest. He was enthusiastically tossing popcorn into his mouth—and occasionally missing, much to Stanley’s amusement.

“Kid, you’re wasting the good stuff” Stanley said with a chuckle, reaching over to grab a stray kernel off the couch cushion and popping it into his mouth.

“I’m practicing my aim!” Tate declared, grabbing another handful of popcorn and dramatically attempting to toss it in the air. It missed entirely, bouncing off his nose and onto Stanley’s shirt.

“Yeah, real sharpshooter you are,” Stanley teased, flicking the popcorn back at Tate.

Fiddleford shook his head fondly at the two troublemakers, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“You two are a disaster waiting to happen,” he said.

“Hey, don’t lump me in with him,” Stanley protested, gesturing toward Tate, who was now pretending to reload an imaginary popcorn launcher. “I’m a responsible adult, thank you very much.” Fiddleford snorted at his comment and shook his head.

“Sure you are, Lee.” Fiddleford said with a teasing smile.

Stanley opened his mouth to argue but was cut off by Tate throwing popcorn into it.

“There! My aim is getting better” Tate said, grinning mischievously.

Fiddleford laughed, nearly spilling the tea he had.

Stanley rolled his eyes, but there was no hiding the smirk tugging at his lips as he ate the popcorn.

The movie hit a particularly ridiculous scene, with the hero driving a motorcycle through a wall of fire while dodging a rain of bullets. Tate gasped in awe.

“Did you see that?! That was so cool!” The kid said

“Eh, I could do that” Stanley replied with an unamused smile.

“Really?” Tate looked up at him, wide-eyed and Fiddleford snorted.

“Stanley can barely drive a regular car, much less a motorcycle through fire.” Fiddleford said, still laughing.

“Hey!” Stanley shot back, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent driver. And for the record, I was actually in a biker group, you should meet my buddy Jimmy. I bet he would love to show you a few tricks, kid”

“Really?! That would be so cool!” Tate said excited at the idea but Fiddleford quickly interrupted.

“You never told me that” Fiddleford's face had an evident frown.

“There are still a lot of things you don't know about me, darling” Stanley replied with a teasing smirk.

Tate giggled, grabbing another handful of popcorn.

"I can't believe I have such a cool dad" Tate said with a smile and Stanley ruffled his hair.

“Thanks, kid. At least someone here appreciates me” Stanley said while looking at Fiddleford with feigned sadness. Fiddleford just rolled his eyes with a smile as the three of them fell into a comfortable silence. The movie continued, the occasional sound of crunching popcorn filling the gaps. Tate eventually leaned his head against Fiddleford's shoulder, his eyes starting to droop as the excitement of the day caught up to him.

Fiddleford noticed and leaned forward to place his now-empty mug on the table.

“Looks like someone’s about ready to turn in,” he said softly.

“Not yet,” Tate mumbled sleepily, nuzzling further into Fiddleford's side. “I wanna finish the movie.”

Stanley chuckled, but remained silent while Tate murmured something they didn't quite catch, his eyelids fluttering closed.

The credits began to roll not long after, the triumphant theme music filling the room. Stanley turned down the volume, glancing at the now-snoozing Tate with a rare softness in his expression.

Fiddleford smiled as he leaned back against the couch, his gaze lingering on the peaceful look on Tate’s face.

“It’s been a long day for him. For all of us, really.” Fiddleford said and Stanley let out a low chuckle.

“Yeah. Can’t believe we fought a herd of unicorns today.” He said.

Fiddleford laughed softly, his eyes twinkling.

“Speaking of which, he took some pretty good photos.”Fiddleford said, pointing at the coffee table where the photos were.

“You know,” Stanley said after a moment, his voice softer than usual, “I could get used to this kind of life. Not the fighting unicorns part, but this”

Fiddleford looked at him, his expression warm.

“Yeah, me too”

They sat there for a while longer, the three of them nestled together on the couch, the glow of the TV casting a gentle light over them. Everything felt exactly as it should.

Chapter Text

Stanley was crouched beside his car in the driveway, wiping grease from his hands as he inspected the underside. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the trees surrounding the cabin, and the quiet hum of nature filled the air. He was focused on tightening a bolt when he heard the sound of small feet crunching across the gravel.

“Dad!” Tate’s cheerful voice called out.

Stan rolled out from under the car, raising an eyebrow as the boy jogged up to him, clutching a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. Tate’s face was bright, his excitement barely contained.

“Hey, kid. What’s up?” Stanley asked, leaning back on the hood of his car as he gave Tate his full attention.

“I need your help!” Tate said, his eyes wide and earnest.

Stanley smirked, wiping his hands on a rag before crossing his arms.

“Oh yeah? What kind of trouble are you getting me into?”

Tate shook his head, his messy hair bouncing.

“Not trouble! A surprise! For Daddy!”

That piqued Stanley’s interest.

“A surprise, huh? What kind of surprise?” Stanley tilted his head, leaning forward a little and Tate grinned, holding up his notebook.

“I’m making him a scrapbook! With pictures and stuff we did this summer. But I need help to make it really good.” Stanley couldn’t help but chuckle at the kid's enthusiasm

“A scrapbook, huh? Sounds like a really nice surprise. Alright, lead the way, kid.”
Tate beamed and grabbed Stanley’s hand, tugging him toward the house. Stanley let himself be dragged inside, amused by the boy’s enthusiasm.

Once they reached the living room, Tate dashed upstairs, leaving Stanley behind for a moment before he came back; his small arms overflowing with an assortment of items—photos, ticket stubs, pressed leaves, and even a tiny plastic bag containing a four-leaf clover.

Stanley reached out to take the clover, holding it up to inspect it.

“So this is why you were hunting for a clover?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Yep!” Tate said proudly, dropping the rest of his treasures onto the coffee table. “I wanted to bring my daddy some luck!”

Stanley’s grin softened, and he ruffled Tate’s hair.

“You’re a good kid, you know that?”

Tate giggled, and the two of them settled on the floor by the table. Stanley helped Tate organize the items, sorting the photos into a neat pile and smoothing out the leaves that had gotten crumpled in transit.

“Okay,” Tate began, holding up a blank page in his notebook. “I wanna write about our fishing trip here. But… I don’t know how to spell some words.”

Stanley glanced at the page, noting the wobbly letters where Tate had attempted to write “fishing” and “sunset.”

“Alright, let’s start with ‘fishing,’” Stanley said, taking a pencil and a piece of paper “It’s F-I-S-H-I-N-G. See? Easy.”

Tate carefully copied the letters, his tongue sticking out in concentration. When he was done, he looked up at Stanley with a wide grin.

“Got it! What about ‘sunset’?”

Stanley chuckled, leaning over to guide Tate’s hand. “S-U-N-S-E-T. You’re getting the hang of this, kid.”

They worked side by side for the next hour, piecing the scrapbook together. Tate glued photos onto the pages, his small hands careful not to smudge them, while Stanley wrote captions in neat block letters. Occasionally, Tate would sketch little doodles—fish, trees, and even a wonky version of Stanley's car with him by his side.

“That’s supposed to be me?” Stanley teased, pointing at the poorly drawn stick figure.

Tate giggled.

“Yep! And that’s the grease on your face!” He added a few messy smudges to the drawing for effect. He then drew another stick figure by Stanley's side “and that's daddy!” Tate said with a smile

Stanley laughed, shaking his head.

“Really cute, kid, but you forgot his glasses” Stanley teased as he grabbed one of Tate's crayons and drew the glasses himself.

As they neared the end of the scrapbook, Tate pulled out the four-leaf clover and held it up.

“Where should we put this?”

Stanley thought for a moment before pointing to the last page.

“Right here, in the middle. It’s like the cherry on top.”

Tate nodded eagerly, carefully taping the clover into place. He stepped back to admire their work, his face glowing with pride.

“It’s perfect,” he declared.

Stanley leaned back on the chair looking at the finished scrapbook with a rare softness in his eyes.

“Yeah, kid. It really is.” He said with a voice that carried a weird softness that seemed to become more and more frequent everyday.

Tate turned to Stanley, his expression serious for a moment.

“Thank you for helping me. Daddy’s gonna love it, right?”

Stanley placed a hand on Tate’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“He’s gonna love it. Trust me.”

Tate grinned and, in an unexpected move, threw his arms around Stanley in a quick hug.

Stan froze for a moment before relaxing, patting the boy’s back awkwardly.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get too sappy on me now,” he said, though his voice was warm.

As they cleaned up, Stanley couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace. He wasn’t used to this—quiet, tender moments—but he found he didn’t mind it so much.

When Tate ran off to hide the scrapbook before Fiddleford came home, Stanley stayed behind in the living room, glancing at the empty coffee table as a faint smile made its way to his face.

-----

Fiddleford soon came back home, his hands full of grocery bags he set on the dining table.

“Daddy!” Tate called, running into the room with a wide grin, clutching the scrapbook tightly to his chest.

Fiddleford blinked in surprise, pushing his glasses up and turning toward his son.

“Well, don’t you look excited about somethin’! What happened sugar?”

Tate got closer, holding the scrapbook out to him.

“I made you something! It’s a surprise!”

Fiddleford tilted his head, curiosity sparkling in his eyes as he accepted the book.

“A surprise, huh? Let’s see what you’ve gone and made this time.”

He opened the cover, his breath catching as he took in the first page. Photos of their summer together were carefully arranged alongside Tate’s wobbly handwriting, little doodles, and ticket stubs. Each page told a story—fishing trips, hikes, quiet moments at the cabin. Fiddleford’s chest tightened as he turned each page, the love and effort poured into the gift warming his heart.

“Tate…” he murmured, his voice soft and thick with emotion. He looked at his son, who was practically bouncing on his toes. “This is… It’s just wonderful, sugar. Thank you.”

Tate beamed, his small chest puffing out with pride.

“You like it?”

“I love it,” Fiddleford said earnestly, pulling Tate into a warm hug. “This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten. You’re such a thoughtful little thing, aren’t ya?”

Tate giggled into his father’s shoulder. As Fiddleford pulled back, his gaze flicked over Tate’s head to Stanley, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the moment unfold with a small, satisfied smile.

Fiddleford’s expression softened further, his eyes meeting Stanley’s. He knew. Of course he knew. Stanley gave him a barely perceptible nod, and Fiddleford’s heart swelled.

“I just wanted to make something for you,” Tate said with a smile “I know it's going to take a while for you to come back home, so with this you won't forget me”

“Oh, sugar...” Fiddleford was unsure of what to say, but before he could even process his son's words, the kid was already heading out of the kitchen. Muttering something about his favorite cartoon playing a new episode. He bolted out of the dining room, leaving the scrapbook on the table.

Fiddleford laughed as Tate disappeared into the living room, the sound of the television clicking on in the background. When the room fell quiet again, Fiddleford turned back to Stanley.

“You helped him with this, didn’t you?” Fiddleford said, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he stepped closer to him.

Stanley shrugged, his tone casual but warm.

“The kid had a good idea. Just needed a little help pulling it together.”

Fiddleford’s smile widened, and without a second thought, he leaned in and pressed a soft, quick kiss to Stanley’s lips. The gesture was tender, filled with gratitude and affection. When he pulled back, his cheeks were faintly pink.

“Thank you, Stanley,” he said quietly, his voice sincere.

Stanley blinked in surprise but recovered quickly, smirking as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Don’t mention it.”

Fiddleford hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced toward the living room where Tate was now immersed in his show. His voice was a little unsteady when he spoke again.

“You know,” he began, his accent thicker when he was flustered, “Tate’s goin’ back to his mama tomorrow. And, uh… Well, we’ve still got some time before the portal’s ready for activation. I was thinkin’…”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening as Fiddleford trailed off, clearly struggling to find the right words.

“I was thinkin’ we could… I don’t know… have a little fun,” Fiddleford finally managed, his face going a deep shade of red as he avoided Stanley’s amused gaze.

Stanley let out a low chuckle, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around Fiddleford.

“You sure you can handle me, old man?”

Fiddleford huffed, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“I reckon I can keep up just fine, thank you very much.”

Stanley laughed, leaning in to kiss him again, this time slower, savoring the moment. When they broke apart, Fiddleford was still smiling.

--------

Fiddleford's smile didn't last him much though. At least it wasn't in his face as he pulled to Emma’s driveway, his car rumbling softly as he shifted into park. The house looked the same as ever, the garden meticulously maintained, just as Emma liked it. He exhaled deeply, glancing at the passenger seat where Tate sat, his small face pressed against the window, taking in the familiar surroundings with a mix of excitement and reluctance.

“We’re here, buddy,” Fiddleford said softly, forcing a smile as he adjusted his glasses

Tate turned to him, his big eyes shimmering.

“I’m gonna miss you, Daddy,” he murmured, clutching his bag tightly in his lap.

Fiddleford’s heart twisted, as he reached over and ruffled Tate’s messy hair, his hand lingering just a moment longer than usual.

“I’ll miss you too, son,” he said, his voice low but steady. “But this ain’t goodbye. You’ll see me again real soon, alright? Promise.”

Tate gave a small nod, though his grip on the bag didn’t loosen. Fiddleford pushed open his door and stepped out, the gravel crunching under his boots as he walked around to help Tate out of the car. The boy slipped his hand into his father’s as they made their way to the front porch, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Before Fiddleford could knock, the door swung open, and Emma stood there, her brown hair tied back and wearing an expression that brightened as her eyes landed on Tate. Her guarded demeanor toward Fiddleford melted for a brief moment as she crouched down, arms wide open.

“Tate!” she exclaimed, her voice full of warmth as her son launched himself into her embrace. She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his shoulder. “Oh, I missed you so much!”

“I missed you too, Mommy!” Tate giggled, clinging to her.

Emma pulled back just enough to look at his face, her hands cupping his cheeks.

“You’ve grown! Or is it just me?”

“I wasn't gone that long!” Tate said, giggling as his mother peppered his face with kisses “but Daddy does say I’m getting taller!”

Emma glanced up at Fiddleford, her eyes briefly meeting his.

“Does he now?” she said, her tone light but cautious as she stood.

“Afternoon, Emma.” Fiddleford smiled, strained but polite as he greeted her

“Fiddleford,” she replied, crossing her arms. “Thanks for bringing him back safe and sound.” Fiddleford nodded

“Thank you for giving me the opportunity, it was a good summer. He’s been a real joy to have around. You’ve got yourself one fine boy here, Emma.” Fiddleford said with a smile

Emma’s lips twitched upward, and she smoothed a hand over Tate’s hair.

“He’s been talking my ear off over the phone, talking about all the things you two did together. Fishing, going camping, teaching him about… what was it?” She looked down at Tate. “Astrology?”

“Yeah!” Tate said proudly. “Daddy bought a telescope and we looked at all the stars!”

Emma gave a small laugh, the sound brief but genuine.

“Sounds like you two had a great time.” She stepped aside, motioning them in. “Come on in. Tate, you can go put your things in your room.”

“Okay!” Tate said, scampering off with his bag.

He stepped inside, the house looking tidy and bright, with Emma’s vibrant paintings adorning the walls. The smell of acrylics lingered faintly, a scent that had always reminded him of her. He stayed near the door, unsure of how welcome he really was.

Emma turned to him, her expression softening slightly.

“So,” she began, “how’s he really been?”

“Good,” Fiddleford said earnestly, stepping closer. “Better than good, actually. He’s got such a bright spirit, Emma, and a lot of energy too! You should have seen him when we went fishing, the sun was already setting and he still wanted to catch more fishes” Fiddleford let a small laugh out as he remembered the moment.

“I’m glad to hear that. And… I can tell you’ve been trying.” Emma’s posture softened further as she leaned slightly against the wall. “Tate seems happy. That’s what matters.”

“I’m tryin',” Fiddleford admitted, his voice quieter. “I’ll keep tryin’ for as long as it takes.”

She nodded, glancing briefly toward the hallway where Tate had disappeared. Then, as if testing the waters, she asked,

“You’re still moving to Palo Alto, right?”

The question caught him off guard, though he supposed it shouldn’t have.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I am,” he confirmed. “I want to be close. Be there when Tate needs me.”

Emma's lips pressed together, and she nodded slowly.

“That’s good. It’ll be easier for him to have you nearby. And… it’ll be good for you, too.”

A silence settled between them, not quite awkward but heavy with unspoken words. Finally, Emma broke it.

“I recently got to showcase some of my art,” she said, her tone lighter as she tried to put up some small talk. “Just a small exhibition, nothing fancy. But it felt good to put myself out there again.”

“That’s wonderful, Emma. I always knew you had talent. I’m glad you’re getting the recognition you deserve.” Fiddleford said with a genuine smile

She smiled back, a touch of warmth returning to her expression.

“Thanks. It’s been a lot to juggle with work and Tate, but… I’m managing.”

“You’re doin’ more than that,” Fiddleford said sincerely. “You’re doin’ an amazing job. And if you ever need help—anything at all—you just let me know.” Emma just nodded at his words.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She said, as her gaze softened enough for Fiddleford to notice.

“Tate is lucky to have you. I hope you know that.” Fiddleford said. Emma remained silent for a moment, her throat tightening.

“I’m lucky to have him.” She let the words out as a faint whisper.

The sound of footsteps interrupted the moment as Tate came running back, a colorful drawing clutched in his hand.

“Mommy! Look what I made!”

Emma crouched again as Tate handed her the paper. It was a detailed sketch of a robot, complete with gears and a big, friendly smile.

“Wow! This is incredible!” she said, beaming. “Did you do this all by yourself?”

“Daddy helped a little,” Tate admitted, glancing shyly at Fiddleford.

Emma’s gaze flicked to Fiddleford briefly as she handed Tate the drawing back

“You’ve got an artist’s eye, Tate. Just like your mom.” Fiddleford said

Tate’s face lit up at the compliment, and he turned to his dad, hugging him tightly around the waist.

“I’m really gonna miss you, Daddy.”

Fiddleford crouched down, his arms wrapping around Tate as he held him close.

“I’ll miss you too, buddy,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But don't you forget— I love you, and I'll see you soon. Really soon”

Tate nodded, his little hands gripping Fiddleford’s shirt before letting go and stepping back. Emma rested a hand on Tate’s shoulder, giving Fiddleford a long look with a thoughtful expression.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

Fiddleford straightened, adjusting his glasses as a nervous habit

“It’s what I should’ve been doin’ all along. From the start” He replied

Emma nodded, and though her lips pressed together as if to say more, she let the silence speak for her.

As Fiddleford stepped back outside, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the porch. He turned, glancing back at the doorway where Emma and Tate stood side by side, framed by the soft glow spilling from the house. Tate clung to Emma’s hand, his other arm raised in a small, reluctant wave.

“Bye, Daddy!” Tate called out, his voice bright but edged with the sadness of parting.

Fiddleford stopped mid-step, his chest tightening as he looked at his son.

“Bye for now, bud. You be good for your mama, y’hear?”

“I will!” Tate promised, his little face determined.

Emma placed a steadying hand on Tate’s shoulder, her expression light and full of life, at least more than it had in the previous months.

“Drive safe, Fiddleford,” she said, her voice carrying a rare note of warmth.

Fiddleford nodded, his throat tightening.

“I will. And… thank you, Emma.”

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes searching his for a moment before she gave a small nod. No more words were needed.

Fiddleford turned, the crunch of gravel under his boots louder than he’d expected in the quiet moment. Reaching his car, he paused, glancing back at the doorway one last time. Emma stood tall and calm, her hand resting protectively on Tate’s shoulder. Tate was still waving, his face split with a smile full of unshaken trust.

Fiddleford smiled as he started the car, the engine rumbling to life. Emma and Tate waved goodbye again, their figures growing smaller in the rearview mirror as he pulled away.

-------

Fiddleford was soon back at Gravity Falls, he stepped inside the cabin, closing the door softly behind him. The quiet was almost jarring after all the days he had spent with Tate. He set his coat on the hook of the door, his shoulders sagging as he let out a long sigh.

“Finally,” Stanley’s voice called from the living room. “Thought you might’ve skipped town.”

Fiddleford turned to find Stanley leaning against the arm of the couch, arms crossed, but his teasing smirk softened when their eyes met. Before Fiddleford could respond, Stan crossed the room and pulled him into a kiss—warm and unhurried, grounding Fiddleford in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

When they broke apart, Stanley’s hand lingered on his shoulder.

“Welcome back, Fiddlesticks.”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, his heart a little lighter.

“You sure know how to make a man feel missed.”

Stan rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his grin.

“Coffee’s on. Figured you’d need it.” He nodded toward the kitchen table.

Fiddleford sank into one of the chairs, the weariness of the day catching up to him as Stanley slid a mug across the table, then sat down across from him.

“You okay?” Stanley asked

Fiddleford nodded, his fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “Yeah. Just... leavin’ Tate with Emma, it hit me harder than I thought it would.”

“Yeah, I can imagine...” Stanley leaned back “You did right by the kid. He really loves you—anyone can see that.”

Fiddleford smiled faintly, the warmth in Stanley’s words settling over him. But his gaze drifted to the journal resting on the table, and the moment grew heavier.

“We’ve got a lot to do,” Fiddleford said quietly, the weight of the portal pressing down on him again.

Stan’s eyes followed his, and he let out a sigh. “Yeah...”

Ford was still out there, waiting—depending—on them.

It was time to bring him back home

Chapter Text

Everything was finally ready: Tate was home with his mom, the portal was secure, the house had been set in order back to how Ford left it— Well, not actually, since Ford left it as a mess. It was a strange sense of calm, knowing they'd covered every base they could think of, even if their hearts were still racing.

As they finished securing the last strand of unicorn hair around the portal, Fiddleford closed journal 1 with a sigh of relief.

“Everything is ready” he said quietly, as if speaking too loud might undo all their work.

Stanley, hands on his hips, looked around with a rare moment of satisfaction.

"So… now what?" he asked.

"We still need to wait a bit more, we have half a day until it's ready to be turned on" Fiddleford replied, and they stood in silence, just watching the portal as if it might show them a sign of what's next.

“Alright” Stanley said as he focused his gaze on the portal.

It was awfully silent.

Too silent.

…

“Hey Fidds, do you want to go to bed and—?” Stanley didn't get to finish his sentence, Fiddleford already setting his path to the stairs.

“Last one to bed makes dinner!” he said, already halfway up.

“Hey! No fair!” Stanley shouted, laughing as he chased after him. He caught up halfway up the stairs, tackling Fiddleford gently against the wall, breathless from laughing. “You’re too fast.”

“Maybe you’re just slow, I wasn't even trying” Fiddleford teased, eyes gleaming. But his teasing expression softened as he caught the look in Stanley's eyes.

Stanley’s hand lifted, brushing a stray hair from Fiddleford’s face.

"Guess I’m just lucky you waited for me, then" he murmured, voice low.

In a heartbeat, Fiddleford leaned in, closing the gap between them. His lips pressed against Stanley’s in a kiss that started tender but grew fierce, as if they were both starved for this closeness. Stanley’s hands slid to Fiddleford's waist, pulling him closer, while Fiddleford’s fingers tangled in Stanley’s hair, both of them melting into the warmth of each other.

They stumbled backward, finding their way upstairs to the living room and then finally to their room and bed, everything else being forgotten. They lost themselves in the moment, each kiss and touch brimming with all the words they'd left unsaid. Charged with the passion they weren't able to showcase in the last weeks.

Finally, they broke apart just enough to catch their breath, Fiddleford’s forehead pressed against Stanley’s, both of them grinning.

“Guess you don’t have to make dinner after all,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice light and out of breath, his half lidded eyes holding Stanley’s gaze.

Stanley chuckled, brushing his thumb over Fiddleford’s cheek.

“I guess not. Tonight, let’s just… stay right here.” One of Stanley's hands roamed Fiddleford's back, finding the hem of his shirt “May I?” Fiddleford nodded and let a faint breath out as Stanley's hands went under the fabric, touching the bare skin reverently. Stanley gazed upon his lover's face with nothing more than adoration, wanting to feel his warmth while the fingertips of his free hands traced Fiddleford's cheek.

“You're so beautiful” Stanley murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“I can say the same about you” Fiddleford leaned in, capturing Stanley's lips in yet another kiss, pouring every ounce of his love into the intimate act. Stanley's hands continued their gentle exploration, mapping every inch of the skin. Fiddleford, who was straddling on top of Stanley, pulled away for a second and removed his shirt.

“Take your shirt off too” Fiddleford said in a tone that made Stanley shiver— he liked where this was going.

He complied and took his shirt off, and felt Fiddleford leave a trail of kisses along his jaw and down to his neck, kissing and sucking lightly. He made sure not to leave a single spot untouched, and was sure it would leave some hickeys. Maybe Stanley should consider stealing one of Ford's turtlenecks.

