Chapter Text
Fiddleford McGucket was just trying to live his life, honestly. He wasn’t expecting a kind of cosmic interference to drop an angel right in front of him. He wasn’t expecting a coincidence of fate to deal him a royal flush. And he certainly wasn’t expecting all of this to be so great, so wonderful, and definitely not so romantic.
As he sat under the oak tree in the park and strummed dreamily on his banjo, his head on the shoulder of his new partner and best friend, he considered the cosmic coincidence which had brought them together a week prior.
*
The little bell over the door dinged pleasantly. The beanpole of a barista barely looked up as a young man staggered in, trying to carry what seemed to be the entire Library of Alexandria in his arms. This was not necessarily unusual. The small cafe was just down the street and around the corner from Backupsmore University, after all. College students flocked to the Yours and Mine Cafe all the time to study, schmooze, and, most importantly, purchase coffee.
The student dropped his books on a table in a fairly quiet corner of the surprisingly roomy, warmly-lit cafe before heading straight up to the coffee bar. “Uhm,” he said to the barista rather nervously, “I’ll just take some of the homebrew.”
“Coming right up,” the barista said pleasantly, his southern-accented voice startling the customer somewhat. Of course; Alabama accents weren’t normally heard in northern California. “Fixin’s are to the left, hon,” he continued, pouring the dark liquid into a cup--assuming a medium, as his customer hadn’t specified--and handing it to the student, who took it with a rather shaky hand. A shaky...six-fingered hand? The barista didn’t have enough time to do a double take. Instead, he rung up the order, told the student his total, and finished the exchange.
The young man made his way back to his edifice of books without adding anything to his coffee, sat down, and promptly opened a thick textbook, pulling out a pen and sticking it into his mouth to gnaw on as he read. Yes, the barista confirmed, he did indeed have six fingers on each hand.
It’s rude to stare, Fiddleford, he reminded himself, his thoughts sounding remarkably like his dear Ma’s. But he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t even staring directly at the hands; more just at the general man sitting there in the soft off-white chair, bouncing his leg and jotting notes in the margins of the textbook.
A square jaw, a Hebrew nose, massively curly brown hair, and the softest brown eyes graced the man’s features. Lit from a wall sconce directly beside him, his cheekbones and chin were thrown into stark relief, accenting them heavily with a mixture of shadows and light. The soft glow illuminated the curls on top of his head, making it appear like a sort of halo. He could have been David from the Bible, had David been a skinny, bespectacled white boy from the northeastern United States.
Fiddleford found he couldn’t stop staring at the effervescently studying student. He vaguely remembered the guy from his Physics II course. His name was...Stan-something. Probably. He was finding it hard to think at the moment.
“Hey, Fidds,” a cheery voice interrupted from behind him. He jolted and turned quickly to see his manager, a round, jolly woman named Annabelle Fukui, coming in from the back room. “Didn’t see you come in.”
“Yeah, I just got here,” he grinned easily, leaning back against the counter. “Class let out a little late; I got here as fast as I could.”
“That’s alright; it’s only ten minutes, sweetie.” She smiled at him. “Mom and Dad say hello, of course, and want to know how your transition’s going.”
“Let them know that it’s going wonderfully.”
“Will do. Of course, Dad’s still trying to get used to the whole thing, but he’s ultra supportive of you. He really likes you, F.” She ruffled his sandy hair.
“I’m glad. I really like him as well.” Fiddleford smiled before turning to look at the man again.
Annabelle followed his gaze, stifling a laugh. “Who’s that, Fidds? He’s really something.”
Fiddleford blushed. “Aw, hush, Annie. He’s just an interesting fella.”
“Quite a handsome interesting fella,” Annie teased. When Fiddleford shot her an unamused look, she nudged him happily. “I’m just playing with you, sweetie. I’ve got to check on Seth now, make sure he’s doing his work. I trust you to do yours.”
Fiddleford nodded. “Of course, Annie.” He propped his elbows on the counter and waited for his next customer, stealing glances at the student every now and then, who had since moved on to a different textbook.
But then after about an hour, he closed up his textbooks and pulled out a small wire-bound...something. He glanced around the room before setting a pencil to the paper and…drawing? Fiddleford wasn’t certain for a few minutes as he watched, until he noticed the student glancing up every few seconds at a woman nearby who was sipping at a latte and typing on a laptop. Yes, he definitely seemed to be sketching her.
The student stayed all the way until closing time, barely touching his coffee and instead studying so intensely that he was basically unconscious to the world around him. Fiddleford found it amazing, the way he engrossed himself so fully in his books. As the world moved around him, he still remained, still reading.
Finally, it was five minutes from eight o’clock. Annie shoved Seth out of the back room where he’d been dozing and he started to wipe the tables. Fiddleford refilled the cups and fixings and wiped the bar. Annabelle threw out the dregs of the homebrew and set about cleaning the brewers. And the student didn’t seem to notice.