Soon his breath began to take a quicker pace, trembling slightly as the sensitive skin of his collarbone was sucked and nipped. He could feel his member getting hard, grinding slightly against Fiddleford's ass, who remained on top.

“Fidds, give me a second” Stanley was barely able to get the words out.

“What, you can't handle some kisses?” Fiddleford asked teasingly as he gave another kiss, this time to Stanley's lips

“I can handle that and more,” Stanley teased back with a grin “And that's why I want to get some lube” Stanley said as he grabbed Fiddleford by the waist, moving him aside.

“Oh, okay” Fiddleford muttered under his breath and then, realization hit him “Wait—lube? Oh my, it's actually going to happen” Fiddleford laughed, nervousness was making its way to him as he watched Stanley take out a small bottle of lube he had hidden in the closet.

“When did you buy it?” Fiddleford asked curiously

“Some time ago” Stanley replied plainly, not going to fall for Fiddleford's attempts at teasing, he approached the bed, stretching slightly, preparing himself for what's to come.

“And what, you kept it hidden like some teenager?” Fiddleford laughed as he let himself fall into the bed

“Oh, shut it Fiddlesticks, don't ruin the moment” Stanley said as he let out a chuckle. He crawled to the bed, now on top of Fiddleford who backed away slightly. His breath hitching “Are you okay Fidds?” Stanley asked, noticing the small shift in Fiddleford's attitude.

“Yeah, yeah, just nervous” Fiddleford mumbled “I'm also unsure how to, uh— proceed. I have a vague idea but, you know...” Fiddleford's face was now flushed as he looked anywhere else but at Stanley.

“Oh” Fiddleford's nervousness seemed to be contagious, because Stanley now didn't know what to say.

“So, what's next?” Fiddleford asked trying to regain some of the confidence he had a minute ago

“Let's take it slow,” Stanley replied as he tried to take the lead for the sake of both of them “How about you take your pants off and let me show you what this mouth can do?” Apparently the nervousness wasn't that contagious since Stanley took his confident and shameless persona back into stage.

“Stanley! Don't say it like that” Fiddleford was slightly scandalized, but not enough to prevent him from starting to take his pants off.

“What? You prefer I call it a blowjob? Or maybe a blowie?” Stanley chuckled as he helped Fiddleford get his pants off, the aforementioned was mortified at hearing Stanley saying such things so casually. But well, what did you expect of the —technically no longer— closeted gay christian man from the 80’s?

“Oh God, just shut up please, you are making it more embarrassing” Fiddleford hid his face into his hands, the situation far too much for him.

Stanley chuckled at the sight, but he knew better than to just laugh at his lover, he didn't want to make Fiddleford uncomfortable or take things too fast. Maybe he shouldn't have rushed into conclusions the same way he rushed to get the lube.

“Fidds,” Stanley said his name gently as he removed Fiddleford's hands from his face and got closer “Fidds, love, if you want we can stop.” Stanley's tone was soft as he talked to Fiddleford who directed him a small smile.

“I don't want you to stop,” Fiddleford moved closer, his lips above Stanley's. He then trapped his lips into a kiss, a gentle and unsure one, as if he was kissing him for the first time again “I'll take your offer on the ‘blowie’” Fiddleford said with a sly grin against Stanley's lips, his tone teasing as he went for another kiss.

“Alright Fidds” Stanley let out a shaky breath as he separated from Fiddleford “Take your boxers off, I'm going to make you see heaven”

Fiddleford did as instructed, removing the remaining clothing item painfully slowly. Was it shyness or him wanting to tease Stanley? Only Fiddleford knows.

Tentatively, Fiddleford spread his legs apart, revealing his firm erection standing at full attention. A flush crept across his cheeks at the thought of baring himself so openly to his lover, vulnerable yet yearning for more. He was looking down, to the way his thighs parted and showed more of himself. He finally got the courage to lift his head and his chest heaved in stuttering breaths as he noticed the way Stanley looked at him.

Stanley's eyes roamed appreciatively over the glorious sight. He couldn't help but stare as his heart raced at the incredible beauty of his lover's naked arousal. It was the first time he had laid eyes on Fiddleford's entire naked body.

“I'm all yours Lee” Fiddleford said trying to sound confident but his voice wavered a bit. The way Stanley looked at him, was too much and not enough.

Stanley finally woke up from his self induced trance as he heard those words, swallowing the saliva that had pooled in his mouth.

“Okay, tell me if you want me to stop,” Stanley then lowered himself until he was in front of Fiddleford's dick. He gave it a good look now that he was up close; Fiddleford's dick wasn't exactly thick but it did have a good length and a nice curvature. Stanley's face got closer to it, letting the tip touch his wet lips. He heard Fiddleford's breath hitch for a second and then go back to normal, it was barely noticeable, but that simple breath did wonders to Stanley.

“Let yourself go Fidds, I want to hear you,” Stanley said as he opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out and firmly pressing it against his bottom lip so Fiddleford's cock would slide in easily. His dominant hand held the shaft, moving up and down slightly, earning a whimper out of the man.

Fiddleford groaned as he felt the heat of Stanley's mouth engulfing his length. Stanley's lips stretched around his girth, curling into a sinful smile as he felt the dick inside him twitching. Stanley moved his head, taking the full length until it hit the back of his throat.

Fiddleford shuddered as he gazed down at Stanley's expression, feeling a rush of indescribable pleasure surge through him. The sight of his lover's lips stretched around him, the glint of appreciative lust in those half-lidded brown eyes, the way saliva dribbled down his chin as he took Fiddleford thick length to the hilt... it was breathtaking, it was beautiful. Heavenly. The most erotic vision Fiddleford had ever beheld.

Fiddleford's hand found its way to Stanley's face, brushing away some of the stray sweat damp curls that clung to his forehead. His hand and fingers trailing up until they met Stanley's hair, just resting there as he watched, enraptured, the way Stanley's tongue swirled around his sensitive tip before diving back down until his nose was burying in the coarse curls at the base of Fiddleford's shaft.

“Stanley you are going to kill me,” Fiddleford barely managed to talk, his voice trembling as he let some moans intertwine with his words. His breath hitched and then came in short, sharp gasps as Stanley began to move again, his head bobbing slowly as he worked Fiddleford's sensitive flesh. Stanley pulled away, letting the cock in his mouth go with a lewd ‘pop’

“I'm doing a good job then,” Stanley said as he grinned against Fiddleford's dick. He then took it into his mouth again, teasing the sensitive tip as it hit the back of his throat.

Fiddleford's hips jerked involuntarily, unable to stay still as his body responded to the intense pleasure. Soft, needy whimpers spilled from his lips as Stanley took him deeper, nose pressing against his pelvis. The obscene slurping sounds filled the room, mixing with Fiddleford's harsh pants and low moans.

“You are doin’ more than good, you are doin’ perfect sweetheart,” Fiddleford let out a shuddering breath, his hands trembling slightly as they came to rest on either side of Stanley's head, fingers threading into his hair. “I feel like I'm meltin” Fiddleford tried to keep his hips still, but every now and then he couldn't help but move them slightly.

With a final, indulgent slurp, Stanley pulled back, letting Fiddleford slick, throbbing shaft slip from his lips. He gazed up at Fiddleford with hooded, lust-darkened eyes, a mischievous grin playing on his swollen lips.

“Fidds, do you want to take this farther?” Stanley asked with a pant.

“I would love that,” Fiddleford replied, also panting and trying to catch his breath. His hand reached for his dick, stroking it slowly, wanting to prevent his erection from dying and ruining the fun they were having. Stanley was once again under a spell which seemed to make him unable to look away from Fiddleford. He quickly cleared his throat, looking away and trying to find the right words before he spoke.

“Just to make sure, do you want to top?” Stanley asked as the back of his hand went to clean his drool covered lips.

“What does that mean?” Fiddleford asked, slightly confused and Stanley let out a small laugh which only left Fiddleford even more puzzled. The contrast of Fiddleford's obvious eagerness mixed with his confusion was equal parts amusing and endearing.

Stanley wanted nothing more than to fill in the gaps of knowledge Fiddleford had, in more than one way. He wanted to drive the man insane with pleasure and Stanley knew he had far too many skills and tricks that would make his lover come undone until he was a writhing, begging mess. But he held back from having those thoughts, it was not the time.

For now, they were going to take things slow, Stanley had to remind himself that. However, that didn't stop him from teasing the man with his words.

“I'll rephrase it” Stanley said, clearing his throat “Do you want to fuck me or do you want me to fuck you?”

“Oh,” Fiddleford now understood what he meant, his dick twitched at the mental image of Stanley beneath him, legs spread and moaning. Sweat covering his face and how his lips would fall open with every thrust. He might not have experience with men, but he did know how to move his hips, and he was more than ready to put them to use.

“I want to fuck you, Lee” Fiddleford let the words out without thinking, only moments after realizing what he said “Oh damn, that didn't sound romantic at all” Fiddleford laughed at the stupidity of what he was saying and Stanley followed.

“It may not have been romantic, but it sure was hot” Stanley said as he tried not to laugh again “Do you mind giving me some space so I can prepare myself? Also, pass me the lube” Stanley pointed at the small bottle that at some point was left forgotten between the now crumpled sheets.

Fiddleford handed Stanley the bottle and watched as he removed his shorts, it was at that moment that he realized Stanley wasn't wearing boxers underneath. He was about to call him out on this gross habit, just to tease, but seeing the way he began to stroke his cock, shut him up.

“Like what you see?” Stanley teased as he let a breathless moan out. He reached for the lube, slicking his fingers with the cool liquid. With a bold, needy moan, he reached down and circled his entrance, teasing the tight ring of muscle before slowly pressing a finger inside, tightening his lips and muffling a moan.

“Yeah...” After seeing that, Fiddleford no longer needed to stroke his dick to keep hard, the sight alone was enough. For a fleeting moment, he wished he still had his memory gun just so he could forget this moment and be able to relieve it, just like he used to collect all those memories and play them on screen over and over again. He wanted to see more of this, more of Stanley being like this.

Fiddleford watched, entranced, as Stanley fingers worked skillfully inside himself. The slick sounds of the lube filled the room, a lewd symphony accompanying the dance of digits plunging in and out. Each curl and press sent sparks of pleasure racing up Stanley's spine, stoking the fire building low in his groin.

Fiddleford, unable to remain as a watcher only, crawled next to him, lowering himself to be near Stanley's thighs. He looked up at Stanley, as if asking for permission and the man just nodded eagerly, ready to take whatever Fiddleford wanted to give him.

Fiddleford began to trail soft kisses to Stanley's thigh, nipping and giving occasional gentle bites. His free hand found its way to the other thigh, going up and down in a loving and careful gesture, pouring all the love he could in those small touches, trying to show how much he was loving this moment.

“Fidds I think I'm ready” Stanley muttered as he pushed Fiddleford's face out of the home he had found in his thighs. Stanley almost wanted to let him stay there, but the promise of a far better feeling gave him strength enough to do as he needed.

“Okay, let me get out of bed” Fiddleford retreated from Stanley's thighs, his lips red and covered in saliva from the amount of sloppy kisses he had given. He stood up, being right in front of the edge of the bed and Stanley shifted to make sure his ass was facing Fiddleford while his back rested against the bed.

Fiddleford gazed down at Stanley with adoring eyes, taking in the sight before him. He wanted nothing more than to express every bit of his love with every touch. His hand trailed from Stanley's thighs to his chest. It was only now that he noticed the severe amount of scars that covered Stanley's body, even with the faint light of the moon that creeped through the window, he could see and feel them.

His hands trailed one particular long scar but he quickly stopped his ministrations as he noticed how Stanley looked away instead of him.

Stanley didn't want to acknowledge them, and Fiddleford wasn't about to do that either. Some things are better left forgotten. There's no need to open old wounds.

Fiddleford's hand quickly backed away, instead focusing on Stanley's chest, hand coursing through the hair until it reached one the nipples, teasing it until it hardened. He lowered himself, peppering Stanley's chest with kisses, who in return let out small gasps.

He let out a small surprised moan as he felt one of his nipples being surrounded by Fiddleford's lips, suckling and flicking the hardened nub with his tongue. Stanley gasped and arched into the touch, fingers digging into Fiddleford's hair. Fiddleford's free hand went to the other nipple, rubbing gently and pulling lightly.

“Didn't you say you had no experience?” Stanley panted out, voice laced with pleasure and a hint of surprise.

A small smile curved Fiddleford's lips as he parted from Stanley's chest.

“With men, men” Fiddleford cleared and repeated the last word for emphasis “I do however have experience enough with women, I'm a father after all”

To punctuate his words, Fiddleford licked a hot trail up the center of Stanley's chest before taking his other nipple into his mouth, lavishing it with the same intense attention

Stanley let out a small breathy laugh and realized how stupid his question truly was. Fiddleford, still hidden in Stanley's chest, followed along in his laugh. Breaking the intensity of the moment.

“Stop laughing Stanley!” Fiddleford said as he parted once again from Stanley's chest, now focusing his attention on separating Stanley's thighs. Stanley only laughed even more at the tone Fiddleford had, everything about this was just absurd and Fiddleford couldn't help but laugh again. “Cut it out! You are making me laugh too!” Fiddleford said with fake annoyance, his smile never faltering but soon did Stanley's.

He stopped laughing, his hands trailing up Fiddleford's arms as he looked up at the man with lust filled eyes. Fiddleford gulped as his gaze met Stanley's, feeling unable to hold it.

“Want me to shut up? Then make me” Stanley said, his voice low and rough “Fuck me”

That seemed to do the trick, Fiddleford was now back to the present, any previous joke or absurdity left behind as he realized the intimacy of the moment they were holding. However he didn't grow shy like previously, instead he adopted the same teasing tone as Stanley, his arms retreated from Stanley's grip and went straight to his ass.

“I'm goin’ to do more than fuck you, sweetheart” Fiddleford said, voice low and laced with something Stanley couldn't quite figure out, but he did know he liked it. Fiddleford spread Stanley's ass cheeks, taking in the sight before lining himself to the entrance. “I'm going to make love to you” Fiddleford said as he pushed himself inside, slowly and carefully.

He then began to give light kisses to Stanley's chest, one of his hands searching for something— Stanley's hand— and once he found it, he didn't let go of it

“Now, that was hot and romantic” Stanley tried to joke but a small groan didn't let him keep his playful tone. He could feel how Fiddleford was stretching him, making its way inside of him.

“It's all in” Fiddleford said as he pushed the last bit, he paused once he was fully hilted, skin touching skin as he let Stanley adjust to the intrusion. “God, you feel so good, Lee.” He leaned in to give Stanley a quick kiss “You are perfect, darlin’. You are just so perfect, you are everything I ever wanted” Fiddleford murmured on top of Stanley's lips, feeling the man beneath tremble and clench around him with every praise, something he apparently liked. Fiddleford took note of it.

“Fidds you are going to kill me if you keep up the sweet talk” Stanley said as he covered his face with his arm, clearly flustered at receiving so much attention.

“I really hope I don't, ‘cause I want to keep goin’,” Fiddleford grabbed one of Stanley's legs, positioning so it rested on his shoulder, getting a better angle to thrust in deeper. “I just want to give you all my love, Lee. I want to adore you and shower you with all the praise you deserve” Stanley let a small whimper out as he felt the cock inside him shift the moment his leg was moved “I adore you, you are the most charmin’, handsome, and loveliest man I have ever come across” Fiddleford punctuated every word with a slow thrust, his face completely flushed as he looked down at Stanley, who seemed unable to hold that gaze full of devotion, choosing to look away.

“Then you haven't met enough men” Stanley mumbled to himself but Fiddleford had caught what he said.

“Shush Lee, I don't need to meet any other men to know I'm right,” Fiddleford grabbed Stanley's chin, determined blue eyes meeting desperate brown ones “I love you, Stanley Pines, and I would do anything for you” Stanley let out a small breath as he looked into the fierce determination that the man held in just a simple look.

“Then keep up the sweet talk... I do like it” Stanley mumbled slightly embarrassed at the words he was saying “Also, please move or I'm going to die, I need you to dick me down onto this bed” It seemed that this embarrassment only applied to sentimental moments, because he did not show an ounce of shame as he let those words out. But Fiddleford couldn't care less in the moment, far too immersed into the warmth of his lover.

Fiddleford began to move again with deliberate, measured strokes, setting a torturously slow pace. He gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to move faster. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Stanley.

However Stanley wanted nothing more than the man to get moving. Each time the swollen head of Fiddleford's cock brushed against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside, he shuddered. The sensation was exquisite, maddening in its lightness, teasing him with fleeting sparks of pleasure that left him craving more.

“Fidds?” Stanley called his name in a shuddering breath.

“Yes, darlin’?” Fiddleford asked as he gave another slow thrust.

“You better get your hips moving soon or I'm not going to give you breakfast” Stanley joked but there was a certain seriousness to it.

Fiddleford didn't need to be told twice. He began to move with swift, confident strokes, withdrawing fully before plunging back to the hilt. The new pace set his lover's body trembling, hips bucking up to meet each thrust.

His own pleasure mounted with every surge forward, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside the heat that gripped him. The obscene slap of flesh against flesh and the creaking of the bed filled the air, a lewd symphony to their coupling.

“Just like that, keep going” Stanley encouraged as moans escaped his lips “Don't you dare slow down”

“Even if I wanted, I doubt I could” Fiddleford panted out, a small whimper left his lips as he felt Stanley clench around him, after thrusting at a particular angle.

“Please do that again! Fidds keep going!” Stanley was about to beg if that meant Fiddleford would keep thrusting him like that.

Fiddleford angled his hips just so, ensuring that with each thrust, he would hit dead-on against Stanley's sweet spot. Piercing pleasure exploded through his lover's body with every impact, drawing a sharp cry of ecstasy from his throat.

“Yes, fuck! Right there, baby!” Stanley wailed, his hands finding their way to Fiddleford's back, clinging to him for dear life. His fingernails raked down Fiddleford's back after one particular hard thrust. Stanley's nail sank hard enough to leave red marks in their wake. “Don't stop, please don't fucking stop!”

Fiddleford was a panting mess, the heat engulfing him far too pleasant to resist not going faster after he heard Stanley's pleas. He grabbed the thigh of the leg on his shoulder while his other hand tightened the grip it had on Stanley's hand.

“Fidds you are way too good at this” Stanley said as he felt the hand on his thigh gripping him harder.

“And yet you were laughing at me” Fiddleford shot back as he gave another hard thrust, making Stanley shudder.

“I can't help it, you are just so cute when you are all flustered” Stanley managed to pant out

“I can say the same about you, right now you look beautiful, adorable even” Fiddleford rolled his hips, his thrusts becoming slower, teasing.

“Shut up Fidds” Stanley said and Fiddleford didn't need words to silence Stanley, for his hips already did the work in one swift motion that took away the ability to speak off the man below. Lost in a haze of pleasure, Stanley's hand reached down to grasp his own weeping cock. “Ah...Fidds I'm close”

“I'm close too” Fiddleford said as his thrusts were starting to lose rhythm, becoming inconsistent and erratic, searching for release. The sight of Stanley pleasuring himself, his cock slick and glistening with arousal as it pumped in his fist, was nearly his undoing. With renewed vigor, he redoubled his efforts, hips slamming against Stanley's ass with enough force to rock the bed frame. He could feel his own release coming close.

“Keep going, don't stop,” Stanley panted out as he slowly forgot how to talk again, becoming nothing but a moaning mess. It didn't help that Fiddleford had begun teasing one of his nipples with the hand that was previously on his thigh, or the way he rolled his hips and slammed into him, hard and fast once again.

It was perfect, everything was. The way Fiddleford's hand touched him was glorious, so careful and gentle. Stanley felt as if he were the finest piece of porcelain. But it wasn't only Fiddleford's touch that made him feel that way, it was everything about this encounter. The way Fiddleford held his hand through everything, how he looked at him with that unwavering devotion and love. Such adoration, love and lust seemed to be impossible to be held in just one look, but Fiddleford somehow did it.

There was something about the way that Fiddleford held him, that made him feel like he was something so precious that should be kept close to prevent from breaking.

It made him feel special.

But he wasn't any of those things.

At least that's what Stanley thought.

He was then brought back to reality as Fiddleford continued his fast thrusts, and Stanley could only moan his name in reply along some barely coherent curses. He did not care about holding back his moans and whimpers, they were in the middle of nowhere after all, no one would hear them.

Stanley let out a high pitched moan of ecstasy as his orgasm crashed over him, his body tensing and going suddenly limp as his cock jerked and pulsed in his grip, painting his and Fiddleford's stomach with streaks of pearly white. He barely had enough energy as he whimpered, feeling Fiddleford still inside of him.

“Fidds you can cum inside if you want” Stanley managed to say between breaths. He felt Fiddleford's dick twitch inside him, making him whimper again, his orgasm far too fresh to keep up any longer with this kind of stimulation.

Fiddleford was lost in a haze of pleasure, the sensation of Stanley's walls clamping down around him like they would never let go was more than enough to send Fiddleford over the precipice of his own shattering climax. He moaned Stanley's name, as he slammed in deep one last time, cock throbbing as he let his cum paint the insides of his lover white.

They clung to each other as they rode out the aftershocks of their mutual pleasure, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breath. Stanley brought Fiddleford closer to him, pulling him into an embrace that he regretted a bit after feeling how sticky they both were.

“How was it?" Stanley asked, still trembling a bit.

“It was— I have no words, but I loved every second,” Fiddleford replied, with a hoarse voice. He pulled out of the embrace —much to Stanley's discontent— and then out of Stanley, settling next to him “It felt so good” Fiddleford settled down onto the bed, looking at Stanley who's gaze was still fixed on the ceiling.

“And just you wait, I haven't shown you all my tricks—” Stanley's words died in his mouth the moment he shifted to look at Fiddleford's face. His playful tone died once he took notice of the softness in Fiddleford's gaze. There it was again, that look that made his heart ache, that made him feel like someone.

He could feel himself getting emotional, he always got like this after sex, always fell into a spiral of thoughts once he was left alone in bed.

But he wasn't alone this time, and a gentle hand caressing his face made him remember that.

Stanley gazed up at Fiddleford, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He felt overwhelmed, adrift in a sea of new and unfamiliar feelings that left him grasping for anchorage. In that moment, all he knew was that he needed to be closer to Fiddleford, needed to feel the solid, comforting warmth of his embrace. He shifted closer, moving until he was face to face with Fiddleford.

“I love you, Lee, I love you deeply” Fiddleford said as he pressed their foreheads together.

Stanley remained silent for a second, unsure how to handle being loved like this, how to handle being touched with such care. He had never felt so cherished and desired and... seen. It was daunting, really and the worst part was that he didn't know where to put all these feelings. What to make out of them.

So instead of letting them swirl uncontrollably inside him, he let them out in a simple sentence that couldn't encompass his strong desire.

“I love you too, Fidds” Stanley managed to keep his voice steady. This was the first time in a long time that someone had stayed with him after such an act. He felt his gaze lowering again, and his hands curling into fists as he let the next words out. Unsure if he should ask for this. “Will you... will you just hold me? And pet my hair... until I fall asleep?"

It was a simple request, but one that spoke volumes about Stanley. He craved the soothing, intimate touch, the gentle caress of Fiddleford's fingers through his hair. It would be a tangible reminder of the love and care Fiddleford had shown him, an anchor in the emotional tempest he found himself in.

More than anything, Staley just wanted to be held in Fiddleford's arms as he drifted off to sleep. He needed to burrow into his lover's warmth, to let it seep into his bones and heal the wounds that only became scars in his skin but not in his heart.

Fiddleford pulled him close into an embrace, moving a soothing hand across the mess of damp hair. He looked down at Stanley as he pet his hair.

“I'm so glad I met you, I would have been so lost without you,” Fiddleford whispered before kissing Stanley's forehead. His free hand tugged at the dirty blankets, pulling them over them both.

“I can happily say the same” Stanley replied as he curled close to Fiddleford's chest.

In that moment, Stanley was a man stripped bare in more than one sense, his walls crumbled and his defenses lowered. He laid himself open and vulnerable, this closeness a silent plea for comfort. It was both terrifying and liberating, to feel so utterly seen and loved.

As the quiet settled over the room, Fiddleford laid close to Stanley, watching his chest rise and fall in steady breaths. They were both exhausted—physically and emotionally—but for once, neither of them felt the pressing need to be anywhere else.

Stanley turned his head slightly, catching Fiddleford's gaze, and smiled.

“You know, I can’t remember the last time I felt this… calm. Really, truly calm. Everything is working out perfectly...” His voice was soft, as if he didn’t want to disturb the peacefulness between them. He paused, his hand finding Fiddleford's, their fingers intertwining. “Right now, I feel like I'm finally… home."

Fiddleford felt a lump form in his throat, his chest warming at Stanley's words.

“You deserve this peace, Lee. You deserve this and more, you deserve to be somewhere you’re wanted.” He squeezed Stanley’s hand, his thumb running gently over his knuckles. “I’m just glad I can… I don’t know, help you find that.” He gave Stanley a small smile

Stanley laughed, a small, breathy sound, and shook his head.

“You do a lot more than that, Fidds,” he murmured, pulling him a little closer. Fiddleford could feel Stanley’s warmth against him, steady and comforting.

They held each other close, savoring the moment and listening to the gentle rhythm of each other’s breathing. Fiddleford reached over, brushing his fingers through Stanley's hair, and watched as his eyes fluttered closed, a look of pure contentment settling on his face. Fiddleford’s heart swelled, feeling grateful, not just for the peace they’d found tonight, but for every moment they’d fought to reach this place together.

He rested his head into the pillow, his chin on top of Stanley's head, who hid his face into the crook of Fiddleford's neck, he felt at ease. Smiling softly, he closed his eyes, and they drifted off, wrapped in each other’s arms, finding a refugee in the warmth of each other.

Chapter Text

The portal flared to life, filling the basement with an unearthly blue light that spilled out in flickering waves. The hum was deafening, vibrating through the floor and rattling the metal shelves against the walls. Fiddleford leaned over the control panel, fingers trembling as he worked through the last of the sequence. His face was tight with a mix of dread and determination, his eyes glued to the portal as if bracing himself for what —or who— was about to come through.

Stanley shifted behind him, casting an uneasy glance at the portal.

“You’re really sure about this, Fidds?” His voice was tense, underlined with a rare flicker of fear. “Do you think he will be okay?”

Fiddleford didn’t look up, trying to keep his own unease at check

“I can't assure you that, but I can assure you that if we wait any longer, the portal might destabilize. We only have this one shot, Stanley.” His voice was tight, the strain of fear woven into every word. “It’s now or never.”

Stanley hesitated, fear and anxiousness clinging to him. But the portal was humming louder now, energy pulsing in the air like a heartbeat.

“I just hope this thing doesn't collapse or explode like you said”

“It won’t,” Fiddleford cut him off, the edge in his voice a forced attempt at confidence. He gave Stanley a quick glance. “But I need you to check the power circuits in the hall. They’ve been acting up since we started, and if one of them shorts, the portal will shut down and could malfunction, leading to an actual explosion”

Stanley didn't need to be told twice, he gave a resigned sigh, somewhat frustrated about not being able to be the first to greet his brother once he came back, he ran a hand through his hair.

“Alright, I will try to keep everything at bay, but if I hear anything strange, I'm coming back, I don't want to lose you too.”

“I'll be fine Lee, don't worry about me” Fiddleford said gently, but his voice trembled, realizing he'll be alone with the active portal.

With a reluctant nod, Stanley turned and disappeared, casting a last worried glance over his shoulder as he went to check the circuits. Fiddleford let out a slow breath, his gaze returning to the portal. He checked the readings one last time, then, with a shaking hand, pressed the final button.

The blue light intensified, crackling and hissing as it filled the room, bathing everything in a harsh, otherworldly glow. For a long, tense moment, nothing happened— just the hum of energy and the flickering lights that still shone brightly. Then, like a mirage solidifying, a shadow began to take shape within the blinding glow.

Fiddleford’s heart pounded as the figure stumbled forward, coming closer torturously slowly, like something crawling out of a nightmare. The shape wavered, then resolved into something more clear— more human, a man. His face was covered by a hood and a face scarf, along with some glasses that made it impossible to distinguish who it was, but Fiddleford knew who he was. Or at least he hoped it was him.

The black clothes and cloak that clung to the man contrasted with the slowly dying light of the portal— It had finally run out of fuel. The man took a step forward, now on the edge of the portal, about to jump down to the ground as he removed the items that covered his face. There he was.

Stanford Pines.

Ford took a halting step forward and out of the portal, letting himself fall to the ground with grace, his gaze darting around the dimly lit basement as if he didn’t quite recognize where he was. But when his eyes locked onto Fiddleford, his gaze hardened instantly, a flash of anger darkening his face.

“Fiddleford.” Ford’s voice cut through the silence, rough and strained. Ford cut the distance set between the control room and the portal in a quick run.

Fiddleford didn't get the time to even process that his friend was back before a fist connected with his jaw, sending him reeling backwards against the wall. The force of it echoed through the basement, followed by Fiddleford’s grunt of pain.

“Ford—what the hell was that for?!” Fiddleford gasped, clutching his jaw as he struggled to steady himself. But Ford’s fury was unrelenting.

“What was that for?” Ford repeated in a low voice, laced with a venom Fiddleford had rarely heard. “I thought you were smarter than this, Fiddleford, you are a damned idiot for bringing me back! What were you thinking?”

Fiddleford tried to push him back, but Ford grabbed his collar, slamming him against the wall again and Fiddleford could feel a headache starting to form.

“Didn't you read the warnings? You must have to if you even got this thing functioning again!” Ford kept on with his furious rant.

“Ford, you don’t understand” Fiddleford stammered, struggling to free himself. “I didn’t want to leave you there, and—”

“Oh, save it,” Ford spat, tightening his grip. “I don’t need your excuses. You, of all people, knew better than anyone what was on the other side of that portal, what it was capable of— and you still activated it?”

Fiddleford grimaced, raising his hands defensively but making no move to push Ford away now

“Ford, just listen—”

“No!” Ford hissed, his voice seething with fury. “Do you have any idea what you just risked?” His knuckles tightened on Fiddleford’s collar, shaking him as he spoke. “Or were you just itching to prove you were right all along? To prove I was wrong”

Fiddleford’s face twisted with indignation as he finally pushed Ford back, his voice and face gaining heat.

“I didn’t do it to prove anything! I did it because someone had to clean up the mess you left behind.” He rubbed his jaw again, glaring up at Ford. “And you have the audacity to act like I’m the reckless one?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re some martyr, Fiddleford,” Ford sneered, shoving him again, his anger as raw as the day they’d parted ways. “I was the one who trusted you, gave you a place in my work— and you abandoned me!”

The words struck harder than the punch he received, and for a moment, Fiddleford faltered. But the bitterness in his gaze only grew, like a storm gathering strength. He closed the distance between them, until their faces were inches apart.

“Abandoned you? You chose your obsession with this damned thing over everything— over me, over us! I was just the guy who tagged along, wasn’t I? Someone you could use until it suited you.”

Ford’s face darkened, his fists trembling with barely contained rage.

“Don’t turn this around on me, Fiddleford. You knew what this was. You think you can stand here and rewrite history just because you grew a conscience halfway through?”

“Oh, I’m rewriting history?” Fiddleford let out a harsh laugh, the sound bitter. “I read the things you wrote about me in your journal, the not so great ones, Stanford. I know how you saw me— I was nothing but your assistant, not your equal… You only saw me as a means to an end.”

Ford’s face twisted, now he was outraged too. Sure, he had written one or two not so "friendly" things about Fiddleford but, who was he to judge him? Besides why the hell did he even read his journals? Wait, did that mean he also read the “great” things he said about Fidds? Ford did write a lot about him, mostly positive things but it seemed as if Fiddleford could only remember the bad things. Classic Fiddleford.

“Fiddleford, don't you dare say such things when you took me for an idiot all this time. Did the memory gun already mess up your head or are you genuinely forgetting the things you erased from my mind? The things you took from me” He spat, his voice shaking with barely-contained rage, he had come to remember all the fights Fiddleford erased from his mind, all the mistakes Fiddleford committed and hid under the rug. He came to remember all the images of Fiddleford's haunting presence, staring at him from the woods with his red cloak. But he also came to remember the not so haunting stares, the ones that had a lingering warmth, all the times Fiddleford's gaze encountered his for far longer than normal, those were also erased from his mind. Every moment that felt too intimate to Fiddleford's taste, vanished from existence, and Ford was left confused everytime days seemed to turn into hours. How the time shifted in such a weird way.

Ford remembered— remembered once again, that particular fight they once had. Fiddleford had told him he was leaving Gravity Falls for good, saying his wife needed him and so did his son, but Ford wasn't going to let him go away just yet, not when they were so close to finishing the portal. Ford saw how tears fell from his friend's eyes, how his voice strained as he begged him to let go. And then, he let the words slip.

“I can't stay here anymore, I can't stay with you and let what I feel grow any more,” The realization of what that meant had hit Ford, far too shocked, that he didn't answer when he had the chance. The image that had once been in front of Ford made him feel something he had buried a long time ago. But before he could even say something, Fiddleford was already pulling the trigger.

Ford blinked and shook his head as he came back to the present.

“You manipulated me! You were the one rewriting history for your own sake and then you left! You left me alone!” Ford took a step closer to Fiddleford, ready to lunge at him, take out all the frustration that remained on him, but the aforementioned noticed this.

Fiddleford had enough. If Ford wanted a fight, he’d get one. He wrenched himself free, shoving Ford back hard enough to make him stumble.

“I left, you are right!” he shouted, voice sharp and bitter. “But you were the one who made it impossible to stay, who put that thing before everything else! I didn’t leave because I was weak as you thought— I left because I was done watching you destroy yourself!”

Ford snarled, throwing another punch that Fiddleford barely dodged but was able to return, the two of them locked in a brutal, desperate struggle. Fiddleford shoved him back, fists clenched, his eyes blazing.

“You have no right to act like I didn’t give everything to help you, I did what I had to do to keep you safe, even when you wouldn’t listen!” Fiddleford said and Ford lunged forward again, grappling with Fiddleford as they wrestled for dominance until he was on top of Fiddleford, raw emotions spilling with every word.

“Safe? You wouldn’t know ‘safe’ if it hit you. You’re still the same stubborn, shortsighted fool you were back then. Always thinking you could just fix things—Thinking you could fix broken people as if they were one of your stupid inventions!”

Fiddleford’s eyes flashed with an emotion somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

“I was not trying to fix you, I was trying to help you!” his voice raw from yelling, strained. “But you were too blinded by ambition to even care about yourself! I had to try and help!”

Ford clenched his jaw, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered in his gaze, though his grip on Fiddleford’s arm didn’t loosen.

“You just made things worse, you know that, right?” His voice was softer, almost broken, and then he shook his head, his face hardening. “I didn’t force you to stay. I didn’t make you a part of this. I gave you a chance to leave, but you stayed until it was too late. You chose this.”

“Yes,” Fiddleford shot back, eyes narrowed, “I chose it, Ford, because I thought— I don't even know what I thought!” His voice trembled, anger and the confusion of his thoughts making the headache worse. “I don't even know why I keep fighting with you every time, why we always come back to...this!”

Ford was thrown by the raw pain in Fiddleford’s words. He chose to look away as if Fiddleford’s pain were an inconvenience.

At that moment, a voice cut through the rage in the room, sharp and commanding.

“Get off him, Ford!”

Ford turned, his grip slackening as he registered the figure standing near. His face went slack with shock, as if he was seeing a ghost.

“...Stanley?”

Stanley’s expression was hard, his arms by his side, gripping at the lower hem of the turtleneck he was wearing and his gaze unwavering. He took a step forward, his voice cold and unyielding.

“You heard me. Let him go.”

Ford’s hand fell away from Fiddleford, the fury in his eyes replaced by disbelief. He stared at Stanley as though struggling to comprehend what he was seeing.

“You… what are you doing here— What are you—?”

“I asked Fiddleford for help after you went through the portal. I will explain everything later.” Stanley said, his voice tight. “Fiddleford helped because I asked him to, I pushed him to help me even when he had doubts on opening the portal again. If anyone’s to blame for bringing you back, it’s me.”

Ford looked between them, his expression twisting with a mix of shock and resentment.

“You… you both are insane— insane and stupid, you could have let Bill cross the portal!”

Stanley held his ground, meeting Ford’s gaze without flinching.

“We’re not stupid, Sixer. We knew what we were doing. We set up protections around the portal, even a unicorn-hair barrier, in case that demon tried to hitch a ride back.” Stanley said and Ford’s eyes widened slightly.

“A unicorn-hair barrier? That’s…” He hesitated, as if reluctantly impressed. “That’s actually… not a bad idea.” He looked at Fiddleford, his tone begrudging. “I should have thought of that.”

Fiddleford gave a small bitter smile.

“Well, it wasn’t my idea.” He gestured to Stanley. “Stanley's the one who suggested it.”

Ford blinked, his gaze shifting back to Stanley with a look that was equal parts confusion and realization.

“Oh.” was all that Ford managed to say

Stanley’s mouth tightened, his gaze hardening as he fought to keep his expression neutral. That brief flicker of disappointment in Ford’s eyes stung, even if he tried to shrug it off. But he didn’t dwell on it; he was too focused on Ford’s exhaustion after such a fight, the disorientation evident in his eyes.

Ford staggered slightly as he stood up straight, rubbing a hand over his face.

“I think… the dimensional shift is making me feel…” His voice trailed off, and his face went pale. He swayed on his feet, his eyes unfocused, and then, without warning, he collapsed.

Stanley rushed forward, catching Ford before he could hit the ground.

“Fidds, help me—he’s out cold.”

The two of them maneuvered Ford’s unconscious form up the narrow staircase, the weight of him pressing down on them with each step. By the time they reached the first floor, both were breathing hard, their faces flushed with exertion.

Stanley pushed open the door to Ford’s old room, nudging it with his shoulder to widen the gap as they entered. The air inside was stale, filled with a faint, musty smell from being left untouched for so long. Dust coated every surface, the bed linens lying rumpled as if they hadn’t been slept in for years. It was a simple room, practically bare— a single bed, a small desk with some writing materials, and a bookshelf filled with nothing but books and never ending researches.

They laid Ford down on the bed, his face pale and his breathing shallow but steady. Stanley took a step back, catching his breath, while Fiddleford brushed a layer of dust from his hands, glancing around the room with a frown, it had been far too long since they had dared to step inside again.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Stanley muttered, crossing his arms as he looked around the room.

Fiddleford shrugged, looking uncomfortable.

“I guess… I never really noticed. He was always too focused on his work to care about much else.”

Stanley said nothing, his gaze fixed on Ford’s still form. The longer he stared, the more hollow the room seemed, as though it were missing something vital— something that had been lost long before Ford had even left. There were no personal touches, no photos, no mementos of their family or friends. Just the bare essentials, like a room meant for someone who didn’t expect to stay long.

A pang of sadness tightened in Stanley’s chest as he took it all in. He remembered the wild look in Ford’s eyes when he’d first arrived, the desperation that had driven him to open that portal in the first place. It was like he’d been trying to escape something he couldn’t put into words, something that had haunted him for years. But now, seeing him lying here, surrounded by the empty trappings of a life he’d barely seemed to live, Stanley couldn’t shake the feeling that Ford had been running from himself.

“How long has he been like this?” Stanley murmured, more to himself than to Fiddleford. “How long has he been alone? I don't mean after you left— I mean in general, when did he become so secluded from reality? From others?”

“I don't know,” Fiddleford glanced at him, his expression softening. “but I reckon it's longer than he would ever admit.”

Stanley’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to his brother’s face. In the dim light, Ford looked fragile, stripped of the fierce determination that had always defined him.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumping as he let out a weary sigh.

“I thought maybe… if I could get him back, things would be different. That he’d be different and maybe we could— I don't know what I'm doing Fidds, I'm just afraid of what will happen now”

Fiddleford hesitated, then placed a hand on Stanley’s shoulder, his voice gentle.

“You did what you could, you did even more than what you should have, Lee.”

Stanley gave a small, bitter laugh.

“I fixed my mistakes, Fidds, I didn't do anything worth praise.” Fiddleford just looked at Stanley unsure of what to say.

They sat in silence, the weight of everything they’d been through settling heavily between them. Stanley’s gaze lingered on Ford, wondering just how much of him had been lost to the obsession that had consumed his life. The same obsession that consumed this hollow, soulless room.

Finally, Fiddleford stood, his hand slipping from Stanley’s shoulder.

“I’ll go clean myself up a bit. He’ll probably be out for a while.”

Stanley nodded absently, not looking up.

“Alright, Fidds.”

With a quiet nod, Fiddleford slipped out of the room, leaving Stanley alone with his brother. For a long while, he sat there in silence, his gaze never leaving Ford’s face. The room felt colder, emptier, with every passing minute.

Ford stirred, a faint murmur escaping his lips as his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey, Sixer… you back with me?” Stanley leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper.

Ford’s gaze drifted, unfocused, before he finally locked onto Stanley’s face. A faint smile touched his lips, one that was weary and almost vulnerable.

“Stanley…?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Stanley murmured, forcing a smile. “You’re home.”

Ford’s smile faltered, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. But he didn’t say anything as his eyes drifted shut once again.

Chapter Text

And it's the end of the world

Stanley eased Ford’s bedroom door shut, leaving his brother to sleep off the disorienting effects of the portal. With Ford finally back, he’d imagined a rush of relief, maybe even hope for their long-estranged relationship. But after what had just happened —after seeing Ford’s face twisted with venom, spitting pure hatred at Fiddleford— relief was the last thing he felt.

He trudged downstairs, his mind a storm of emotions he couldn’t tame.

In the kitchen, Fiddleford was seated at the table, wincing as he dabbed at the bruises blooming along his jaw. A fresh cut split his bottom lip, swollen and bruised, courtesy of Ford’s misplaced fury. The sight made Stanley feel a pang of guilt.

“Let me see that,” Stanley muttered, grabbing a damp cloth and moving closer. Fiddleford looked up, managing a tired smile even through the pain.

“Guess I took quite the beatin’ today, huh?” Fiddleford said with a humorless chuckle, though Stanley could see the hurt buried in his eyes.

“Yeah, well, Ford always did know how to throw a punch,” Stanley replied, his voice low, as he carefully wiped away the dried blood on Fiddleford’s lip. He tried to keep his hand steady, but the anger shaking through him was hard to suppress. “I’m sorry, Fidds. He didn’t… He shouldn’t have done that to you.” Fiddleford shrugged, his expression softening.

“Ain’t your fault, Stanley. I probably had it comin’— though maybe not with the fists,” he said, attempting a weak grin. “I guess he got his revenge, so there's no need for apologies, right?” He smirked as he joked, and Stanley let out a small, choked laugh.

“Wish it worked like that, but I'm not letting you go that easily. You’ll have to be the bigger person,” Stanley mumbled, his throat tightening as he recalled Ford’s scornful gaze, the way his brother had torn into him without a second thought. “Ford’s always been like that, stubborn as a mule. Apologizing is just not in him but he expects other to do”

“I’ll talk to him. Eventually. Once things settle down… I’ll apologize for the things I did to him” Fiddleford murmured, as he recalled some of the times he had erased Ford's memories.

Stanley reached up, brushing a thumb over the bruise on Fiddleford’s cheek, his hand lingering there.

“Thanks, Fidds,” he whispered, his voice thick with everything he wasn’t saying. Gently, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Fiddleford’s forehead, his hand drifting to cradle Fiddleford’s face. The touch steadied him, as if in that small gesture, he could forget— even if just for a second, the bruises and pain Ford had left in him.

Fiddleford’s hand came up to hold Stanley’s chin, pulling him closer until their lips met, warm and slow, the kind of kiss that seemed that could fix anything. When they finally pulled back, Stanley mockingly grimaced, wiping his mouth with a wry grin.

“Great. Now I’m bloody too,” He teased, a laugh bubbling up despite everything. Fiddleford chuckled, and they shared another kiss—softer this time, as if trying to hold longer into the momentary peace.

“Sweet Moses, you’ve gotta be kidding me, Stanley.”

Stanley froze, his blood going cold. They turned, caught in each other’s lips, as Ford stood in the doorway, his face a mask of shock and something harsher, darker. Disgust twisted his features, his fists clenched as he looked between them.

“Ford, I—” Stanley stammered, stepping back as if burned, his cheeks flushed.

Ford’s expression shifted, an incredulous, angry laugh escaping him.

“Really, Fiddleford? You went after my brother?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.

Fiddleford’s face fell, the shame deepening as he struggled to look Ford in the eye. Stanley however tried to regain control of the situation.

“Ford, you woke up...are you feeling better?” Stanley asked as he stepped forward but got no reply, a flash of fear sparking as he noticed how Ford was looking at Fiddleford and then at him. “This isn’t what you think—”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m seeing,” Ford interrupted, his gaze blazing with betrayal. “You don’t need to lie to me, Stanley. I can see the damn hickeys peeking out from under your collar.” Stanley’s breath caught, as he pulled the turtleneck a bit higher, trying to cover the hickeys.

“Ford, listen to yourself. Can you just calm down for a second? Let's just talk and—” Fiddleford began but Ford interrupted him

“So that’s it, Fiddleford? Couldn’t handle being just my assistant, so you decided to get cozy with my brother?” Ford said and Fiddleford clenched his fists, his shame giving way to anger.

“I'm no longer your assistant, Ford,” he replied, his voice shaking but defiant. “And even if I were, why would that even matter? I've got a life of my own”

“Oh, clearly. You also got ‘preferences’ of your own, don’t you?” Ford sneered, the words dripping with contempt. “And apparently, they run in the family”

Every word Ford let out was like a slap to the face, dredging up memories he’d buried. After everything, it was like he was back where he started, being shoved aside by his own brother.

“Seriously, Ford?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. “You just came back and you are...what? Saying such things blatantly in my face” Stanley's voice was low and laced with anger.

Ford flinched, his face twisting with hurt, but he shook his head.

“Stanley, you don’t understand— That's not what I meant. Fiddleford— he’s not what you think. Let me explain” Ford started but got short as Fiddleford's spoke.

“He already knows all the things I have done, Stanford. He knows everything— all my mistakes, all the messed up things I did. He knew damn well what he had gotten himself into” Stanley's gaze was fixed on the floor as Fiddleford spoke, unable to look at Ford. Fiddleford looked between them once again, his own anger stirring as he let out a sigh. “He is not an idiot, Stanford, and maybe you would have been able to see that if you looked past yourself for once” Fiddleford said, his words full of venom.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot how morally superior you are, Fiddleford.” Ford sneered, glancing at him with a look of scorn. “So what is this that I'm looking at? I doubt my brother is stupid enough to get tangled up with you on his own will”

Stanley’s chest tightened, the weight of his brother’s contempt crashing down on him.

“Ford, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Stanley whispered, his voice breaking.

Ford said nothing, his gaze hard, unwilling to meet Stanley’s eyes. The silence pressed down on them, thick and suffocating, a bitter reminder of the distance that had always been there.

Finally, Stanley turned away, his heart aching with a pain he couldn’t bear to show and the need to escape overwhelming him.

“Lee, wait—” Fiddleford called after him, but Stanley shook his head, swallowing the hurt, the anger, the years of unspoken pain.

“I'll see you later, I can't stay here any longer” Stanley muttered, his voice barely steady. He cast one last look at Ford, the man he’d once looked up to, the brother he’d missed every day. And at that moment, there was only a hollow emptiness in his heart.

Without another word, he left, leaving Ford and Fiddleford in the silent wreckage of what they’d all become.

Fiddleford swallowed, the knot in his throat tightening as he turned to Ford, his voice trembling with barely-contained fury.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stanford?” he snapped, his voice laced with anger and disbelief. “He’s your brother! He’s only ever wanted to be there for you, and you treat him like he’s nothing. Like he’s just… some kind of nuisance you can shove aside.”

“I don’t need a lecture from you about family, Fiddleford.” Ford’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening while Fiddleford’s lip curled.

“Oh, don’t you?” he shot back, the sting in his voice sharp enough to cut. “Look, I can handle whatever disrespect you throw my way, Ford. I’ve got experience— quite a lot, thanks to you. But Stanley? He doesn’t deserve this. He’s been nothing but loyal to you, he was desperate to bring you back. And you treat him like garbage. You’re— you’re horrible!” Ford flinched, but he quickly masked it with a bitter laugh.

“Horrible? Because I don’t coddle him? Because I don't want him to ruin himself by being with you?” Ford shot back

“What the—?” Fiddleford tried to form a sentence but his voice was breaking with incredulity at what he heard “Stanford, how the hell is my relationship with him even relevant? If you want to talk about other people's love life then let's get it goin’! I've got a lot to say about you and Bill!” Ford looked away for a brief moment and Fiddleford let out a sigh as he brought a hand to his face as he spoke. “But that's not relevant now, this is about Stanley.”

“Then speak, tell me what I don't know” Ford replied as Fiddleford grimaced, how could this man possibly be that ungrateful?

“Stanley came here just because you asked him to, even when you hadn't spoken to him in years! You even asked him to help you when you were getting sucked into the portal. He did just what you told him, and how do you repay him? By tearing him down every chance you get?” He stood up from the chair and took a step forward, his voice was unsteady and unsure. “Why, Ford? Why are you so bent on punishing the one person who’s actually stayed by your side?” Ford’s face twisted, a strange, unreadable expression passing over his features.

“You don’t understand, Fiddleford.” Ford said while Fiddleford’s eyes flashed with hurt, his voice rising.

“Then make me understand! Because right now, all I see is a man so eaten up by his own arrogance that he’d rather spit on his own brother than admit he might be wrong. Is that what this is, Ford? Is that why you’re so damn bitter? Be honest for once!”

Ford’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The anger in his eyes shifted, darkened, something breaking open that Fiddleford had never seen before.

The silence that followed their clash was deafening.

“You want honesty, Fiddleford?” Ford’s voice dropped, his tone laced with something dangerous “Fine, you will get it! You are nothing but a twisted man, you are so far off from the man I once appreciated. I don't even understand what happened to you.”

“Stanford...” Fiddleford began, unsure of what to say “I know I made mistakes, but that's no reason to take it out on your brother. I'm the one to blame—” Before Fiddleford could continue with his discourse, Ford interrupted him.

“You don't remember what you did, right?”

“Stanford, there are a lot of things I don't remember and I would appreciate it if you could help me recall what exactly got you like this” Fiddleford sighed as his hand combed through his hair, a nervous habit he had picked up from Stanley.

Ford laughed bitterly, his expression twisted, hurt and anger mingling together.

“You forced me to forget so many things, Fiddleford...I would’ve been there for you.” Ford said, speaking of everything that had happened in riddles Fiddleford didn't understand.

“What are you talking about?” Fiddleford asked, Ford’s eyes narrowed, and his voice rose, each word dripping with venom.

“Of course, you don’t remember a thing! That gun, that damned machine of yours—it messed you up, Fiddleford. You’re messed up!” Ford's laugh was now full of the same venom that came with his words while his face remained hard, unrelenting “You always were a coward, Fiddleford. Always running from the truth, hiding behind your inventions, hiding behind anything to keep yourself safe.”

“Ford I swear I don't know what you are talking about—” Fiddleford's voice trembled, afraid of what he could have possibly done to his friend.

Ford’s voice cut him off harshly, cutting like glass.

“No! You didn’t want to know! You wanted an easy way out, and you got it. Congratulations!”

The guilt crashed over Fiddleford, pulling him under, relentless and suffocating. What had he done? Did he hurt Ford in some way? He clearly did with the way Ford was looking at him, but what did he exactly do to hurt him?

“Ford, whatever happened, I'm sorry for it. I promise I'm doing my best to fix my mistakes” Fiddleford said, his voice trembling and uneasy, unsure as to what he was even apologizing for.

“Save it, Fiddleford. You don't remember, and neither should I.” Ford said, Fiddleford had been the one to bring everything down “Just get out of here” Fiddleford took a shaky step back, already retreating.

“Whatever I did, I'm sorry... I never wanted to hurt you.” Fiddleford said with a shaky voice

“Well, you did it anyway,” Ford muttered, his tone final, laced with a cruelty that left no room for hope. “So maybe you should go, Fiddleford. Get out of here before you ruin anyone else’s life. I'm not about to watch you break my brother too”

Fiddleford opened his mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but no words came. Instead, he turned, his heart breaking with every step as he walked away, the silence swallowing him whole.

Ford remained there, watching Fiddleford go away.

He was alone again.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford made his way to the room he shared with Stanley, searching for him after the argument downstairs.

Inside, he found Stanley pacing in tight circles, his shoulders tense, muttering under his breath. He didn’t even glance up when Fiddleford entered.

“Stanley?”

At the sound of his name, Stanley stopped and let out a heavy sigh, finally looking at him. His fingers fidgeted with the ends of his mullet as he took a step closer.

“How’s Ford?” he asked. His voice was quieter now, cautious. “Still mad?”

Fiddleford hesitated before answering, his expression tightening.

“Yeah… he is.”

With a sigh, he moved toward the bed, sitting on the edge before slumping forward, burying his face in his hands. Stanley stayed where he was for a moment before eventually sitting down beside him. Then, after another pause, he lay back against the mattress with a quiet exhale.

“He hates me, doesn’t he?” Stanley muttered.

Fiddleford shook his head.

“No. He’s just… worried about you. And he sucks at showing it.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “He does, however, actually hate me.”

That finally got a laugh out of Stanley—short, and dry.

“Yeah. He definitely does.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension in Stanley’s shoulders slowly eased, his fingers tapping absently against his stomach.

After a long moment, he spoke again.

“I don’t know what to do, Fiddleford.”

“Me neither” Fiddleford admitted.

Another beat of silence passed before Stanley exhaled sharply.

“We should probably check on him,” he murmured, though there was hesitation in his voice. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that. He’s probably still disoriented after… everything.”

Fiddleford didn’t respond right away. His hands tightened around the fabric of his pants, his mind circling back to Ford’s words— sharp, biting, still lingering in his chest like an ache that wouldn’t fade.

Fiddleford swallowed hard.

“You go ahead,” he finally said. “I need a minute.”

Stanley turned his head to look at him, considering. Then, instead of standing, he settled deeper into the bed with a sigh.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “Me too.”

Neither of them moved.

Not yet.

------

The kitchen was quiet when Stanley and Fiddleford walked in, save for the soft clink of a glass hitting the counter. Ford was sitting hunched over, a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid in one hand, his eyes fixed on the glass as though it held all the answers he’d ever lost. His cloak hung loosely from his shoulders, the hem frayed and dirty.

Stanley crossed his arms, studying Ford with a mixture of caution and concern.

“Ford… have you even eaten anything? You shouldn't be drinking, why are you even drinking this early? You just got—”

Stanley quickly swallowed his words as Ford’s expression tightened, directing a glare to Stanley, an impatient glint flashing in his eyes.

“I’ve eaten,” he muttered tersely, waving a hand dismissively. His tone made it clear he didn’t want to linger on the subject, but the air between them was thick with things unsaid.

Stanley and Fiddleford exchanged a glance before Fiddleford took a step closer.

“Listen, Ford… we need to know something. Is Bill Cipher gone? Can he still… possess you? Why did you even make a deal with him?” Fiddleford asked far too quickly.

Stanley's voice joined Fiddleford, softer but equally concerned.

“And… are you hurt? Does anything hurt? Did he do something to you?” Stanley asked, his gaze searching Ford’s face for any sign of injury. “We didn’t exactly get much of an update since everything kind of went down.”

“Oh right! Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked

“Water? Juice? Maybe something to eat?” Stanley was already rummaging through the pantries in the kitchen “I could cook something”

“Is there anything that we can do for you, Stanford?” Fiddleford asked with genuine concern “Anything you need help with? We are here for you”

Fiddleford tried to offer a small smile but it wavered as Ford’s expression grew more tense with each passing moment. He tossed back the rest of his drink in one irritated gulp, setting the glass down with a sharper clink.

“Alright, enough,” Ford snapped, his voice carrying a note of irritation. “You’re asking too many questions. Here’s how we’ll do this: you ask one, I answer. Then I ask one, and you answer.”

Stanley and Fiddleford exchanged another look, reluctant but silently agreeing to the terms. Stanley spoke first, keeping his tone measured.

“Alright. First question—Where's Bill?”

Ford’s jaw clenched, a shadow passing over his face as he met their gaze.

“Gone...I hope,” he replied curtly. “But I wouldn’t bet on it. You don’t just… eliminate something like him easily.” He paused, letting his words settle. “Now, my turn. Since when did you two… become a thing?”

Stanley shifted uncomfortably, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question.

“It… it's complicated ” he murmured, glancing briefly at Fiddleford before looking away. “We met by chance. He came back to the shack looking for you, I explained what happened...our fight. He offered to help me bring you back”

Ford’s gaze hardened, his eyes flicking between them as if trying to find any sign of betrayal. But after a moment, he let it go, leaning back in his chair with a sigh.

“Next question,” Fiddleford interjected softly, stepping in before the silence stretched too long. “Ford… where were you after you went through the portal?”

Ford’s eyes turned distant, his voice bitter as he answered.

“I was in a world of chaos and madness, full of things I wish I’d never seen. The nightmare realm,” He paused, his gaze sharpening as he turned his attention back to them. “But I managed to get through with the help of some other refugees and the oracle. She actually inserted a plate in my head so Bill can no longer possess me" Stanford knocked his head and a loud metal thud could be heard “Now, why did you come back here, Fiddleford? I thought you’d… moved on.”

Fiddleford swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I thought… I could help. To keep you from making the same mistakes, or… worse ones.” He glanced down, avoiding Ford’s gaze. “I came because I didn’t want you to go through all this alone.”

Ford’s expression didn’t soften; if anything, it only grew colder.

“Well, that’s noble of you,” he muttered, his tone laced with bitterness.

He looked up at Stanley, his gaze narrowing.

“Nex question. Why did you summon Bill in the first place?” Fiddleford asked, a barely-hidden accusation lingering in his words.

Ford clenched his fists, looking away.

“Because I was a fool,” he replied quietly, almost as if speaking to himself. “I thought he could help me reach my goals, but he only used me.” His gaze sharpened as he turned back to them. “Now, it's my turn to ask. Where’s the memory gun, Fiddleford? You still have it? Have you used it on Stanley?”

Fiddleford stiffened, casting a quick look at Stanley who seemed nervous to hear the answer too. Fiddleford quickly opened his mouth and spoke softly

“It’s… gone,” he said, voice steady but tinged with regret. “Stanley broke it. We thought it was… better that way.”

A flicker of anger passed over Ford’s face, but he held his tongue, his shoulders slumping as he took in the answer. The silence between them stretched, thick with tension and resentment.

Finally, Ford broke the silence, his gaze focused on Fiddleford with an almost accusatory glare.

“What about your family, Fiddleford?” he asked, his tone cold and plain. “Did your divorce go through? Did you just leave them behind, too?”

Fiddleford’s face tightened, and he nodded, his voice strained.

“Yeah. It went through.” He looked away, the weight of his decision pressing down on him. "And I'll let you know I didn't leave them behind"

As the conversation fell silent, Ford’s eyes swept the room, landing on a stray lego piece from Tate’s last visit. Fiddleford, noticing it too, sighed, fixing Stanley with a slightly reproachful look.

“Lee, I told you to pick up after Tate before you left ‘em scattered everywhere,” he muttered and Stanley scoffed

“I was getting around to it, Fidds. Just got… sidetracked, that’s all.”

Ford, watching their lighthearted exchange, seemed momentarily lost, as though he were an outsider in his own home. His eyes dulled with exhaustion, the sight of Fiddleford and Stanley together driving a painful realization. As they continued to bicker, his gaze drifted back to the whiskey bottle, and he reached for it, pouring himself another shot.

'I can't keep doing this sober' was Ford's only thought as the bickering went on.

“That doesn't matter right now Fiddleford. Now, my turn to ask. Are you okay? Seriously. Are you hurt in any way?” Stanley asked, voice lowering with every word, as if afraid to hear the answer.

Ford’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the glass.

“I’m fine,” he said stiffly.

Stanley eyed him skeptically, his gaze flicking to the way Ford’s shoulders hunched ever so slightly, as if to shield himself.

“Fine? You look like hell. Take off the coat and cloak. Let me see.”

Ford stiffened.

“I don’t need you fussing over me like some kind of—”

“Ford,” Stanley cut him off, his voice sharp and commanding in a way that startled even himself. “I’m serious. Just… do it.”

Ford glared at him but hesitated when he noticed the genuine worry in Stanley's eyes.

Ford sighed heavily, his irritation palpable.

“Fine. If it’ll shut you up.”

With stiff, begrudging movements, he removed his cloak and shrugged off his coat. The layers fell away to reveal a patchwork of bruises and cuts across his arms and shoulders. A particularly nasty gash ran along his forearm, crudely bandaged but still seeping blood.

Stanley’s stomach dropped.

“Moses, Ford,” he breathed, his voice shaky. “What the hell happened to you?”

“It’s nothing,” Ford muttered, averting his gaze. “I’ve had worse.”

“Nothing?!” Stanley’s voice cracked, and he gestured wildly at the wounds. “This is your idea of nothing? Goddammit, Ford, why didn’t you say anything?”

Ford didn’t answer, his silence only fueling Stanley’s panic.

“You’re unbelievable,” Stanley muttered, shaking his head. He turned to Fiddleford, pointing toward the cabinets. “First aid kit. Now.”

“Stan, it’s not—” Ford started, but Stanley cut him off.

“Shut up, Ford. Just… shut up and let me do this.”

Ford’s mouth snapped shut, and for once, he obeyed.

Fiddleford retrieved the kit from under the sink and set it on the counter, but before Stanley could open it, Fiddleford hesitated. He looked between the two brothers, then at Stanley.

“You want me to stick around, or…?”

Stanley shook his head.

“No. I got this. Give us a minute.”

Fiddleford hesitated but nodded, his eyes lingering on Ford. He looked like he wanted to say something, but instead, he left the two of them alone.

Stanley grabbed the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic and bandages. Ford stayed quiet, watching him with wary eyes as Stanley pressed the cotton ball to one of the deeper cuts. Ford hissed through his teeth, jerking slightly at the contact.

“Sorry,” Stanley muttered, though his voice was tight and distant.

Ford watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer.

“Stanley… I’m fine. Really.”

Stanley didn’t look up.

“Stop saying that. You’re not fine.”

Ford frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied his brother.

“Why are you so worked up about this? I’ve been through worse, I'm fine Stanley”

Stanley’s hands froze mid-motion, and he stared down at the gash he was bandaging. His shoulders trembled slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Because I thought I lost you, Ford.”

Ford blinked, taken aback.

“What?”

Stanley’s hands resumed their work, but his movements were jerky and uneven.

“I thought you were dead. Every damn day, I thought about how I pushed you into that portal, and I wondered if I’d killed you. If I’d—” His voice broke, and he let out a shaky breath.

Ford’s chest tightened as he watched his brother unravel.

“Stanley—”

“I didn’t know,” Stanley interrupted, his voice rising. “I didn’t know if you were alive or dead or— God, Ford, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

He gripped Ford’s arm tightly, his fingers trembling.

“And now you’re back, and you are mad at the whole world apparently, and you— you look like this, and I’m supposed to just… pretend everything’s fine? How the hell am I supposed to do that?” Stanley spoke far too fast, words coming out into a twisted tangled mess that Ford barely understood.

Ford stared at him, guilt twisting in his gut.

“Stanley… I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m sorry,” Stanley blurted out, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Ford. For everything. For pushing you, for being an idiot, I should have listened to you— God, I’m so sorry Ford, please forgive—”

Before Stanley could keep up with his rant, Ford grabbed his arm and pulled him into a tight embrace. It was clumsy, desperate, and Stanley stiffened at the contact, unsure of what to do with himself at the sudden and unexpected show of affection.

“It’s okay, Stan,” he murmured awkwardly. “I’m here now”

Stanley clung to him like a lifeline, his shoulders shaking.

“I missed you, Ford,” he whispered. “I missed you so much. I thought I’d never see you again. I was so scared, I was so damn scared.”

Ford tightened his hold, his own throat tightening.

“I’m sorry, Stanley.” Ford said and hearing the words 'i'm sorry' come out of Ford's mouth was something Stanley never thought he would hear.

Stanley shook his head against Ford’s shoulder, his voice muffled.

“I'm the one who should be apologizing, not you”

Ford didn’t answer, but his arms tightened around his brother. He lowered his gaze, guilt twisting in his gut.

"Stanley… I didn’t mean to lash out at you earlier," he said, his voice quieter now. "I was also scared. I still am."

Stanley's grip loosened slightly, his breathing uneven as he processed Ford's words.

Ford hesitated, then continued.

"I know what I said earlier hurt you. I shouldn’t have— I shouldn't have taken it out on you. But Stanley, I am worried about you. I came back and found you living with him—" he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t trust Fiddleford to be around you. I don’t trust him at all. And I— I’m worried he’s going to hurt you."

Stanley stared at him, stunned into silence. Ford rarely admitted when he was afraid but before he could say anything. A soft voice by the threshold broke the silence.

“Uh… can I come in now?”

Fiddleford’s drawl cut through the tension and Stanley pulled away, hurriedly wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on in.” His voice was rough, strained with the remnants of emotion.

Fiddleford stepped inside, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. In his hands was a small brown bag, crinkled and slightly overstuffed.

“I was wonderin’ if you might be hungry, I know you said you ate but I don't believe you” he said, his tone casual but kind. “Ain’t much of a meal, but it’ll do for now.”

He handed the bag to Ford, who accepted it hesitantly. His brows furrowed as he peered inside, rummaging through its contents. His face softened almost imperceptibly as he pulled out a familiar package of cookies and a small bag of jelly beans among other goods.

Ford blinked, holding up the jelly beans with a faint smile.

“Huh, seems like you do remember some things” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

“Ha...yeah,” Fiddleford said lightly and embarrassed “Figured it might cheer ya up a bit.”

Ford didn’t reply, but he tore open the cookies, biting into one with an audible crunch. He devoured them like a man starved, crumbs dusting his fingers and lips. After swallowing the first bite, he let out a soft, contented sigh.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had anything this good,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “I missed sweets. I missed… all of it, really.”

Stanley watched him, guilt churning in his chest. He bit back the urge to apologize again.

“You want something real to eat? I can whip up something quick, the fridge is stocked right now so—”

Ford glanced up, his mouth twitching into a faint smirk.

“You? Cooking?” He gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “Stanley, the last time you tried to cook, you nearly burned down the house.”

“Hey, that was decades ago! I’ve gotten better. Ask Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford perked up, eager to back him.

“It’s true,” he said. “I’ve had a taste of his cookin’, and it’s—” Ford turned sharply, his glare cutting like a blade. Whatever Fiddleford was about to say died on his lips, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yeah. He can cook pretty well,” Fiddleford muttered, stepping back slightly.

Stanley scowled at the tense exchange but didn’t comment. Instead, he turned his attention back to Ford, a grin tugging at his lips.

“So? You want me to prove it?”

Ford leaned back in his chair, considering.

“You know how to make mom’s stew?”

Stanley’s grin faltered for a moment, his gaze lowering.

“I mean… not exactly. But I can make something close. Been messing around with the recipe a bit. It’s not bad.”

Ford’s expression softened, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Stanley got to see a hint of genuine happiness in his brother's face.

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

Stanley nodded, his chest swelling with happiness.

“Alright. I’ll get started. You just sit tight, okay?”

Ford waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry. I’m not planning on doing much.I’ll stay in the living room.”

Stanley hesitated, glancing back at him

“You sure? Maybe you should go sleep some more until everything is ready—”

Ford placed a hand on Stanley's shoulder, stopping his incoming rant.

“I'm fine, Stanley. Just… don’t burn anything, alright?”

Stanley frowned again, he was getting sick of the word 'fine'.

“No promises.” Stanley said as he turned to Fiddleford, who had been lingering awkwardly by the door. “Mind helping me get everything ready?”

“Sure thing,” Fiddleford said, stepping forward. He shot Ford a quick glance, his expression unreadable and then followed after Stanley.

Ford stood up, ready to go to the living room and try to get some rest. His attention drifted back to the half-empty tumbler on the table, but he decided to ignore it for now. Later it will be.

----

Stanley stood at the stove, stirring a pot while chopping vegetables on the counter. His movements were quick, almost frantic, as he kept glancing toward the living room. Ford was still there, seated in the chair, staring at nothing in particular. Every so often, his fingers brushed against the armrest, as if grounding himself.

Stanley couldn’t stop looking. Each time he turned his head back to the cutting board, his anxiety spiked, and he felt an irrational fear gnawing at his chest. What if he looked away too long? What if Ford disappeared? What if—

“Ah, crap!” Stanley hissed as the knife slipped, slicing into his finger. Blood welled up instantly, and he grabbed a dishrag to staunch it.

Fiddleford, who had been quietly organizing ingredients, snapped his head up.

“Lee, you alright?” he asked, stepping closer.

“It’s fine. Just a nick.” Stanley’s voice wavered slightly, betraying his nerves.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said gently, his brow furrowing. “What’s goin’ on? You’ve been quiet jittery since you started cookin’. You’re gonna hurt yourself worse if you keep this up.”

Stanley let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping.

“I’m afraid,” Stanley admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid this is just another dream. Another cruel dream where Ford’s back, where everything’s okay, and then I wake up, and he’s gone. Gone for good.” Fiddleford softened at the confession, stepping closer.

“Stanley, he’s here,” he said firmly. “He’s here, flesh and blood, sittin’ right in the other room. I promise, you’re not dreamin’. It’s real.”

Stanley nodded but didn’t look convinced. His hands trembled slightly as he went back to chopping, the knife clattering faintly against the board.

“Let me help,” Fiddleford offered, taking the knife from Stanley before he could protest. “We’ll get this done together. You focus on stirrin’ that pot, and I’ll handle the rest.”

Stanley hesitated but eventually relented, stepping back to let Fiddleford take over. As they worked, Fiddleford tried to lighten the mood with a few jokes.

“So,” he drawled, “is this stew one of those ‘secret family recipes,’ or are we just tossin’ stuff in and hopin’ for the best?”

Stanley snorted faintly but didn’t reply.

Undeterred, Fiddleford quipped,

“If this stew doesn’t turn out right, I’ll just blame it on your terrible knife skills. What kinda cook cuts himself makin’ stew?” Fiddleford joked with a teasing smile.

That earned a weak chuckle from Stanley, but his tension remained palpable.

Fiddleford frowned, then leaned over and gave Stanley a quick peck on the cheek.

“Stop worryin’,” he said softly. “You’re doin’ just fine, Stan.”

Stanley froze for a moment, blinking at him, then gave a faint smile.

“Yeah. I’ll try.”

Chapter Text

‘This is messed up.’

‘This is messed up on so many levels.’
‘Fiddleford truly is a bastard.’

Ford sat stiffly on the couch, his hands clasped tightly together as his eyes fixated on the far wall. The quiet hum of conversation drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the rhythmic “chop, chop, chop” of a knife hitting the cutting board.

He could hear them.

Stanley’s low, gravelly voice, saying something casual. Fiddleford’s familiar southern drawl responding, too soft for Ford to make out the words. Then—laughter.

Stan’s laughter.

Ford swallowed hard, his throat dry.

‘What the hell is going on here?’

His stomach churned, and against his better judgment, he glanced toward the kitchen.

Stanley was standing beside Fiddleford, leaning close, grinning at something the man had said. Fiddleford was smirking, shaking his head as he passed Stanley a handful of chopped vegetables. Stanley took them without hesitation, their hands briefly brushing together.

Ford’s chest tightened.

‘This isn’t right.’

He hadn’t been back long. He was still adjusting, still piecing himself back together after everything, but this? This was the last thing he expected to walk into.

To be honest, he never thought he’d be back at all.

And yet—

He was here.

And so was Fiddleford.

His breath came shallow as he turned away from the scene, staring at the floor with wide, unblinking eyes.

‘Stanley. My brother. The all-time Casanova—dating Fiddleford?’

‘How is that even possible? He never showed interest towards men’

It had to be a mistake. Some kind of cruel joke. There was no way Stanley would ever—could ever—be with him.

Not after everything.

Not after what he did to him…right?

But Fiddleford had said Stanley knew. That Stanley knew everything Fiddleford had done.

Ford’s stomach twisted painfully.

‘Or maybe he thinks he knows.’

His hands clenched.

‘Stan’s always been reckless. Naive. Stupid. Too trusting’

‘Easily manipulated’

He looked at them again, watching the way Fiddleford’s shoulder brushed against Stanley’s. Watching the way his brother smiled so easily, so openly.

Stanley wasn’t guarded. Wasn’t suspicious.

He didn’t even seem uncomfortable.

‘He’s completely at ease with him.’

Ford’s jaw locked. That wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense.

Unless—

‘Fiddleford did something to him.’

His pulse spiked. His breath came faster.

‘The memory gun. He never answered me when I asked if he used it on Stanley.’

The thought hit him like a freight train, and suddenly his entire body felt cold.

‘Did he use it? Did he hurt my brother?’

His grip on his knees tightened until his knuckles turned white.

‘Of course he did. That’s what he does.’

Ford inhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, but the thoughts kept coming, tumbling over each other like a collapsing dam.

‘Fiddleford erased my memories. He made me forget. He could have done the same to Stanley.’

‘He could have taken something from him—wiped things away, twisted the truth—’

‘He could have made Stanley think he wanted this—’

Ford’s entire body tensed.

‘Is this some sort of messed up attempt to replace me?’

He shot another glance at them, his breathing uneven. Fiddleford was laughing now—laughing—as if nothing was wrong, as if he hadn’t left Ford to rot in his own mind, as if he hadn’t destroyed everything.

And Stanley—

Stanley was smiling back.

Ford’s stomach flipped. His vision blurred at the edges.

‘This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.’

He swallowed thickly, barely noticing how his leg had started bouncing.

‘I have to get Stanley away from him.’

The worst part was—he didn’t even know how deep it went.

Was this an isolated case? Was Fiddleford still running that cult?

What if—

Ford’s breath caught in his throat.

‘What if he calls them? What if this is all part of some plan?’

A sudden image flashed in his mind— Stanley, eyes blank and vacant, his memories stripped away.

Ford’s body went rigid.

‘I need to warn him. I need to make him understand.’

His brother had no idea what kind of man he was dealing with.

And before it was too late—

Stanley had to know.

“The stew is ready!”

Chapter Text

Once the stew was served, the three of them sat down to eat. The air was thick, heavy and pressing against them with an unbearable weight. The only sounds were the occasional clink of utensils against ceramic and the quiet shifting of chairs.

Ford barely touched his food.

Instead, he kept his eyes on Fiddleford, watching him with thinly veiled hostility, his fingers curled so tightly around his spoon that his knuckles went white. Every now and then, his gaze would flick to Stanley, searching for something —confirmation, understanding, an answer he didn’t want to hear.

Stanley did his best to ignore him, but his hand trembled slightly as he lifted his spoon.

Finally, Ford broke the silence.

“So, tell me, Fiddleford,” he said, his voice sharp, deliberate. “What exactly are you doing here? You claim you came to check on me, but forgive me if I don’t buy that bullshit.”

Fiddleford stilled, his fingers tightening around his fork. He flicked his eyes toward Stanley, who met his gaze and gave him a small, barely noticeable nod.
Fiddleford exhaled slowly.

“I came here to stop you from openin’ the portal," he admitted, voice low. “I was goin’ to erase your memories of it.”

Ford let out a short, humorless laugh.

“Of course you were.” He shook his head. “Always so eager to make drastic decisions when faced with a simple problem.”

Fiddleford’s grip on his fork tensed, but he forced himself to breathe. He would not lose his composure. Not in front of Stanley.

“Ford, look, I know I’ve said this a million times, but I’m sorry.”

“How can you be sorry,” Ford snapped, “when you don’t even know what the hell you’re apologizing for?”

Stanley watched the exchange, his jaw tightening. He shoveled another spoonful of food into his mouth, barely tasting it.

Ford turned to him, eyes narrowing.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” His voice was cold, accusing.

Stanley hesitated, his stomach twisting, but he nodded.

“Yeah...I knew.”

A shift in Ford’s face—anger bleeding into something worse. Something colder. A look of soft betrayal, disgust curling at the edges.

Fiddleford saw it. He felt it.

And he was not about to let Ford tear Stanley apart.

“He knew, and he hated me for it,” Fiddleford said firmly.

“Not enough to stop him from tangling up with you, it seems,” Ford bit back.

Fiddleford fell silent. Stanley looked down at his bowl, shoulders tense, as if he wanted to shrink into his seat.

“Stanford, can you not do this?” Fiddleford said, his voice quieter now.

Ford raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence.

“Do what?”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about,” Fiddleford muttered.

Ford leaned forward slightly.

“I don’t, actually. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Fiddleford turned his head, catching Stanley’s expression—he looked like he wanted to disappear. His eyes, dark and unreadable, cut straight through Fiddleford’s resolve.

Fiddleford looked away.

“It’s nothin’. Forget it, Stanford.”

“Oh, I can forget it,” Ford said with a sharp, humorless grin. “But I might need a bit of your help with that.”

Fiddleford’s grip on his fork tightened, his knuckles turning white.

For a brief, reckless moment, he wanted to lunge across the table, to grab Ford by the collar and shake him, to knock some goddamn sense into him.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he shoved his chair back with a screech and stood.

“Stanley, I need a second,” he muttered, his voice flat, his patience worn thin. “I'll be right back”

And without another word, he walked away, leaving the tension hanging thick in the air behind him. Stanley was already a step toward the door, ready to follow Fiddleford when a hand clamped around his wrist.

The grip wasn’t violent, but it was firm —unyielding.

“You stay right here, Stan,” Ford said, voice low and brimming with restrained anger.

Ford’s fingers dug in just slightly, anchoring Stanley in place.

“You think you know Fiddleford,” Ford said, his voice eerily calm, his expression unreadable. “But you don’t.”

Stanley forced himself to meet his brother’s gaze.

“Ford, I already know everything he did. I know the kind of man he used to be.”

Ford’s expression twisted into something ugly.

“You knew, and yet you still decided to stay with him?”

Stanley could feel goosebumps creeping into his skin.

“I needed his help with the portal.”

“And apparently for other things,” Ford shot back, his words razor-sharp.

Stanley flinched. His stomach twisted, a sick weight settling there.

“Ford,” he said, voice tight, “I understand you two had a messy past, but he’s changed.”

Ford’s laugh was bitter, hollow.

“I don’t care if he’s changed,” he said. “He changed once before, didn’t he? He was my best friend— until he wasn’t. Until one day, I woke up, and he was pointing that gun at my head, ready to wipe anything he didn't like off my mind”

Stanley stiffened, the weight in his gut growing heavier.

“You think that kind of betrayal just disappears?” Ford pressed. “People don’t just stop being who they are, Stanley. They relapse. They make the same mistakes again. And if you think for one second that he won’t do the same to you—”

"If he wanted to, he would’ve done it already," Stanley cut in, his voice firm but his hands curling into fists.

Ford exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Maybe he did,” he murmured. “Maybe you just don’t remember it.”

Something cold crawled up Stanley’s spine. Fear.

“He—” Stanley’s voice faltered. “He didn’t use the memory gun on me.”

Did he?

“He would never,” Stanley insisted. “He wouldn’t even think about it.”

But what Stanley didn’t know —what he couldn’t know— was how many times Fiddleford’s fingers had ghosted over the trigger, how many nights he had sat awake wondering if it would be kinder to erase Stanley’s pain entirely.

“He isn’t that kind of person,” Stanley said, but there was something weaker in his voice now, a crack in the foundation.

Ford latched onto it.

“And how are you so sure about that?”

Stanley took a sharp breath.

“Because I trust him.”

Ford’s expression darkened.

“I don’t,” he said coldly. “And you shouldn’t either.”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate.

“Look, Stanley,” Ford said, lowering his voice as his hands came down on his brother’s shoulders, gripping them with an intensity that made Stanley’s throat tighten. “I know he seems harmless and charming and all that”

Stanley shook his head, but Ford wasn’t done.

“He even had a cult—”

“He ended the cult,” Stanley snapped. “It no longer exists.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed.

“So you knew about that too?”

Stanley hesitated, his jaw clenching.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “But to be fair, I didn’t know half the things he did until I was—” He stopped himself too late.

“Until you were what?”

Stanley exhaled through his nose.

“Until things got too far”

Ford groaned, dragging a hand down his face in frustration.

“Stanley, you are unbelievable!” he snapped. He turned, pacing the room like he needed to physically burn off the anger crawling under his skin. “I just— I can’t understand you! How could you let him in your life knowing what he did to me?” He stopped, whirling back to face Stanley. “You don’t even know the half of it! He is going to tear you apart! He is going to ruin your life and turn his back on you”

Stanley’s fingers curled, nails biting into his palms.

“Bold of you to say that,” he bit out, “when you were the one who let Pops kick me out.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Ford stiffened.

“You—”

“You were the one who actually turned his back on me, Ford. You let everything go down, you closed those curtains and acted as if nothing happened. It was supposed to be us! Together! But you—” his voice cracked, “—you did nothing!”

Ford’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“You tore apart my future first,” he shot back, voice low and venomous. “I wouldn’t be here —in this godforsaken shack— if I’d gone to the West Coast.”

He stepped closer with every word.

“I wouldn’t have ended up on the other side of the portal if it weren’t for you!”

Stanley flinched.

“Ford,” he choked out, “I don't know what more you want from me, I don't understand what you want me to do. I already did everything I could to fix things. I— I suffered for it. And I don't mean just here, I mean before you called” His voice shook. “Do you even know what it’s like on the streets?”

Ford hesitated.

“You don’t,” Stanley spat, and the rage in his voice was raw, aching. “You have no idea what I went through. Every day, I had to fight to survive.”

His breath was ragged now, his hands trembling.

“I was seventeen,” he said, and this time, it was barely above a whisper. “Seventeen, Ford! And I had to just— just suck it up and keep going.”

Ford’s stomach twisted and Stanley took a shaking breath.

“I had to sleep in my car,” he said, voice breaking. “I had to live in filthy, run-down motels while you were warm in bed. While you had three meals a day, I barely got to enjoy one proper meal”

He grabbed Ford’s collar before he could think better of it, his grip tight, desperate.

“You don't know what my life was like in those ten years, so don't pretend to know me, don't pretend to care and know what's best for me”

Ford looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, he saw the exhaustion— saw the years of pain Stanley had been carrying alone.

And still, the anger didn’t leave him. It only shifted.

He swallowed hard.

“Is that why you cling to Fiddleford?” he finally asked. “Because he’s the first person to treat you nicely?”

Stanley’s breath stopped for a second.

Ford shook his head, his expression almost pitying now.

“Wake up, Stanley,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “This is a disaster waiting to happen.”

Stanley stayed silent, his fists still clenched in Ford’s shirt.

Ford saw it. He saw something in his brother’s eyes, something he had been looking for.

Doubt.

He reached out, his hands wrapping around Stanley’s wrists, carefully prying them away from his shirt.

“Look, Stanley,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I’m just worried about you.”

Ford tightened his grip, as if afraid his brother would slip away completely.

“I don’t want you to suffer more, I—”

Stanley let out a bitter laugh, something hollow and exhausted.

“You are the one making me suffer, Ford.”

Stanley pulled his arms free, stepping back as his expression twisted in something raw— something Ford couldn’t place but knew hurt to look at.

“And I just don’t know how much longer I can take this.” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “You say you’re worried, that you missed me, but every single time, we just end up right back here. Fighting. Tearing into each other like it’s all we know how to do.”

“Stanley—”

“Just say it,” Stanley interrupted, his voice shaking but his eyes burning. “Say you want me gone. Say the words, so I can finally hate you.”

Silence.

Ford stared at him, his mouth slightly open, but nothing came out.

Stanley’s fists clenched at his sides.

“You can’t even do it,” he whispered, his breath ragged. “You’re a coward, Ford. You can’t even bring yourself to say it.”

Ford looked away, eyes fixed on the floor as if he could find the right words there.

But it was too late.

Stanley turned on his heel and stormed upstairs, his footsteps heavy, each one echoing like a final nail in the coffin.

Ford stayed where he was.

He hadn’t told Stanley to leave.

But he hadn’t asked him to stay either.

Chapter Text

The morning light filtered through the cabin windows, stretching pale golden streaks across the floor. The air inside was heavy, thick with the weight of yesterday's fight. The weight of years.

Stanley was already gone. He had slipped out for a walk as soon as the sun came up, leaving Ford and Fiddleford alone.

Fiddleford stood by the table, arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line. Ford sat hunched in a chair, rubbing a hand down his face as if scrubbing away exhaustion, or maybe guilt.

“Ford.”

“Fiddleford.”

Their voices were stiff, clipped. Neither willing to budge, neither willing to be the first to break.

Fiddleford exhaled sharply.

“He avoided me all day, what the hell did you tell him? He didn't even sleep”

Ford stilled, fingers curling against the table’s surface. His voice was flat when he responded.

“Told him what he needed to hear”

“No,” Fiddleford bit out, stepping closer. “You just told him what you wanted to believe was the truth”

Ford scoffed.

“Oh, please. I—”

“Don’t you dare brush this off.” Fiddleford’s voice was quiet but firm, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You think you’re protecting him? You think pushing him away is going to make him safer? All you’re doing is proving every awful thing he already believes about himself.”

Ford’s jaw tensed.

“You don’t understand.”

“No, you, don’t understand,” Fiddleford shot back. “Stanley is trying his best and every time he gets close, you knock him down. You treat him like a mistake, like a burden you never wanted. And he takes it— because it’s you. Because he thinks he deserves it.”

Ford’s fingers twitched. His mouth opened, then shut again.

“You’re still so caught up in your own damn grudge that you don’t even see what you’re doing to him.” Fiddleford’s voice wavered for a fraction of a second, but he pushed forward. “I get it. You hate me. You’ll probably always hate me. And you don’t have to forgive me— I wouldn’t expect you to. But you have to stop taking it out on him.”

Ford inhaled sharply through his nose, his expression flickering for a brief moment into something—guilt? Regret? But then his shoulders squared, his mouth set into a tight line.

“Stanley is an adult,” he said stiffly. “He can handle himself.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Fiddleford snapped. “This isn’t about whether he can ‘handle himself.’ This is about the fact that he needs you, and you’re making damn sure he knows he’ll never be enough for you.”

Ford flinched. A small, barely perceptible reaction—but Fiddleford caught it.

“Look, I know I messed up. I know I did things I can’t take back,” Fiddleford continued, his voice quieter now. “And if you hate me for the rest of your life, fine. But for his sake, I need you to let go of whatever anger you’re clinging to.”

Ford looked away, his grip tightening against the table’s edge. He wanted to argue. He wanted to shove back, to insist that Stanley would be better off without Fiddleford in his life. But the words stuck in his throat.

Fiddleford took a step closer, his voice low and steady.

“I swear on my life, Ford, I love him. I would do anything —anything— to keep him happy.” He held Ford’s gaze. “And if I ever do hurt him, if I ever break him the way you think I will, then you can do whatever the hell you want to me.”

“You’re really that sure of yourself?”

“More than I’ve ever been of anything,” Fiddleford said without hesitation. “And that’s why I’m begging you, Ford. Not for me, but for him. Stop being such a stubborn, self-righteous asshole, you are the only family he has left, and you know it”

The words landed hard.

Ford looked away.

He stayed silent for a long time, tension simmering under his skin. Fiddleford could practically see the war happening behind his eyes, the push and pull of anger and doubt.

Finally, Ford exhaled.

His hands curled into fists on the table before slowly unfurling, fingers pressing against the wood as if grounding himself. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter. Tired.

“I don’t know what to do, and you don't either” Ford admitted. Ford shook his head, looking down at the table. “So don't try to sell me this act”

“I ain't selling you no act Ford, I'm just saying things as they are” Fiddleford said, his voice low and cautious.

Ford looked at him for a moment, trying to search for any trace of a facade Fiddleford might be putting on.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t the same as before. This wasn’t cold, stubborn refusal. This was something breaking, like a sinking boat that fought to stay afloat.

Fiddleford finally spoke, his voice softer now.

“Stanley doesn’t need you to have all the answers, Ford. He just needs to know you still want him here.”

Ford swallowed hard. He could still hear Stanley’s voice from the night before, raw and shaking. ‘Say you want me gone. Say the words, so I can finally hate you.’

And he hadn’t been able to do it. Not because of cowardice, not because he was incapable of cruelty— but because it wasn’t true.

He didn’t want Stanley gone.

Ford’s voice was hoarse when he finally spoke.

“I fear it's not as easy as you make it seem, you should know it” Ford said, shooting a quick glare. Fiddleford averted the gaze, quickly clearing his throat.

“I know, I know damn well. That's why you gotta start making up for it. One step at a time.” He crossed his arms. “But you better move fast, ‘cause if you keep dragging your feet, he might just decide he can hate you after all.”

Ford let out a long breath. He knew Fiddleford was right— though he didn't want to admit that Fiddleford, out of all people, was right on family matters.

However, that wasn't relevant as of now.

Ford stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor. He glanced toward the door.

“Where did he go?” Ford asked and Fiddleford arched a brow.

Ford hesitated, then sighed.

“I need to talk to him.”

Fiddleford studied him for a long moment before finally relenting.

“He took a walk down by the lake I think”

Ford nodded, his throat tight. He stepped toward the door but paused before opening it, glancing back at Fiddleford.

“This doesn't mean we are on good terms, Fiddleford,” he said, the words foreign but the next ones were sincere “but thank you regardless”

Fiddleford smiled for a brief second until he heard the door click shut.

Said smile and air of confidence faltered as he took a seat by the table.

“Aw Lord, I hope he doesn't screw it again”

--------

The lake was still, the water reflecting the pale morning sky. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Stanley sat on a fallen log near the shoreline, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, cigarette dangling between his fingers. He hadn't bothered to light it.

Ford spotted him from a distance, hesitating just long enough to wonder if this was a mistake. But he had already come this far.

His boots crunched against the damp ground as he approached.

“Stanley.”

Stan tensed slightly but didn’t look up.

“If you came here to keep arguing, don’t waste your breath.”

Ford sighed, shifting his weight.

“I didn’t. I just… I need to say something.”

A beat of silence. Then Stanley exhaled, putting the unlit cigarette in his pocket.

“Fine. Say whatever you need to say.”

Ford sat down on the log beside him, leaving a few inches of space between them. He stared out at the water, his fingers curling against the fabric of his coat.

“I know I’m an asshole.” The words came out blunt, but Ford didn’t let himself stop. “I know I say things without thinking. I act like I’m the smart one, like I always have the answers, but half the time, I don’t think at all— I just react. And usually, I make everything worse.”

Stanley didn’t respond, but Ford could tell he was listening.

“I don’t—” Ford exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean to be like this. I just… It’s hard. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for last night. For every time before that, too.”

Stanley finally shifted, his hands clasped together. His voice was quiet.

“It’s okay. Whatever.”

Ford frowned.

“It’s not okay.”

Stanley let out a dry, humorless chuckle.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like this is new. You’ve been like this for quite a while.” He shook his head, standing up and kicking a loose rock toward the water. “You say shit, I take it. That’s just how it works.”

Ford swallowed hard, guilt curling in his chest. He wanted to argue, to say that wasn’t true— but it was. Even though they were inseparable as kids —and even as teens— there were always those fights that left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Unfinished businesses they left in the past, that they kept hiding under the rug in order to keep up with their bond. They were always one fight away from ruining everything, and said fight had already happened 10 years ago.

Ford took a breath, steeling himself.

“I'm sorry for all the things I ever said to you”

“I already told you it's okay, Ford” Stanley replied dryly

Ford remained in his seat on the log, watching as Stanley paced around. He sighed, knowing that not a single word that could come out of his mouth would be convincing enough. Actions spoke louder than words after all.

“I need to ask you something.”

Stanley finally looked at him, his expression guarded.

“What?”

Ford hesitated, then met his brother’s gaze.

“Whatever’s going on between you and Fiddleford… I need to know that it’s your choice. That you’re okay. That he’s not—” He exhaled. “That he’s not manipulating you.”

Stanley blinked, then his expression twisted into something between disbelief and exasperation.

“Are you seriously asking that?”

Ford’s jaw tightened.

“Yes, I’m serious.”

Stanley let out a sharp laugh.

“Moses, Ford. Do you hear yourself?” He shook his head. “You think I can’t take care of myself? That I don’t know when someone’s screwing with me?”

“That’s not what I—” Ford cut himself off, frustrated. “I just… I need to hear you say it. That you’re sure about this.”

Stanley was quiet for a long moment, staring out at the water. Then he sighed.

“I swear, Ford. Everything between me and Fidds is fine. He’s not screwing with me. He’s not using me. I’m a grown man, I can handle my own relationships.”

Ford studied him carefully, searching for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of doubt. But Stanley’s gaze was steady.

Finally, Ford nodded.

“Okay. You are right”

Stanley raised an eyebrow.

“That’s it?”

Ford sighed, hand rubbing his face in defeat, he couldn't believe he was seriously doing this.

“Would you rather I start a fight about it?”

“I would rather you don't” Stanley said, still uncertain of what was happening. “I'm just surprised you actually backed down.”

Ford inhaled some air, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m trying.”

Stanley huffed, shaking his head with a smirk.

“Yeah, well, don’t try too hard. Might hurt yourself.”

Ford laughed. A small, quiet thing—but real.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It wasn’t full of things unsaid, of words that cut too deep. It was just quiet. Peaceful.

Ford let it settle before speaking again, his voice softer this time.

“I don’t want to lose you, Stanley.”

Stanley’s smirk faded, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he said down next to Ford and nudged his shoulder lightly.

“Well, you better stop being such a dick, then.”

Ford huffed.

“I’ll do my best.”

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since Ford had come back through the portal— since the impossible had become reality and the six-fingered ghost of Stanley’s past had stumbled back into the world of the living.

And in that time, not much had changed.

At least, not for Ford.

The man spent most of his time buried in research, pacing the basement in frantic circles, muttering meaningless words under his breath, scribbling in his journal until the pages threatened to tear under the pressure of his pen. His mind, so long accustomed to survival in another dimension, hadn’t slowed down since returning. And maybe, Stanley figured, that was part of the problem.

Ford didn’t sleep much. He barely ate unless someone shoved a plate in front of him. And as far as Stanley could tell, Ford was running purely on adrenaline, stubbornness, and whatever scraps of energy he could pull from the void.

Which led to this particular moment, where Ford sat hunched over the kitchen table, nose buried in his journal, furiously scribbling notes about gravitational anomalies as if the meaning of life depended on it.

“Alright, that’s enough science for tonight,” Stanley declared, plopping down across from him. “You’ve been at this for hours.”

“And?” Ford didn’t even glance up. “I’m making progress.”

“Yeah, yeah, but you’re also looking one bad night away from keeling over,” Stanley pointed out, propping his feet up on the table.

“I second that” Fiddleford chimed in, strolling past with a steaming cup of coffee in hand. “Y’know, for someone who brags about his intelligence, you sure do lack basic common sense and self care skills.”

“I take care of myself just fine,” Ford argued.

“You passed out on your research papers last night,” Stanley countered.

“That was an anomaly,” Ford muttered.

“Uh-huh.” Without waiting for permission, Fiddleford slid the coffee toward him. “Drink that before you pass out again.”

Ford eyed the cup suspiciously.

“Did you put something in this?”

“Yeah, a whole spoonful of cyanide,” Fiddleford deadpanned. “Drink up. It's decaf,” Fiddleford answered. “Last thing you need is more caffeine, and I brought some bread with chocolate. Figured you wouldn’t eat otherwise.” He placed the plate beside the cup, the rich, warm scent filling the room.

Ford scoffed.

“I don’t need you fussing over me.”

“Ain't fussin',” Fiddleford said simply. “Just tryin’ to make sure you don’t work yourself into an early grave. Again.”

The implication hung between them like a weight.

Ford scowled, fingers tightening around his pen.

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who couldn't keep up with me”

Fiddleford frowned

“Yeah,” he admitted after a beat. “But you didn't make it easy. I'm surprised coffee still has an effect on you with the amounts you used to drink”

Stanley shifted uncomfortably, sensing the shift in the air.

Ford exhaled sharply through his nose, staring down at the untouched coffee.

“So what? Now you’re just… making me a snack and playing nice?”

“Ain’t playin’ anythin’,” Fiddleford said, voice softer now. “I ain’t expectin’ anythin’ from you. I just—” He hesitated, then pushed the plate a little closer. “Just eat, Ford.”

For a long moment, Ford didn’t move. His jaw was tight, his grip on the pen tense. But then, with a begrudging sigh, he reached for the bread and broke off a piece.

Stanley watched as Ford took a bite, chewing slowly.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Ford muttered, still not meeting Fiddleford’s gaze.

“It doesn't have to,” Fiddleford replied.

Stanley let out a slow breath and leaned back in his chair now that the tension had eased.

“Look at you two. Behaving like actual people.”

“Don’t push it,” Ford and Fiddleford muttered in unison.

Stanley smirked, and Ford ate in silence while Fiddleford sat beside him, just watching.

----

That night, Stanley couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned, the mattress creaking under him as he shifted restlessly.

Even though things had —well, not improved, but at least settled— between Fiddleford and Ford, there was still something gnawing at the back of his mind.

Ford’s words that seemed wouldn’t let go.

‘Maybe he did. Maybe you just don’t remember it.’

Stanley rolled onto his side, staring at Fiddleford’s sleeping form. His chest rose and fell steadily, completely undisturbed by the storm raging in Stanley’s head.

“Maybe he did.”

The thought coiled around his mind. He told himself to ignore it, just for tonight. He could ask Fiddleford about it in the morning— he would ask.

But when morning came, Stanley found he couldn’t bring himself to say the words.

Maybe, just maybe, Fiddleford had thought about it once. Even for a fleeting moment.

Doubt crawled up Stanley’s spine. He tried to shove it away, to tell himself that everything was fine, that he had no reason to stir things up.

Everything was fine. Right?

He just needed some air.

He stepped outside and onto the porch, inhaling the crisp morning breeze. The sky was overcast, the sun swallowed up by thick clouds. It was chill but not cold, just... quiet. Peaceful, in a way.

For a long time, he just stood there, staring out at the tree line, letting himself try to feel at peace for once.

Then he heard it— footsteps behind him.

His shoulders tensed instinctively. On any other day, he’d assume it was Fiddleford, but with Ford back in the picture, it was a toss-up.

Even now, after everything, being around Ford still made him uneasy. It was easier when Fiddleford was there, serving as an unspoken buffer between them. Without him, it was just the two of them, standing face-to-face with everything they hadn’t said.

It was hard, trying to reconnect with the brother whose life you almost ruined. Twice.

Stanley let out a slow breath, steeling himself. He kept his gaze on the wooden planks beneath his feet, bracing for whichever of them stepped outside.

Then, movement from the corner of his eye.

Ford.

Stanley kept his face impassive, though his fingers curled tighter against the railing.

“Morning,” Ford said, his voice careful.

“Morning,” Stanley muttered back, eyes still fixed on the trees.

Ford leaned against the railing beside him.

“You look thoughtful.” There was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

Stanley scoffed.

“If you dare make a joke about—”

“Alright, alright, I won’t,” Ford cut in, lifting his hands in surrender. “Didn’t mean it like that.” His tone softened. “I just meant… you look worried. It’s a weird look on you. You were always so careless. A free spirit, Mom used to call you.”

Stanley let out a dry laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well… things change. People change.”

Ford didn’t argue. He just nodded, watching the trees sway in the wind.

“What’s troubling you?” Ford asked, his voice calm but insistent.

Stanley exhaled sharply, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

“Nothing much. Just thinking.”

Ford huffed.

“Be honest.”

Stanley’s lips pressed into a thin line. He let the silence stretch, the weight of his thoughts settling heavily between them. Finally, he spoke.

“I’m afraid,” he admitted, voice quieter than he meant it to be. “Afraid that what you said might be true.”

Ford didn’t need to ask what he meant. He already knew.

“The memory gun,” Ford said. It wasn’t a question.

Stanley gave a slow nod.

“Yeah.”

Ford studied him, his own thoughts swirling. This was it. The opportunity he’d been waiting for. The moment he could finally push Fiddleford out of their lives for good.

And yet…

“You should talk to him,” Ford said instead.

Stanley blinked, caught off guard by the lack of venom in his brother’s tone. He had expected something else— accusations, warnings, maybe even an “I told you so.” But not this.

“Yeah…” Stanley muttered, furrowing his brow. “I should.”

The words tasted uncertain, but saying them out loud made them feel more real.

-------

The day carried on, Stanley still unable to ask the question. Even as night neared, he refused to acknowledge it.

He was back on the porch, quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets. Stanley sat once again on the porch, this time with a bottle of beer. They had bought some to celebrate Ford returning, but after everything went down, they weren't able to open a single one.

Stanley continued in his solitude, staring out into the twilight, not really thinking, just feeling the cold night air on his face.

Then he heard footsteps behind him, again, he glanced over his shoulder. When he wished to be in company he was alone, and now that he wished to be alone, these two appeared right behind him.

Fiddleford and Ford were approaching him. Fiddleford looked at Stanley, taking a seat beside him while Ford’s expression was unreadable, though the tension was palpable.

Stanley raised his beer in a half-hearted toast.

“Are you planning on standing there, or you gonna join me?”

Fiddleford didn’t need an invitation. He took the bottle from Stanley's hand with and easy grin and took a quick drink before handing it back

Meanwhile, Ford hesitated, lingering by the porch. Stanley raised an eyebrow, urging him to sit.

Ford reluctantly joined them, keeping his distance, his arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the empty space between them.

Fiddleford noticed there was another bottle, he quickly opened it and handed it over to Ford, who frowned at him but took it nonetheless. The silence stretched for a moment. Stanley took a long drink, breaking the quiet.

“So,” Stanley began, his tone casual but sharp, “How come you guys came over here…together”

“I just wanted to check on you, you've been acting a tad weird all day” Fiddleford said

“Oh…really?” Stanley rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play dumb. “And what about you Ford?”

“Same thing” was Ford's reply.

“Alright” Stanley said, taking a quick sip of his bottle.

They all remained silent. Until Stanley, who was done with the amount of times silent seemed to sit over them uncomfortably, spoke.

“What was it like, you two, back when you were actually doing something... fun? I mean, Ford, I’m sure you didn’t spend all your time staring at your journals, right?”

Ford stiffened, but Fiddleford leaned forward, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, we had our fun. Some of it more... absurd than you might imagine. There are an awful lot of weird things in this town”

Stanley chuckled, looking between them.

“Absurd and weird. Hm, tell me more.”

Ford groaned, rubbing his forehead.

“Can we not do this, Fiddleford? Some things are better left in the past.”

Fiddleford shot him a playful glance.

“Some things, yeah, but do you remember when we went hiking? On that mountain”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Mountain hike? You two went hiking? Ford, you could barely keep up with P.E and now you are telling me you hike mountains!” Stanley scoffed a laugh and Ford's frown only furrowed further but a smile threatened to appear.

“Oh yeah,” Fiddleford said, taking a sip of the bottle he took from Stanley, eyes twinkling with the memory. “We had to collect some materials for the uh—” Fiddleford looked down at the bottle, and then at Ford, who looked away. Both of them didn't wish to mention the portal or bring back the memories now that everything was behind them. “Let's skip that and just get to the fun part. Ford said that the hike would do us some good, get fresh air or whatever.” He gave Ford a smirk.

Ford leaned back, taking a drink of his bottle

“You couldn’t even make it halfway up without complaining.” Ford said

Fiddleford laughed, the sound light and free and Stanley leaned forward, listening intently.

“Wait, so you guys went on a hike and you were the one who gave up halfway? Sounds like Ford’s the one who carried you, huh?” Stanley said teasingly and Ford let out a laugh, shaking his head.

“You wouldn’t believe how stubborn Fiddleford was. We got maybe a quarter of the way up, and he was already panting, looking like he was about to collapse. I nearly had to carry him the rest of the way.” Ford said. “He even said something about building robot legs just so he wouldn't have to walk”

Fiddleford shook his head as he remembered the ridiculousness of it all.

“Hey, I made it up. Just... not at the same pace as you. Besides, who else would’ve made sure you didn’t fall off the side of the mountain when you kept getting distracted by that stupid rock formation?”

Stanley laughed, the idea of these two being out there in the wilderness, amusing him.

Fiddleford’s expression shifted for a moment, his eyes looking distant. He gave a small chuckle, remembering the good times, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

“We also found something else that day, too. You remember the platypus?”

Ford’s face twitched in what could only be called disbelief, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to lose his composure. Fiddleford, noticing his reaction, grinned broadly.

“Oh sorry, the ‘Plaidypus’” Fiddleford said mockingly

“Thanks for correcting yourself, I was not about to let you disrespect the plaidypus like that” Ford's said dryly

Stanley blinked, trying to figure out if he’d heard correctly.

“The what?”

“The plaidypus,” Fiddleford said, his voice full of amusement. “It was a platypus, but with a coat that had a plaid pattern— black and red, like some sort of bizarre creature out of a dream.”

“Yeah, the town people insisted it had a fashion sense. Honestly, it was the strangest thing I’d ever seen.” Ford groaned, rubbing his eyes. “And I have seen some really weird things”

Fiddleford laughed, the sound bubbling up from deep within his chest.

“You’re right, Ford. It was absurd. But it was the kind of absurdity that... well, it made the trip worth it, you know?”

“Yeah, those moments were nice…” Ford said with a small smile. One of the first he had offered to Fiddleford.

Stanley could see the tension easing between them now. He finished his drink and leaned back, feeling a small, unexpected sense of contentment.

“So, a platypus wearing a plaid,” Stanley said with a grin, “I can’t say I’ve heard a story quite like that one before.”

Ford gave him a small fleeting smile. He looked at Fiddleford, and there was a moment of quiet understanding between them. Ford’s voice, when he spoke again, was softer.

“I do miss it, you know,” Ford admitted, “The thrill of discovery. Chasing anomalies. The rush of knowing we were the first to see something that shouldn’t exist.”

Fiddleford snorted, shaking his head as he took a sip.

“It was nice, but I don't really miss it”

Ford turned to him, brow furrowed.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was fascinatin’ and all, but—” Fiddleford let out a nervous chuckle, rolling the beer bottle between his palms. “I was always the one gettin’ hurt. Every single damn time.”

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it. A shadow passed over his face. His grip on his drink tightened, but when he spoke, his voice was softer than either of them expected.

“I’m sorry for that.”

The words were so quiet they almost didn’t register.

Fiddleford froze. His fingers stilled against the glass. He blinked once, then twice, as if his brain couldn’t quite process what Ford had just said. Stanley, too, looked taken aback, turning to Ford like he had just grown a second head.

“Well,” Fiddleford finally said, his mouth twitching up into a slow, amused smile. “That might be the first time I ever heard ya say somethin’ like that.”

Ford huffed, looking away as he took another sip.

“Don’t get used to it.”

Fiddleford chuckled, then exhaled, shaking his head.

“Guess I’m sorry too.”

Ford glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

“For what is it now?”

Fiddleford hesitated for just a second. Then, with a small, wry smile, he said,

“For not bein’ able to keep up.”

Something about that made Ford’s jaw tighten. His expression softened just a fraction, but he said nothing. Instead, he just nodded, and that was enough.

The three of them sat there for a moment, the weight of old regrets lingering between them but not crushing them. Just existing.

Stanley, feeling the tension lifting, smirked.

“Well, damn. Look at us. Talking about our feelings and everything.”

Fiddleford snorted.

“Ain’t it disgustin’?” He said jokingly

“Yeah. Let’s never do this again.” Ford groaned.

They all laughed, the sound genuine, easing into a comfortable silence as they returned to their drinks.

Chapter Text

Stanley and Fiddleford sat at the kitchen table, they recently enjoyed a meal along with Ford, who had left to his room some minutes ago.

Stanley’s fingers tapped lightly on the table, a nervous habit he hadn’t realized he picked up from the man in front of him.

The memory gun was still on his mind. It had been eating at him for a while now.

He couldn’t avoid it anymore. Not with Fiddleford sitting across from him, looking so at ease, while he was crumbling apart.

Stanley cleared his throat, his voice rough from the quiet tension that had been building.

“Fidds… I need to ask you something.”

Fiddleford looked up from his drink, expression unreadable.

“What is it, sugar?”

Stanley hesitated, shifting in his chair. He wasn’t sure why this question was so hard to ask. Maybe it was the fear of what the answer might be.

“Did you… ever use the memory gun on me?” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “Did you ever think about it? About making me forget something?”

The question hung in the air, a silent challenge to everything that had come before. Fiddleford didn’t answer right away. The seconds dragged, and Stanley found himself holding his breath, waiting for a response he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Fiddleford’s eyes dropped to the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. The silence between them stretched, longer than Stanley had anticipated. Finally, Fiddleford spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“I thought about it, yeah.” The words were slow, careful. “When things weren’t as… deep as they’ve gotten, I thought about it a lot.”

Stanley’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to stay still.

Fiddleford exhaled.

“I wanted to erase all the pain you were going through,” he admitted. “I knew how much you were hurtin’, Lee. You looked so torn apart sometimes... I couldn't bear that sight” He paused, taking in a sharp breath. “But I couldn’t do it. I never used the memory gun on you”

Stanley swallowed hard.

“Why not?”

Fiddleford finally met his gaze.

“Because I knew the consequences. I knew, deep down, that it would do no good. I know from experience, what it feels like to feel somethin’s missin’. I didn’t want to put you through that.” His voice was steady now, resolute. “It would be selfish of me to do such a thing. I couldn’t do that to you. Not you.”

A wave of relief washed over Stanley so suddenly that he almost felt lightheaded. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that answer.

He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding and leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Moses, Fidds…” he muttered, shaking his head.

Fiddleford's lips tightened, unsure if Stanley was relieved or enraged by his confession. With a wavering voice, he spoke.

“You alright?”

Stanley let out a short, breathy laugh, almost disbelieving.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

Stanley was still a bit anxious, though he wished to hide it, but he was relieved that even if the idea had been there—even if Fiddleford had thought about it—he hadn’t done it.

He had chosen to let Stanley keep his memories, his pain, his past. And as much as it hurt, as much as there were things he wished he could forget…

Stanley was grateful for that choice.

He looked back at Fiddleford, his expression softer now.

Fiddleford gave a small, tentative smile, still unsure if he was on thin ice.

Stanley smiled back and in that moment, Fiddleford knew everything would be alright.

Chapter Text

It was another lazy morning in the shack. Fiddleford and Stanley laid in bed. Fiddleford’s hand moved in slow, soothing circles over Stanley’s shoulder, his touch warm and grounding. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a cocoon—until a sudden noise echoed from downstairs.

A sharp clatter. The unmistakable scrape of something being dragged.

Fiddleford tensed, his fingers stilling.

"What was that?" he whispered.

Stanley barely stirred, pressing himself further into Fiddleford’s chest with a sleepy grunt.

"Probably the gnomes again," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. "Let ‘em be. I’ll kick ‘em out later."

But the noise didn’t stop. It grew—a frantic shuffling, cabinets slamming open and shut, and the unmistakable crash of breaking glass.

Fiddleford sat up, suddenly alert.

"Stanley, I think we should check."

Stanley groaned, wrapping his arms around Fiddleford’s waist and clinging to him like a stubborn barnacle.

"Don’t go," he murmured. "Too much effort. Let them tire themselves out."

"Stanley."

Another loud thud.

Stanley cursed under his breath and finally sat up.

"Fine, fine, but it's probably another one of Ford’s all-nighter experiments,”

Reluctantly, they made their way downstairs, only to find Ford in the middle of the kitchen—his hair a frazzled mess, eyes wild with panic. He was rummaging frantically through the cabinets, muttering under his breath as he tore through their contents. Glass jars clattered, a pile of books was strewn across the floor.

"Where the hell are they?" Ford muttered, slamming a drawer shut and yanking another open. "No, no, no—this isn’t happening."

"Ford?" Fiddleford asked cautiously.

Ford’s head snapped toward them.

"Where did you move my stuff?"

"Uh..." Stanley exchanged a wary glance with Fiddleford. "What stuff?"

"Don’t play dumb, Stanley!" Ford snapped, exasperated. "My specimens! My taxidermies! And more importantly—" He turned back to the mess, frantically digging through another cabinet before whirling around to face them again. "The cursed crystals! They’re gone!"

Fiddleford stiffened.

"Cursed, you say?"

"Yes, cursed, Fiddleford!" Ford snapped, throwing his arms in the air. "Where are they? Where did you move all my stuff?"

Stanley shifted uncomfortably. Fiddleford looked at him. He looked back at Fiddleford.

Ford’s eyes narrowed.

"What the hell did you two do?"

Stanley cleared his throat.

"We may or may not have… uh… sold some of your stuff to get money to, um… live?"

Ford’s expression shattered into pure, unfiltered horror.

"You did, not, just sell my research!"

"Ford, in Stanley’s defense, it was my idea—"

"Yeah, it was his," Stanley cut in quickly, throwing Fiddleford under the bus without hesitation.

Fiddleford turned to him, utterly betrayed.

"Did you just—?" He scoffed, waving a hand. "Whatever! It was my idea, Ford…" He paused, before grinning wickedly. "—but Stanley approved it."

Stanley turned to him with equal betrayal.

"Are you serious right now?"

"I don’t care whose idea it was!" Ford practically shouted, grabbing at his hair. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to collect those specimens?! Years of my life!"

Stanley exhaled sharply.

"Look, Ford, I’m sorry, but we didn’t exactly have a choice. We were out of money—"

"And we already used some of the money from your bank account," Fiddleford added —un— helpfully.

Ford froze.

"You used my money too?!" A muscle twitched in his jaw as he dragged both hands down his face. "Oh, Moses, this can’t be happening." His breathing was getting faster. "Please tell me you at least filled out the corresponding documents for the approval and use of that money," he pleaded desperately, grabbing Stanley’s shoulders.

Stanley grinned, leaning against the counter with a cocky smirk.

"Yeah, actually, I got your signature down cold— forged it perfectly." He crossed his arms, clearly proud of himself.

Ford, however, did not share in his enthusiasm. His expression shifted from horror to something far worse— sheer, soul-crushing dread.

Fiddleford, meanwhile, hid a smirk behind his hand, thoroughly enjoying the show.

"What else did you do under my name while I was gone?" Ford asked, his voice a mix of fear and reluctant curiosity, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Stanley’s smirk faltered for the first time.

"Well…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "Technically, I may have committed a little bit of tax fraud…"

Ford inhaled sharply.

"And, uh… might’ve racked up some charges for reckless driving," Stanley continued, his tone much too casual for Ford’s liking. "Oh, and I wrote a few letters to your colleagues in the research field. Also—" He gestured toward a polished plaque on the shelf. "You won some kind of award for moth discoveries or something. I wasn’t able to attend, obviously, so they just mailed it over."

Ford followed his brother’s pointing finger, his eyes landing on the award. His breath hitched.

He knew he would win. He had been certain of it when he submitted his research and discovery of a new moth in Gravity Falls. But he had missed the ceremony. He had missed everything.

The devastation on his face was almost unbearable.

Stanley, oblivious to the emotional spiral his brother was undergoing, clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh! If you’re worried about the letters I sent, don’t be. I made sure they matched your usual style." He grinned. “Fiddleford helped too”

Fiddleford however did realize the emotional turmoil Ford was going through, still amused by it, but decided to step in.

"Ford…" Fiddleford started, searching for the right words—something to ease the growing tension in Ford’s shoulders—but nothing seemed sufficient. So he went for the next best thing. "If it makes you feel better, we stopped using your bank account."

Ford blinked in disbelief, unsure if he should be relieved or worried about how they managed such a thing.

Stanley replied to his questions.

"Yeah, we actually made a machine that prints money and—"

"You two are unbelievable!" Ford cut in, throwing his hands in the air. "Forging my signature, committing fraud, building illegal machines—"

"But at least we kept up appearances," Stanley interrupted, still grinning. "No one even knew you were gone. Not a single person suspected a thing."

Ford narrowed his eyes.

"No one?"

"Well… except for Mom." Stanley shrugged. "She might be a little mad at you for declining her dinner invites like, twenty times."

Ford groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Fantastic."

Then, as if suddenly realizing something, he frowned.

"What about you? Did no one notice you disappeared?" Ford asked

Stanley’s expression shifted.

His eyes darted to the side, the usual smug confidence draining just a little.

"There’s no one to report me ‘missing,’" he muttered. "So, no. No one suspected a thing." Stanley let out a faint laugh, his smil coming back but it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’m good as dead at this point, anyway."

The room fell into an uneasy silence.

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it, his throat bobbing as he struggled to find a response.

"Oh," was all he managed.

The air grew thick, tension settling between them.

Fiddleford, recognizing the sudden shift, clapped his hands together and spoke.

“Alright, before this gets any more depressing,” he cut in, “how about we talk all this over breakfast at Greasy’s Diner? You both like the pancakes there, don’t you?”

Stanley exhaled, rubbing his neck.

“Yeah…”

Ford hesitated, still glancing at his brother, but eventually sighed.

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

Fiddleford smiled.

“Alright, my treat.”

-------

“So...” Ford began, searching for the right words, though the weight of the situation lingered.

“So?” Stanley prompted, already bracing for the inevitable.

“How are you two planning to get my stuff back?” Ford asked plainly, taking a casual bite of his pancake.

“You seriously expect us to track down the random strangers we sold it all to?” Fiddleford asked, his tone incredulous.

“Yes?” Ford replied, his uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Okay, maybe not everything, but I need a few specific items. The fairies— and especially the cursed crystals.”

“Cursed crystals?” Stanley raised an eyebrow, suddenly wary. “You mean those turquoise ones?”

Ford nodded as he sipped his coffee.

“Yeah. Why?”

Fiddleford turned to Stanley with growing alarm.

“Didn’t you give Tate a turquoise rock?”

Stanley’s face froze.

“Oh, no...”

“Oh, yes” Fiddleford muttered, now visibly distressed. “Stanley, please tell me Tate still has it.”

Stanley grimaced.

“He said something about giving it to his little friend Emily.”

Fiddleford closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Dear Lord...” There was relief that Tate wasn’t directly in danger mixed with dread as he processed the implications. “Stanford, what exactly do these crystals do?”

“Uh, not much,” Ford replied casually, cutting into his pancake. “They just drive you insane with power and, you know, turn your hair white if overused. But hey, nothing to lose sleep over.”

Stanley groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“Fiddleford, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine... It’s fine. As long as Tate doesn’t have it anymore, there’s nothing to worry about.” His tone turned unexpectedly chipper. “We’ll just move him to another school, make sure he doesn’t see Emily again, and voilà! Problem solved. Not my circus, not my…monkeys? I don't remember correctly…”

Both Ford and Stanley stared at him in disbelief.

“You did not just say that,” Stanley said, his voice low.

“Oh, but I did,” Fiddleford replied with a faint smirk. “We just ignore the problem, and it’ll go away.”

“You must be joking, please tell me that's a joke,” Ford muttered.

“Seconded,” Stanley said, shaking his head.

“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Fiddleford said defensively. “It’s not like Emily’s going to use that rock to wreak havoc or anything.” He paused, the realization dawning on him. “Oh, no. She might actually do that, mightn’t she?”

Ford leaned back in his chair, sighing.

“Uh, yeah. She’s what? Seven? Eight? Kids with power don’t exactly have the best track record. One minute it’s innocent fun, the next they’re ruling the sandbox like a tyrant.”

“Maybe you could use the memory gun on her,” Ford suggested brightly. “Make her forget all about the crystal and take it back.”

“Destroyed it, remember” Stanley muttered.

“Oh, right” Ford froze mid-bite, then shrugged. “Well, there goes that plan. Guess we’re leaving world-altering telekinetic power in the hands of an eight-year-old. No big deal.”

“Maybe we can focus on the fairies for now,” Fiddleford interjected, his voice strained. “Stanford, surely you don’t expect us to go catch them for you?”

“Of course I do,” Ford said, deadpan. “They’re vicious little brats, they bite, and they’re a pain. But hey, you two sold my research— so consider this part of your penance.”

The three men exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of their collective mistakes settling uncomfortably.

“Well,” Stanley muttered, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s just hope that Gleeful kid isn’t as bad as she could be.”

“Oh, she’s a Gleeful?” Ford asked, a note of dread creeping into his tone.

Stanley winced.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Great. Just great, I met a Gleeful kid in another dimension” Ford dropped his fork with a sigh. “We’re doomed.”

Fiddleford, grimacing, reached for the coffee pot.

“At least the coffee and pancakes are good.” Fiddleford shrugged and took another bite.

The two other men were too stunned to speak.

Chapter Text

“Okay. Something was definitely wrong with Ford.”

The thought crossed both Fiddleford and Stanley's minds as they stared at the man slumped over the table, passed out on top of yet another pile of research notes.

Another all-nighter— one his body couldn’t possibly keep up with at his age.

Fiddleford sighed, taking a seat beside him.

“I don't understand why he keeps doing this,” he muttered, gently prying a pen from Ford's limp fingers.

Stanley, already gathering the scattered pages from the table, snorted.

“Beats me. It's not like the end of the world is knocking at the door.”

His gaze drifted over the mess of equations and frantic scribbles. The notes ranged from gravitational anomalies to something about space and time being torn apart. Just great. Maybe his brother really was losing it from being cooped up in this shack for too long.

“You know, I still think we should burn those journals,” Stanley said jokingly, stacking the papers into a neat pile.

Fiddleford chuckled.

“He'd kill you for even suggestin' it.”

“Yeah, and then he'd probably use one of his freaky inventions to make my body disappear,” Stanley joked, already lifting Ford's dead weight. “Come on, Fidds, give me a hand.”

With a grunt, Fiddleford grabbed Ford’s legs, and together, they hauled him upstairs. The man didn’t even stir as they dropped him onto the bed. He was out cold—completely spent.

Stanley crossed his arms, frowning at the dark circles under Ford’s eyes.

“I'm gonna stop buying coffee if he keeps this up,” he muttered, turning to leave.

-------

However, Ford did keep it up.

Night after night, he wrote furiously, refusing to explain himself. When they asked, he only mumbled about important matters, never letting them see the full picture.

Not that they would understand.

They couldn’t understand what they didn’t know.

Ford clenched his fists, cursing his own past mistakes. Letting Bill inside his mind. Building the portal. Everything.

And now, the end of the world would be on his hands.

The interdimensional rift had to be sealed.

It was early morning when Ford was packing his bags for his expedition.

Crash Site Omega.

He needed the alien adhesive if he wanted to close the rift.

And so, with practiced efficiency, he secured his equipment, double-checking his magnetic gun before zipping the bag shut. Just as he finished, the door to his room swung open, and Stanley stepped inside.

Ford turned, his face drawn with exhaustion and Stanley frowned, looking at his brother's expression, he was getting real tired of this— of Ford locking himself away in his room or the basement for hours, barely eating, barely existing. The guy needed to breathe some actual fresh air.

“Ford, I'm heading to the store with Fidds,” Stanley said, crossing his arms. He waited, but Ford just stood there, silent as ever. Stanley shifted on his feet before sighing. “Wanna tag along?”

“It's ‘want to tag along’,” Ford muttered, rubbing his temple.

Stanley's frown deepened.

“Alright, that's it,” he said, stepping forward and grabbing Ford by the arm. “You're coming with us, and I don’t wanna hear a damn word of protest.”

Ford stiffened.

“What do you think you're doing?” He tried pulling away but stopped halfway, realizing the only way to break free would be to shove Stanley hard enough to risk hurting him. With a reluctant sigh, he let himself be dragged along.

“I'm getting you some fresh air,” Stanley said firmly.

“I live in the middle of a forest. I get plenty of fresh air.”

“You barely step outside. Hell, you don’t even go out to the porch.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest, but realizing he had no comeback to what was a factual truth, he shut it.

When they reached the living room, Fiddleford was already waiting. He raised a brow at the sight of Stanley dragging Ford by the arm.

"Ready to go?" Fiddleford asked, amused.

"Yeah, and Ford’s coming with us," Stanley said with a grin, hauling his reluctant twin right out the door.

------

The store was a small, cramped place on the edge of town—just big enough to stock the essentials but too small for Ford’s comfort. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow over the aisles that was blinding.

Stanley, completely unbothered, grabbed a cart and pushed it forward without hesitation, already making a beeline for the produce section.

Ford, on the other hand, lingered near the entrance, arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Come on, Poindexter, at least pretend to participate,” Stanley called over his shoulder, tossing a fewatt products into the cart without looking.

“I don’t see why I needed to be dragged here,” Ford muttered, finally stepping forward. He glanced around, taking in the rows of canned goods and shelves lined with colorful packaging. “I have more important things to do.”

Fiddleford, who had wandered off toward the coffee section, returned with a small bag in hand.

“If ya keep coopin’ yourself up like that, you’re gonna keel over before you ever get that important work done,” he said, shaking the bag at him. “Want me to grab ya decaf, or do ya prefer the stuff that'll keep ya awake for another three days?”

Ford scowled.

“I don’t—”

“Yeah, get him decaf,” Stanley interrupted, smirking.

Ford shot him a glare but didn’t argue.

They moved through the aisles, Stanley tossing things into the cart with no particular order, while Ford kept muttering about inefficiency and how they should be following a list.

Stanley rolled his eyes at the comment while Fiddleford laughed and wandered off, muttering something about grabbing bread and eggs. He didn’t wait for a response as he turned the corner into another aisle, leaving Stanley and Ford standing in the middle of the store.

Stanley pushed the cart forward lazily, looking over the shelves without any real purpose. Ford shuffled along beside him, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his gaze drifting around the store.

They walked in silence for a few moments, the only sound being the soft clink of cans and jars as Stanley absentmindedly knocked them over with the cart.

Stanley’s eyes caught on a small advertising poster tacked up near the magazine rack. It featured a sunny picture of a cruise ship gliding across the ocean, the text inviting people to redeem points for a chance to win two tickets for a paid cruiser.

“Set sail on the adventure of a lifetime” Stanley muttered what he read.

“Did you say something?” Ford asked

Stanley stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed on the poster and before he could stop his mouth from muttering the words, he asked:

“Remember how we used to talk about sailing away?” he said suddenly, his voice almost distant.

The question caught Ford off guard. He looked up at the poster, his brow furrowing. It had been a long time since that —the time when they were carefree dreamer kids, back when they thought they could just sail away and be free. It was the kind of talk that made sense back when life was simpler.

Ford paused, feeling a strange knot in his chest. Sailing away. It felt like a lifetime ago, before everything got tangled up.

“Yeah, I remember,” Ford replied, his voice quieter than usual. “No responsibilities, no pressures… just the ocean, the sky.” He paused, the weight of the memory settling in. “I guess we thought it was that easy.”

Stanley didn’t respond right away, his eyes still locked on the advertisement. He leaned on the cart slightly, his expression unreadable.

“We were kids,” he muttered. “Everything seemed possible back then. Before everything…you know” Stanley said, unable to look at Ford

Ford felt a pang of guilt, the memory of those carefree days felt so distant now, swallowed up by years of choices that had led them to this.

“Yeah,” Ford said softly, looking away from the advertisement.

Stanley gave a small shrug, as if trying to shake the moment off, but Ford could sense the heaviness in his voice the moment he spoke again.. The past was a tricky thing to talk about, especially when it had been left unspoken for so long.

“You ever think about that stuff anymore?” Stanley asked after a beat, turning to face Ford now, his voice lighter.

“I don’t have the time to think about it.” He gave a half-smile, trying to make it sound like a joke, but the words felt hollow.

Stanley’s eyes lingered on him for a moment, like he was searching for something in Ford’s face. Then he nodded, shifting his gaze back to the advertisement.

“Well, I do,” Stanley muttered. “I still think about it sometimes. About what it’d be like.”

Ford’s throat tightened, regretting his previous words. In that brief moment, it was just the two of them again, standing in the middle of a grocery store, daydreaming of a simpler time.

“I think we’d both get seasick,” Ford said, trying to lighten the mood, even though his voice was quieter than usual.

Stanley let out a laugh, a short chuckle that felt familiar.

“Talk for yourself, Sixer,” Stanley replied, pushing the cart forward again, moving past the advertisement.

But Ford didn’t follow, he remained there as Stanley slowly continued down the aisle, the hum of the store fading into the background. His fingers twitched in his pockets.

He was nothing but a liar.

Of course he had thought about those days—every single day of his life. Even when he buried himself in his research, even when he told himself he had moved beyond childhood dreams, the past had never left him.

His mind flashed to the cluttered corner of his study, where messy blueprints lay hidden under stacks of notes—half-formed schematics of a hypothetical ‘Stan o’War II’. A ship that would never sail, a design that existed only as an old, childish foolish longing.

He still had the photos, too. Drawings they had made together as kids, folded and tucked away in a box he never opened. As much as he told himself he didn’t dwell on the past, the evidence was there—proof of a part of himself he refused to acknowledge.

His hands clenched into fists, still hiding in his pockets as he moved forward and next to Stanley.

“Maybe someday we’ll be able to sail away,” Ford said “After everything is over.”

Stanley turned to him, brow furrowing.

“What do you mean by ‘everything is over’?”

Ford felt his stomach twist. Damn it. He had said too much.

“My research, I mean,” he corrected quickly, his voice stiff and unnatural. They both fell into a brief silence, far too uncomfortable and Ford knew Stanley was doing it on purpose, he wanted to push more information out of Ford. So in a desperate attempt to save himself, he told the truth.

“I lied, Stanley,” he admitted, and that seemed to catch Stanley's attention. “I do think about the past a lot.” He hesitated before forcing the words out. “I even had some drawings for a potential Stan o’War.”

Stanley didn’t look surprised at all, going back to sorting through the shelves.

“I know,” Stanley replied. “I found your sketches of it when I was looking through your stuff.”

Ford blinked, caught completely off guard.

“You—”

“And while I do like your vision for the Stan o’War II, I think it’s lacking style,” Stanley added with a teasing smirk and Ford frowned, although a smile plastered his face.

“Of course you would say something like that.”

“Hey, I’m just saying it needs some personality—maybe some flames on the side, huh?”

Ford scoffed but the smile didn't fade.

“Maybe some flames wouldn't look so bad,” Ford said with a smile.

-----

In the days that followed, Ford made an effort to take better care of himself—not because he suddenly felt the need to, but because he knew Stanley was watching. He ate meals when prompted, got some rest, and even left the basement more often. But despite these small changes, the weight of unfinished business still pressed on him.

He had to go back to Crash Site Omega. He needed that adhesive.

So one night, under the cover of darkness, he set out alone. The mission was simple: get in, get what he needed, and get out. Easy peasy, and just like that, he secured the alien adhesive without issue.

The hardest part, it seemed, was sneaking back inside the shack without waking anyone.

Unfortunately for him, his brother was awake at the ungodly hour of 3 AM, making a sandwich in the kitchen, and Ford had just walked straight into his line of sight.

Stanley chewed lazily on his sandwich, staring Ford down like he’d caught a kid sneaking cookies from the jar.

“You got that ‘caught red-handed’ look.” Stanley said, his mouth still full.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Ford said quickly.

Stanley raised an eyebrow.

“It looks like you were sneaking off somewhere.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Or maybe coming back, spit it out. What’s in the bag?”

Ford hesitated for a moment, perhaps a moment too long.

“Well?” Stanley pressed.

Stanley already finished his sandwich by the time Ford came up with a reply.

With a sigh, Ford relented.

“Look, after you activated the portal, it left behind something. A breach between dimensions. A weak spot between this world and Bill’s.”

Stanley frowned as he got closer to Ford.

“I call it the ‘Interdimensional Drift’,” Ford continued. “Follow me.”

Stanley, now fully alert, followed Ford to his room. There, hidden inside a case on the bottom drawer of his desk, was a small glass-like sphere. Inside, swirling energy pulsed and shifted like a living galaxy trapped in a snow globe.

“What the hell is that?”

“The Drift,” Ford said grimly. He picked it up with careful hands, his voice trembling. “And it’s cracking apart. This containment sphere won’t hold it forever.”

Stanley’s stomach twisted.

“You mean Bill could still get through?”

Ford turned to look at him, and just then, Stanley saw it. Fear.

“Yes,” Ford admitted, his breath unsteady. “With this adhesive, I can reinforce the containment for a long time—centuries, even. But eventually… he’ll find a way out.”

Stanley stared at the sphere, his mind racing.

“Ford…” He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to reassure him.

Ford swallowed hard.

“I need time to figure out a real solution, but until then, I'll keep this by my side.”

Stanley ran a hand down his face.

“So, what? You're just gonna babysit this thing for the rest of your life?”

Ford didn’t answer, didn't even look up and that was answer enough for Stanley.

“You can't be serious…” Stanley said, straightening up and began pacing around.

“I don't know what else to do,” Ford admitted, holding the sphere closer.

“But didn’t you eliminate that thing or something?” Stanley asked.

“I did, but I can't be sure” Ford replied, his frame trembling as he spoke, his body drawing closer to itself, making himself smaller. “I can't be sure, you just can't be sure. Not with something like him, he could come back and—” Ford couldn't bring himself to finish the idea that was forming in his mind, instead he looked up at Stanley. “I don’t know what to do, Stanley”

Stanley stopped his frantic pacing as he looked at Ford. He got closer to his brother, sitting next to him on the floor and looking at the glowing orb.

“We’ll figure something out,” Stanley said.fin

“I hope so,” Ford said, looking back down at the orb. “I really do”

Stanley looked at his brother, it seemed as if peace was something always out of reach. He then sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Is there anything else I should know?” Stanley asked.

“I don't think so…” Ford replied.

“Okay, listen, right now we are gonna seal this…thing,” Stanley said, gesturing at the orb “with the weird alien glue.” Ford only nodded. “Then we can think what we could do. Alright?”

“Alright”

Stanley helped Ford get up to his feet and an idea sparked in his mind.

“You said the adhesive could last centuries, right?”

“Yes I did”

“And how long can your weird protection spells you have in your journals last?”

“Forever if done correctly, but I don't see what this—” Ford stopped talking, now realizing what Stanley was implying. “You are suggesting we use a spell to try and prevent the interdimensional rift from ever breaking?”

“Basically, yes” Stanley muttered “I'm pretty sure you wrote some stuff about incantations in your second journal. Besides, we got plenty of unicorn hair stashed…and blood.” Stanley muttered that last part but Ford still caught on it.

“Blood you say?”

“They had it coming, but anyway, that isn't relevant.” Stanley cleared his throat “If we use the glue we could temporarily seal the rift, with the hair we could make a second protective layer that would keep Bill from escaping if the first layer ever breaks, and even if he were to escape that, we can put another protective spell over it and then we throw it to the Bottomless Pit! It can't break if it never touches the ground. Easy peasy, right?”

Ford didn’t answer, he remained awfully silent for way too long.

Stanley then hesitated.

“I mean… it’s probably a dumb idea— Um, sorry about it, I—”

“No.” Ford’s voice was barely above a whisper. Then, with growing excitement, he grabbed Stanley’s shoulders. “No, it’s perfect! I think it could actually work!”

Before Stanley could react, Ford pulled him into a tight hug.

Stanley stiffened at the sudden show of affection.

“Okay, okay—ease up, Poindexter, I can barely breathe.”

Ford let go, but his smile remained.

“Sorry. I’m just glad to have you around, I wouldn't have known what to do.”

Stanley smirked and let a small laugh out.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sentimental on me. We got work to do.”

Ford nodded, but this time with a smile.

And so, for the rest of the night, the two brothers worked side by side, carefully coating the sphere with adhesive and layering unicorn hair over it. They muttered protective spells as they went, the sound of their voice shifting between incantations and occasional jokes that Stanley muttered to lighten the mood.

By the time they were finished, the sun was rising.

Now, standing before the Bottomless Pit, Ford held the sealed sphere in his hands, staring down into the endless void, unsure if this was the right route.

Stanley watched him carefully.

“You ready?”

Ford didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer to the edge, feeling the weight of the past pressing against his shoulders.

This was it. His best chance at closure.

“I'm not” Ford said “I'll never be”

With one final deep breath, he let go of the interdimensional rift.

The sphere vanished into the abyss, in just a few seconds it was nowhere to be seen.

Stanley exhaled.

“That’s it.”

Ford nodded slowly.

“…Yeah. I guess it is.”

Stanley gave him a sideways glance.

“You wanna head inside?”

Ford didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on the pit, distant and unreadable.

“I think I’ll stay here for a while.”

Stanley hesitated, unsure as if he should leave his brother alone, but then he nodded.

“Alright. Just…don’t do anything stupid.”

With that, he turned and headed back toward the shack.

Alone now, Ford stepped even closer to the edge.

His hands curled into fists as he let out a shaky breath.

“Goodbye, Bill.”

The words were quiet. Almost reverent. He bit back the old instinct to call him something else—something more personal.

No. That part of his life was over.

This was the end.

Chapter Text

Stanley leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as he watched Fiddleford fold the last of his clothes into a suitcase. He tried not to let it show, but something about the sight unsettled him.

“So… when will you be back?” he asked, voice casual—too casual.

Fiddleford smoothed out a wrinkle in his shirt before tucking it away.

“Soon as everything’s in order. Still gotta go through the paperwork and talk to the real estate agent.”

Stanley nodded, pretending that it didn't sound like it could take forever. They’d talked about Fiddleford moving back to Palo Alto and Stanley going with him, but now that the moment was here, it felt far too soon.

Fiddleford must’ve caught something in his expression because he let out a soft chuckle and got closer to Stanley.

“You should probably use this time to…I don’t know, get some more sibling quality time in”

Stan huffed.

“Yeah. Maybe we’ll go fishing.”

Fiddleford’s lips quirked.

“That’d be nice. He’s got a boat somewhere in this shack. No idea where, though.”

“I’ll ask him later,” Stanley muttered, helping close the suitcase with a firm press. The click of the latches sounded too final.

Fiddleford hesitated before reaching for the handle.

“Well… I guess this is it for now.”

“Yeah.” Stanley shifted on his feet, suddenly feeling restless.

A pause. Neither of them moved to open the door just yet.

Fiddleford offered a small, lopsided smile.

“Ain’t like I’m gone for good, y’know. Just gotta take care of things first.”

Stanley scoffed lightly, trying to keep his tone light.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Just… don’t take too long, alright?”

Fiddleford’s smile softened.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And then, before he could overthink it, Stanley leaned in, pressing a quick, firm kiss to Fiddleford’s lips. It was brief—just a second, maybe two—but when he pulled back, Fiddleford was still smiling, his eyes bright.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised.

Stanley swallowed, nodding once.

“You better.”

-----

The boat drifted lazily across the lake, the water smooth except for the occasional ripple, Stanley had actually taken in Fiddleford's suggestion and went fishing with Ford.

The silence between them was thick, but not uncomfortable.

“So… you’re moving in with Fiddleford?” Ford finally asked, breaking the quiet.

“Yep,” Stanley replied dryly, reeling out his line.

“Huh. Interesting.” Ford busied himself with his own fishing rod, setting the bait with more focus than necessary.

“Yeah.”

The silence turned into awkwardness that stretched between them, almost comical in its weight.

Ford cleared his throat.

“Good for you, Stanley. I’m, uh— happy for you. That you’re… getting the happiness you deserve. I guess?” His brow furrowed as if he were struggling to piece together the right sentiment.

Stanley let out a bark of laughter.

“God, Sixer, you are terrible at this.”

Ford blinked.

“At fishing?”

Stanley shot him an incredulous look.

“No, you idiot.” He flicked his wrist, casting his line into the water. “At feelings. You suck at expressing how you feel.”

“Oh.” Ford rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah… guess some things never change.”

“I guess,” Stanley admitted, falling quiet for a moment. Then, he spoke, softer and with no sharp undertone. “But I’m glad you’re trying.”

Ford glanced at him, then smiled.

“You know, this kinda reminds me of when we were kids. Maybe we should name this babe our provisional 'Stan o'war II'” Stanley said as he gave the small boat a pat.

Ford chuckled.

"Well, it sure is better than that raft we made"

“Yeah, I still remember that busted-up thing we put together with Pops old plywood and nails"

Ford groaned, shaking his head.

“Oh god. We barely got five feet off the shore before it fell apart.”

Stanley laughed.

“Hey, five feet was an achievement! We were going to be the best sailors the world had ever seen.” Stanley said.

Ford Smirked.

“Oh yes, the famous Stan ‘The Man’ Pines and his trusted second in command, Ford.”

“Pfft, you were not second in command! We were co-captains.”

“You only said that because you didn’t want to read the maps.” Ford said, looking at Stanley.

“And yet, you still trusted me to repair the original Stan o’War.”

Ford rolled his eyes but laughed anyway.

“We would’ve been doomed if that thing had actually sailed.”

Stanley snorted.

“Maybe, but it would’ve been fun.” He exhaled, a distant look crossing his face.

Ford’s expression softened. A gentle breeze rolled over the lake, ruffling their hair, carrying the scent of pine and damp dirt.

Ford shifted slightly.

“You know, it’s not too late. Remember what I said at the store?”

Stanley raised a brow.

“What, to sail the world?”

Ford gave a small shrug.

“I mean, why not? We’ve got time, and money —My money though— and I do know how to read maps.”

Stanley laughed, shaking his head.

“You serious?”

Ford smiled.

"Dead serious”

Stanley huffed, reeling in his line.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I might be, but you know that I'm also determined”

Stanley smirked as he pulled his fishing line.

“Well, I want to see you try and build that boat from scratch then”

“Consider it done,” Ford said with a determined smile.

Ford had always been the one with the plans, the blueprints sketched in the margins of his school notebooks, equations scribbled in the corners like they’d somehow make the impossible a little more feasible, and Stanley— Stanley had been the one who believed in it anyway.

The sun was setting by the time they headed back to the shack.

Ford had gone to the small storage room, looking for his old ideas of the Stan o’War II and Stanley followed him.

The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of aged paper. Ford was unsure as to where he had left all that, his eyes scanning the room while Stanley just set his path, and crouched down next to a box.

“Yknow, I found this while looking for your old journals,” Stanley muttered, opening the worn cardboard box from the pile. “Didn’t think much of it at the time”

He flipped open the lid.

Inside were stacks of old photographs, faded albums, loose papers filled with scribbled notes. A lifetime’s worth of memories, tucked away and forgotten.

Ford crouched down, reaching for a photo album. He opened it, his breath catching slightly as he saw the first picture—a black-and-white photo of them as kids, standing in front of their childhood home. Stanley was grinning wide, Ford looking more reserved, but there was a light in both their eyes.

“I’m glad I kept all these things,” Ford muttered, running his fingers over the picture.

Stanley, thumbing through the pile, smirked.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

Ford chuckled softly.

“Ma insisted I take them with me when I left. But… I couldn’t bear to look at them. So I put them here.”

His voice was quiet, tinged with something heavier—regret, maybe, and Stanley noticed.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached into his pocket.

“You know, I got some photos too.” Stanley said while looking at Ford “Okay, maybe not photos, just one.”

Ford looked at Stanley as he pulled a worn battered wallet from his jacket. From inside, he slipped out a small, creased picture—edges curled from years of handling, the colors faded but the image still clear. It was the two of them as teenagers after one of their boxing lessons, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, wide smiles frozen in time.

“I always kept it close,” Stanley admitted, his voice quieter now. “Even when things got bad.” He exhaled sharply, staring at the photo like it held all the things he never said out loud.

“I’m glad you sent that postcard, Ford. I wasn’t gonna make it out alive, but… the idea that you might’ve wanted me back in your life—it made me wanna push through everything.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Anything.”

Ford swallowed hard, looking from the photo to his brother. For a moment, he didn’t know what to say.

“I’m glad you came,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have made it out alive without you either.”

Stanley opened his mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to crack a joke—but nothing came out. He just nodded, staring at the picture in Ford’s hands.

And then Ford heard it—a faint, shaky sniffle.

He turned, just in time to see Stanley swipe a hand across his face, eyes suspiciously glassy.

“Let’s get outta here,” Stanley muttered, standing up abruptly. “Too much dust— making my allergies act up.”

Ford huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t call him out on it. Instead, he folded the photo gently, tucking it safely into his coat pocket before standing up to follow his brother out of the room.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford had returned from his short trip to Palo Alto, the last loose ends finally tied up. The house was officially his now. All that was left was to head back with Stanley and start fresh.

That afternoon, he sat on the porch, taking in the view one last time. This was it— their final day at the shack. Soon, they'd leave the past behind. Of course, they’d come back to visit Ford, especially Stanley, who still had years of catching up to do.

The creak of the door behind him caught his attention. He turned to see Stanley and Ford stepping out, drinks in hand, smiles tugging at their lips. It was their last night together here, and they intended to make the most of it.

Stanley plopped down beside Fiddleford on the porch steps, handing him a drink without a word while Ford remained standing, leaning against the railing. The evening air was crisp, carrying the scent of the woods and the distant crackle of some unseen critter rustling in the underbrush.

Fiddleford took a sip, the burn settling warm in his chest.

“Y’know, I never thought I’d be leavin’ this place with a smile,” he admitted, tilting his head back to watch the sky darken. “Last time I walked away from this shack, I was a damn mess.”

Stanley gave Fiddleford a knowing look accompanied by a small smile.

“Yeah,” Stanley said, stretching his legs out, and rolling his drink between his palms. “Still feels weird leaving. Like it should’ve swallowed me whole by now.”

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head.

“Ain’t the shack that does the swallowin’, Lee.”

Stanley barked out a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah, I walked into that one.” He took another sip, then looked at Ford. “You gonna say anything, or are you just gonna brood at the horizon all night?”

Ford exhaled, finally turning toward them.

“It’s just… strange. Having people leave on good terms for once.” His lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “I’m glad you two are moving on. Just…don’t forget to visit.”

Fiddleford gave a soft nod while Stanley replied.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Sixer” Stanley said as he leaned back on his elbows, exhaling slowly. “Y’know, I spent so much time running from things, I never thought I’d be the one leaving on my own terms.”

Fiddleford hummed.

“Well, leavin’ and runnin’ ain’t the same thing.”

Stanley smirked.

“Tell that to my feet.”

Both Ford and Fiddleford huffed a quiet laugh, as a breeze rolled in, rustling the trees and sending a chill through the porch.

Stanley shivered, but he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the emotions clinging to him.

“So, what’s the plan?” Ford asked, shifting the conversation. “Once you’re back in Palo Alto.”

Fiddleford rolled his shoulders.

Ford’s question lingered for a moment before Fiddleford finally shrugged, tapping his bottle with his fingers.

“First thing’s first— I’ll get the house set up proper. Fix up anything that needs to. Make it livable.”

Stanley smirked, tipping his drink toward him.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m pretty good at repairing things. I basically rebuild the portal by myself”

Fiddleford huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh yes, you did, yet last time you tried fixin’ the toaster you almost burnt down the house.”

Stanley snorted.

“Hey, in my defense, that toaster had it out for me.”

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head.

“Right, well, maybe I’ll handle the appliances. You can stick to the heavy liftin’.”

Stanley leaned back with a grin.

“Deal. You tell me what needs doing, and I’ll get it done.”

Ford watched their exchange with a quiet sort of fondness, his drink momentarily forgotten in his hands. The way they bantered —comfortable, easy, like they’d already found a rhythm together— it was a strange thing to witness. For once, he wasn’t seeing something fall apart, instead, he was watching something come together.

He took a sip of his drink, a small, content smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well,” he said, voice lighter than before, “seems like you two will have your hands full.”

Fiddleford glanced at Ford.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “but I think we’ll manage.”

Fiddleford exhaled, watching the way the trees swayed, their dark silhouettes shifting against the sky. The world had a way of moving forward, whether they were ready or not.

“Funny, ain’t it?” Fiddleford murmured, more to himself than anything. “How life keeps on changin’, even when you think you’ve hit the end of the road.”

Stanley glanced at him, his expression unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “You spend years thinking you’re done for —thinking there ain’t nothing left but the same old mess— but somehow, you just keep going.” He swirled his drink. “Somewhere along the way, you start building yourself again, even if you don’t mean to.”

Ford, still leaning against the railing, gave a thoughtful hum.

“I used to believe that once you lost something—once you broke something—that was it. There was no fixing it, not really. Just… damage control.” Ford sighed, rubbing his fingers against the glass bottle. “But maybe that’s not true. Maybe things don’t have to go back to the way they were to be whole again…Maybe we don’t.”

Fiddleford nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Reckon that’s the truth of it. You don’t get to go back. You don’t get to undo the hurt or rewrite the mistakes, but you can take what’s left, —what’s still standin’, and make somethin’ out of it.” He looked down at his hands, worn but steady for once. “Ain’t easy, but it’s possible.”

Stanley let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

“A year ago, I would’ve called that sentimental bullshit.”

Fiddleford smirked.

“And now?”

Stanley was quiet for a long moment, staring out into the dark. Then, finally, he shrugged.

“Now? I dunno.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “Maybe I believe it.”

Ford smiled at them, still leaning against the railway as silence settled over them again, but it wasn't heavy like other times, it wasn’t weighted down by regret or things unsaid.

It was the kind of silence that came when everything had already been spoken, and the only thing left was to sit with it, let it breathe.

Stanley let out a sigh, leaning back on his hands.

“Well,” he said, smirking, “if we’re gonna get all philosophical about life, rebuilding and all that— how about we drink to it?”

Fiddleford chuckled, lifting his glass.

“To second chances.”

Ford clinked his glass against theirs.

“To rebuilding.”

Stanley grinned.

“To getting out alive,” he said, voice laced with something bittersweet.

Fiddleford and Ford clinked their glasses against his, once again.

“To getting out alive,” they echoed.

The faint words were carried into the night, blending with the rustling trees and the hum of the crickets. The past was still there, still a part of them, but it no longer held them down. The future was uncertain, but that wasn’t a bad thing for once.

They weren’t running anymore.

They were moving forward.

Chapter Text

California, Palo Alto, McGucket's residency
_____

“Hello?” Fiddleford raised the phone that had been ringing, wondering who it could be.

“Fiddleford! It's been a while!” The man from the other end of the line answered and Fiddleford quickly recognized the voice.

"Ford! I'm so sorry for not callin’ back, it's just that I've been quite busy with the shop and doing the renovations for the house," Fiddleford replied, it had been nearly five months since he finally moved to Palo Alto, and it seemed like the renovations and unpacking were never ending. Fiddleford took a seat, getting the cord of the phone closer “And don't make me begin talkin’ about movin’ in! It's been a real hell, there are still some boxes and Stanley almost broke his back trying to lift one!"

Ford laughed from the other end of the line.

“Yeah, he told me about it” Ford said with a small laugh, remembering their call from yesterday, the twins called each other fairly often. “And how are you doing, Fiddleford?”

“Things have been well over here, nothing much to say.” Fiddleford replied as he adjusted his glasses. Ford remained quiet, unsure of what to say and that silence was unnerving to Fiddleford, who stood up, pacing around the room as much as the cord allowed him.

“I'm glad you are doing better…” Ford said, “I'm glad everything is better”

Fiddleford stopped his pacing, leaning against the wall before he replied.

“I'm glad too…” Fiddleford said as he took a deep breath.

He straightened his back, his eyes darting to the mirror he had recently set up by the entrance. He looked at himself for a second, his greying hairs had stopped spreading, the faint burn scar that the memory gun had left, was now fading; The wrinkles that crowded his face were no longer induced by the stress, but from the constant smile that plastered his face.

He smiled faintly at the image of himself. He didn't look miserable, he didn't look ‘okay’ or presentable.

He looked happy.

The silence stretched for a while, neither man daring to speak a word, until Ford remembered why he had called.

“Oh, I almost forgot why I called,” Ford said, and Fiddleford could hear the faint rummaging of papers and metal on the other side of the line “I finally finished the design for the 'Stan O' war II'!” Ford said with an excitement that was contagious.

Fiddleford smiled faintly, debating on whether he should tell Stanley once he gets back or let Ford be the one to break the news.

He should probably let them have that moment.

The twins had been discussing all kinds of design changes almost every day. It was a miracle they had finally been able to get to an agreement and get a proper design.

“That's great to hear. I know Stanley will be excited to hear the news,” Fiddleford said as he twirled the cord of the phone “I just hope it doesn't sink”

“You have such little faith in us, Fiddleford?” Ford asked teasingly while laughing “Try and build a boat yourself and see how it goes!”

“Ford, I literally built an interdimensional portal. Twice.” Fiddleford raised an eyebrow as a grin played on his face, and hoped his tone alone was enough to let Ford know he was mocking him “...a boat is a joke to me”.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ford said slightly annoyed, “doesn't matter, but just so you know, I'm taking welding classes and going after that engineering degree. It won't take me long until I become better than you.”

“Ha! You wish!” Fiddleford shot back “For an artist you have a terrible pulse, I bet you will burn yourself more than once.”

They both erupted in laughter, something they hadn't done together in a long time. It was nice, it was like the old times.

A reminiscence.

“Fiddleford,” Ford cleared his throat “I'll have to go for now. It was really nice talking to you but I'm running short on time.”

“How come? It's Friday evening.” Fiddleford prodded.

“I've gotta take care of something,” From the other end of the line, Fiddleford could hear rustling and was pretty sure he heard something break.

“Is everything okay?” Fiddleford asked as he heard another glass breaking, Ford only sighed.

“Yes, everything is.” Ford replied. “It's just my new assistant. He's been a real pain.” Ford sighed. “It's been really nice to talk to you but I have to go before he breaks anything else.”

Fiddleford just laughed at the occurrence that seemed to be going on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, it was nice to chat” Fiddleford said “Have fun taking care of the mess.”

“Believe me, I will not” Ford said with a huffed out laugh. “I'll call later” and with that the call had ended.

Fiddleford just shook his head at the abrupt end of the call, he took a seat on the couch for some time, processing everything.

He glanced around the house— there was still so much to do before it felt like a home. The essentials were there, but the walls were bare, not a single photo in sight yet.

A blank slate.

Just like his mind.

For once, there were no tormenting thoughts clawing at him, no self-loathing dragging him down, no lingering sadness.

Just stillness.

With a slow exhale, he sank into the couch, allowing himself to relax.

But as he closed his eyes, the front door creaked open, and whatever peace he’d found was knocked right out of him —literally— when a familiar weight crashed onto his chest.

“Daddy!”

Tate launched himself at him with full force, sending the breath right out of Fiddleford’s lungs. He let out a wheezy chuckle, shifting in place as he struggled to recover.

“Tate, I already told you not to do that,” he said, scooping the boy up and settling him onto his lap. “You’re gettin’ too heavy, and I’m too old for it.” He ruffled Tate’s hair with a smile, earning a giggle in return.

“Dad doesn’t get annoyed when I do it,” Tate pouted, arms crossed.

Fiddleford chuckled at the expression, shaking his head, and as if on cue, the front door swung open again, and Stanley stepped inside, arms full of grocery bags.

Fiddleford immediately rushed over to help.

“Thanks, hon,” Stanley said with a warm smile, passing off some of the bags before rolling his shoulders and rubbing his arms.

“No problem.” Fiddleford returned the smile, setting the groceries down on the couch. His gaze flicked between the bags and Stanley, one eyebrow raising. “Did Tate talk you into buyin’ somethin’ again, or was there some other reason for this unexpected grocery run?” Fiddleford asked while rummaging through the bags “Y’know, I was actually startin’ to get a little worried with how long you two were gone.”

He reached into one of the bags, pulling out a tub of ice cream and an assortment of sweets. His expression immediately soured as he shot Stanley a pointed look.

Stanley, ever the picture of innocence, just smirked.

“I'm sorry, Fidds, but I just can't say no to him,” Stanley laughed, dropping onto the couch beside Tate with a sigh.

“Besides, we got you something too!” Tate chimed in, eagerly digging through one of the bags— one that looked suspiciously fancy. After a moment, he pulled out a small item with an excited grin. “Here! Dad picked it!”

Stanley's eyes widened in panic.

“Tate—wait—” He reached out to stop him, but it was too late.

The object in question was a small black box.

Fiddleford took it from Tate’s hands, turning it over curiously before glancing up at Stanley, noting how suddenly nervous he looked.

“Should I be worried about what's inside?” Fiddleford asked, arching an eyebrow as he watched Stanley fidget— his hands restless, his gaze darting anywhere but at him.

“No—it's nothing to worry about... I hope,” Stanley muttered under his breath.

An awkward silence settled over the room, thick enough to cut with a knife. Even Tate, normally oblivious to tension, clamped his mouth shut, suddenly realizing he might have made a mistake.

Stanley cleared his throat.

“Tate, why don’t you head to your room? Pretty sure your teacher mentioned something about you not handing in your math homework last time.”

“But Baxter ate it!” Tate protested.

“Nope, don’t blame your mom’s dog,” Stanley shot back, opening Tate’s backpack and pulling out a notebook. He handed it over with a pointed look. “Now, go do your homework, and maybe —maybe— you’ll get some ice cream.”

Tate groaned but snatched the notebook, trudging upstairs with a dramatic sigh.

“Fine!”

And just like that, the house fell into an almost suffocating silence.

Stanley exhaled, rubbing the back of his head and looking at the box Fiddleford was holding.

“I was... uh, planning on giving you that later, and by later I mean some weeks…” he admitted, nodding toward the small black box. “I just— I thought it’d be a nice gesture, and everytime I pick Tate up from school, there's this store and–” Stanley then shut his mouth and sank onto the couch with a groan.

Fiddleford sat beside him, watching the way Stanley fidgeted—nervous in a way he rarely was. It wasn’t like him to get so worked up over something so small.

“I— I'm not even sure you’ll like it. I mean it was pretty cheap, nothing fancy,” Stanley blurted out, words coming too fast, tripping over themselves. “And if you don’t like it that’s okay! I can always take it back, get somethin’ else— you can pick this time!”

Before he could spiral any further, Stanley groaned and dropped his face into his hands, completely flustered.

Fiddleford leaned in, gently pushing Stanley’s hands away, replacing them with his own.

“Darlin’, you’re worryin’ too much,” Fiddleford murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Stanley’s lips, then another to his cheek. “Whatever it is, I know I’ll love it.”

He smiled warmly, leaning in again— just a quiet reassurance, a simple affection he had come to adore both giving and receiving.

Stanley exhaled, his hands still fidgeting, his voice barely above a whisper as he admitted,

“I really hope you do. I had a hell of a time picking —wasn’t sure which shade would suit you best."

That only deepened Fiddleford’s curiosity. He turned his attention to the box in his hands, his fingers brushing against the edges before carefully opening it.

Inside, nestled against the velvet lining, were another small box.

Fiddleford’s breath hitched.

"Stanley…"

His voice was barely more than a breath as he lifted the smaller box, his hands trembling. He held it like something sacred, delicate, and world-altering.

It was as if he were Pandora, staring at the box that held the weight of fate itself—yet he couldn’t stop himself from opening it. He had to see.

With a final, nervous movement, the lid clicked open.

And just like that, he joined the weeping of humanity. But unlike Pandora’s curse, his tears did not come from torment.

They came from something far greater.

Pure, undiluted happiness.

Inside, cradled in black velvet, sat a white –probably not— gold ring, its faint yellowish undertones catching the light in a soft, warm glow. It was simple, lacking any important detail, just a golden band, yet elegant, and so painfully beautiful.

He lifted his gaze to Stanley, searching for words—any words—but none came.

The silence stretched, overwhelming, until finally, Stanley broke it.

“I know we can't do some of the things other folks do,” Stanley began, his voice unsteady as he reached for Fiddleford’s hand. His grip was warm, slightly shaky. “But I wanted to give you something. Something that could prove how much I love you. Something you could wear with pride, even if you couldn’t explain it to everyone.”

Stanley remained silent for a second.

"It’s a matching set, but I could only afford one half of it" he finally admitted.

Fiddleford’s fingers brushed over the cool metal, tracing its edges before his eyes caught the faint engraving inside.

“Stay, forever and ever.”

Fiddleford read the words aloud, barely managing the whisper past the lump in his throat. His body trembled with the force of his emotions, a sob threatening to escape, but before it could, Stanley’s hands were on his face—gentle, steady, wiping away his tears with rough but careful thumbs.

“Are you okay, Fidds?” Stanley asked, his voice tight with worry. He searched Fiddleford’s face, desperate for reassurance, for any sign that he hadn’t messed this up. That he hadn’t been too reckless, too fast. Maybe he should have waited —maybe he was rushing things like a goddamn fool—

But then, Fiddleford laughed.

A watery, breathless, beautiful laugh.

“Yes… I'm okay” he murmured, placing his hand over Stanley’s, holding it there as he let the warmth sink in. “More than okay”

Stanley just smiled, as he held Fiddleford's face.

“I'm sorry, this probably wasn’t how you were expecting things to go. I had something else planned, but— well, guess I screwed that up.” He let out a faint, nervous laugh, his eyes searching Fiddleford for any sign of disappointment.

Instead, Fiddleford chuckled softly.

“This is perfect, Lee,”he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment to soak in the moment. “Perfect just as it is.”

Stanley lips curled into a small smile, staying silent just to admire his lover.

“I love you,” he said, taking the ring gently from Fiddleford’s hand. He reached for Fiddleford’s other hand, cradling it on his own. “May I?”

Fiddleford let a small laugh out.

“You may,” He said, and Stanley’s fingers slipped the ring onto his hand—slowly, carefully, reverently.

Stanley smiled softly at the view, his thumb grazing over Fiddleford’s knuckles as he admired the way the metal looked against his skin.

“The shade does match you,” he murmured.

Fiddleford looked down at the ring, then back up at Stanley— his lover, his everything.

“It does,” he agreed.

They both stayed silent for a while. Just enjoying the peaceful moment. There were no words to say to each other, everything that ever needed an explanation, everything that ever needed to be said, was already out.

Every thought had been said, every word had been used, nothing had stayed within them, for their love seemed to be unable to contain itself in their flesh.

Every touch, as light as it was, ignited the spark in their hearts. Every tender kiss set them back to that first starry night.

Everything they ever did seemed to bring back a memory.

Memories that Fiddleford kept close to his heart; memories he vowed to never let slip through his fingers.

“I love you” Fiddleford said, but the words failed to capture the feeling that burned in his chest. That familiar warmth that only came from the love his heart held. That warmth that lingered in every look, in every touch and in every word.

“I love you too” Stanley said back, but the words also failed him. No matter how hard he tried, they would never be able to truly get the other to understand how deep their love was.

And maybe that was the beauty of it all, the fact that no words they ever said would truly show how much they loved each other. Because nothing ever made material could be held the same way they held each other's heart at night.

There was no shame in loving each other, there was no pain, only this familiar warmth that seemed to never end.

Chapter Text

It was a sunny summer afternoon when Stanley and Fiddleford found themselves back in Gravity Falls, but this time, things were different. They were older now, comfortable in their skin, with the gentle weight of years behind them. The old cabin had a familiar charm, but there was something even more comforting about the route they took to Ford’s house.

Stanley gripped the steering wheel of the old car, glancing over at Fiddleford, who was dozing off in the passenger seat. The years had been kinder to him than Stanley, though his graying hair and lined face were signs of their shared journey.

“You awake, Fidds?” Stanley asked softly, glancing at him.

Fiddleford stirred, blinking sleepily.

“Mmm, yeah. Just... resting.” Fiddleford murmured as he stretched “You think the others already got there?”

Stanley chuckled.

“Probably. At least the twins must be there by now”

Fiddleford nodded, a soft smile playing at his lips.

“Right. The summer visits. I reckon it’s tradition by now, huh?”

Stanley gave a noncommittal hum and pulled the car into Ford’s driveway. The place hadn’t changed much.

They climbed out of the car, stretching their legs after the long ride, and made their way toward the house, the familiar smell of the woods was refreshing in a way.

The door swung open before they could even knock, and Mabel’s bright, bubbly voice filled the air.

“Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Fidds! I knew you guys would show up sooner or later!”

Stanley barely had time to register her enthusiasm before she pounced on him, squeezing him in one of her famous bear hugs.

“Careful there, pumpkin! I’m not as spry as I used to be!” Stanley wheezed, patting her back.

“Aw, come on, Grunkle Stan, don't be like that,” Mabel beamed, pulling back and eyeing both of them “Come on inside, Dipper almost burnt the house down trying to cook something, maybe you can help him.”

Mabel was enthusiastically pulling the two men by their hands and to the shack, there was a mischievous glint in her eyes, one that both men knew.

“So…how’d you guys meet again? You know, the story? I love that one.” Mabel asked and Stanley groaned while Fiddleford’s eyes immediately darted to the ceiling. He knew this was coming.

“Not again, Sugar. We already told you that story.” Stanley said, trying to sound gentle.

But Mabel was already hopping up and down, a huge grin on her face.

“I know, but it’s so good! I need to hear it again. There's so much drama and romance! It's way too thrilling!”

Fiddleford, now fully awake, leaned over to Stanley and whispered,

“You know, I’ve been thinkin’… Maybe we should just start makin’ up more ridiculous versions of it just for her.”

Stanley grinned.

“Oh, I like that idea.”

Before Mabel could launch into another round of pestering, Dipper emerged from the hallway, covered in what seemed to be pancake mix, looking as grumpy as ever.

“Dipper! I was just about to ask Grunkle Stan to tell us how he met Grunkle Fidds!”

Dipper rolled his eyes as he made his way to the couch.

“Good morning, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Fidds” Dipper greeted both men before taking a seat on the couch.
“Mabel…we’ve heard the story a million times already. Please don't start againl” Dipper said while frowning.

Mabel stuck her tongue out at him.

“Oh, hush. You know you love it.”

Dipper only groaned in reply, it was far too early to deal with her sister's antics.

“Can't you wait until dinner at least?”

“Nuh-uh”

“Did you just say ‘nuh-uh’ to me?” Dipper asked while frowning.

“Ye-ah” Mabel replied teasingly and Dipper only sighed and sunk into the couch.

A playful argument then broke out between the two of them, the kind only siblings could have. It wasn’t mean-spirited, just the usual teasing and bantering that was part of their dynamic.

Fiddleford and Stanley watched the show unfold with amused smiles.

Then, the door opened again, and in walked Tate alongside Emily, his fiancée.

“Tate! I didn't expect you to get here so soon” Fiddleford said as he got closer to greet his son who in return hugged him.

“Well, unlike you two I decided to actually take a flight instead of driving all the way here” Tate said with a smile and Fiddleford chuckled.

“Lee insisted, he said we should save some money. You know how he is,” Fiddleford said and Tate just smiled at him. “And Emily! How's everything going? How are the wedding plans?”

Emily just sighed, pushing away a strand of her white hair out of her face.

“It's been quite stressing, I won't lie, I can barely keep up!” Emily said as she fidgeted with the turquoise stone of her necklace.

“Same here,” Tate said “we are glad to be here to try and catch a break”

But Mabel apparently didn't know what a break was and immediately jumped in with her usual barrage of questions

“So, Tate, Emily, how did you two meet? I don’t think I’ve heard the whole story yet!”

Emily raised an eyebrow, amused.

“You’re always so curious, Mabel.” Tate said with a laugh. “It’s nothing that exciting, trust me. You know, we were childhood friends, there's not much to say”

“Not much to say? Come on, Tate! This is your love story, I need details!” Mabel insisted. “Details!” Mabel repeated, and the two sets of couples chuckled.

Fiddleford leaned into Stanley and whispered

“She’s relentless, ain’t she?” He said and Stanley chuckled softly.

“Always has been.” Stanley replied.

As Mabel continued to pester Tate and Emily with questions, Ford walked into the room, muttering under his breath about how the fairies had knocked over his trash cans again. His irritated expression vanished the instant he spotted his brother and old friend.

“Stanley! Fiddleford!” Ford beamed. “Didn’t expect you two to show up so soon!”

He strode over and pulled them into a hug.

“Sixer, ease up, would ya?” Stan wheezed playfully. “You’re crushing my ribs and I kinda need those.”

Ford chuckled and released them.

“Still as dramatic as ever, I see.”

“Hey, someone’s gotta bring the flair,” Stan shot back with a grin. Ford just rolled his eyes and turned to Fiddleford, his tone warming. “And you, how’ve you been holding up?”

“Fairly well, all things considered,” Fiddleford said with a tired smile. “Though I could do without all that rattling around those bumpy roads, the mayor of this town seriously needs to get them paved. Besides, the trip here already got me exhausted” Fiddleford said with a smile and Ford laughed

“You're turning into an old man, Fidds.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow.

“Turning into? Pal, I’ve been an old man since thirty. The difference now is I’ve got enough white hair to prove it.”

Stan snorted.

“Please, the both of you look ancient. I'm the youthful one here.”

Ford and Fiddleford exchanged a look before Ford deadpanned,

“Sure, Stan. Keep telling yourself that.”

----

As the evening wore on, the house filled with the cozy hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Stanley and Fiddleford, playing domestic for the night, busied themselves in the kitchen whipping up mugs of hot chocolate—complete with whipped cream, marshmallows, and a dramatic amount of cinnamon because “Fiddleford got carried away.”

They passed them out to everyone, earning grateful sips and sugar-high smiles from the younger twins.

Mabel, ever on a mission, had cornered Tate and somehow extracted the entire saga of how he met Emily and how that relationship developed— including a dramatic retelling of how Emily defended him from 3 bullies —Tate still questions how she had the strength to do such a thing, Emily insists luck was on her side due to her lucky necklace—, a shared umbrella on the way home, and a first kiss while the sunset dipped.

Dipper, meanwhile, had fallen into a black hole of nerd-talk with Ford, who was enthusiastically explaining gravitational anomalies in regions of the Pacific Ocean.

“I’m telling you, Dipper, I have seen wild things while on my travels! Gravity falls might have some strange anomalies but things get even weirder on open seas.”

“Like the time you got charmed by a mermaid?” Stanley said teasingly.

“Stan shut up” Ford replied dryly and Stan laughed.

“Oh, how could I? You were desperate to get to her! I had to tie you down to the bed or otherwise she would have drowned you,” Stan said, still laughing. “And I have Ford's writings from that day! He described the mermaid as ‘The most charming being alive’ and—” he got cut off short by a cushion being thrown his way, courtesy of Ford.

Ford was clearly flustered, he then cleared his throat.

“As I was saying, I was planning on making some repairs to ‘The Stan o’war II’ to get her sailing once again” Ford said with a smile and Stanley laughed.

“Nothing says relaxing summer vacation like a death trip to the middle of the ocean.” Stanley said.

“Statistically safer than driving on ‘El Diablo’. That thing is ancient, Stanley” Ford replied without missing a beat.

Eventually, the night wound down. Tate and Emily said their goodbyes and headed back to their hotel. Ford, ever the responsible one, told Dipper and Mabel to go sleep. It was far too late for them to be awake.

As Mabel made her way down the hall, she turned back with a grin, looking at Fiddleford and Stanley.

“You two are still my favorite couple, but don’t tell Tate or Emily. Also—tomorrow, I need the full how-you-met story. No skipping the juicy parts!”

Stanley rolled his eyes, but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his lips.

“Alright, pumpkin, alright. We’ll give you the deluxe version.”

“Deluxe better mean with dramatic reenactments!” she called as she vanished into her room.

Left alone in the quiet glow of the living room, Stanley and Fiddleford exchanged a look, both of them chuckling.

“She’s gonna regret askin’,” Fiddleford murmured, already plotting outrageous details.

“Oh, absolutely,” Stanley said, stretching out with a satisfied sigh.

Both of them chuckled softly, content in the simple joy of the moment. They were ready to exaggerate the story as much as they could this time.