Fiddleford finished his duties, then sighed and approached the young man. “Excuse me,” he said gently. “We’re closing.”
He didn’t seem to hear the barista, so Fiddleford tapped him gently on the shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said when the man startled, “we’re closin’.”
“Oh.” The young man nodded. “Right. Thank you for letting me study in here. Would it be alright if...I did it again?”
“We wouldn’t mind!” Annabelle crowed from the back room.
Fiddleford nodded with a good-natured smile. “What she said. Now scoot, hon.”
After a moment of scrambling, the student managed to scoop his books into his arms and stagger out the door with a half-frenzied “thank-you”, leaving Fiddleford staring after him.
“You’ve got it bad,” Annie giggled rather bluntly, nudging the barista.
He blushed but said, “Nah, Annie. Somebody like him? I wouldn’t be able to get his head out of a book long enough to get a ‘yes’ to a night at the movies.” He hung up his apron and swept on his light jacket to fend off the cool late September air. “Goodnight, Annie.”
“Goodnight, Fidds.”
And he stepped out the door and into the brisk air of the autumn night.
*
Stanford. That was his name. Fiddleford heard it in Physics II and immediately committed it to memory. Stanford Pines. A strong name. He liked it.
After his Physics II course, he headed to his apartment up the street to drop off his books and change into his grey polo before walking the short distance to the Yours and Mine Cafe. Annie was behind the counter when he entered, and she waved to him. “Hey, F! How was school?”
He sighed as he slid behind the counter and donned his black apron. “Long. Reeeaaally long.”
“You’re the one who decided to go to college.” She smiled at him. “Ah, well. I’m certain you’ll be a wonderful engineer.”
Fiddleford grinned at that, feeling a little better about himself, and quickly took over at the counter. A few minutes later, as expected, his classmate-- Stanford --walked into the Y&M, this time with a bag slung over his shoulder. It appeared to be crammed full of books. Fiddleford wasn’t entirely certain how he was actually able to carry that.
He tossed the bag down beside the same table he’d sat at the day before and approached the counter. “I’ll just have some of the homebrew again.” He gave a small smile, obviously a little more confident than previously. “It was $3.68, right?”
Fiddleford nodded, quickly fetching the student’s coffee. “Here y’are, hon, and thank you very much.” He smiled.
Stanford handed over the money and Fidds expected the exchange to be finished, until Ford slipped another dollar into his little “tips” cup in front of the register. “This is my new favorite coffee shop,” he said, and walked to his table, quickly grabbing a book and beginning to study.
Fiddleford found that he liked to watch Stanford study. The way he chewed on the end of a pen when he was concentrating hard, the way he ran his six-fingered hands through his hair when he was thinking, the way he stuck the tip of his tongue out when he was writing paragraphs….
Oh, no, Fiddleford thought suddenly, I’m in too deep.
A customer approached the counter. Fiddleford jumped to attention. “Hi, how can I help you?’
The constant trickle of customers after that distracted the barista from his people-watching for a good long while, although he itched to fix his eyes once more on the young man. When finally he got a free moment, he noticed Stanford was sketching again. His pencil made short, light, choppy strokes across the paper, obviously shading.
Fiddleford watched him for only about fifteen seconds before Stanford’s eyes flicked up to connect directly with his, and the barista quickly looked away. He couldn’t stop the flush that rose to his cheeks. Annie was right. I’ve got it bad. The southerner glanced back at the artist. He probably has a girlfriend back home. What girl would refuse a guy like him? He shook his head quickly. There’s no way in h-e-double toothpicks someone like him would love someone like me.
Stanford once again stayed all the way until the cafe closed, although this time Fiddleford didn’t have to tell him to leave. He waved goodbye to the personnel before he walked out the door. Fiddleford didn’t move from the counter.
“Wow, Fidds, look at that blush!” Annie laughed.
“Shut up, Annie,” Fiddleford muttered, grabbing a washcloth and starting to scrub furiously at the counter.
“You know, maybe tomorrow you could give him something on the house,” the manager suggested wickedly.
“What?” the barista exclaimed. “No! Why would I do something like that? That’s just more money coming out of my paycheck!”
“I wouldn’t take anything out of your paycheck for trying to get with a nice-looking guy. I don’t blame you, either,” she grinned. “Man, I’d almost like to snatch him up myself!” Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. Don’t even think about it. “Kidding,” she added, raising her hands in surrender. “I was kidding.”
“Alright,” Fiddleford said skeptically. “I should get home, I’ve got homework left ta do.” And this boy to dream over.
Annie nodded and, winking, nudged him out the door. “Bye, Fidds. See you tomorrow!”
*
There’s this barista who works there, Stanford wrote in his journal. He’s tall and thin and talks with a southern accent. He wasn’t exactly sure how else to describe him without sounding like he had... romantic interests in him. The image of the young man came to mind--hazel eyes, a long freckled nose, sandy curls tied back in a short tail, small round glasses, slender hands. Soft slender hands, which brushed his own freakish ones when he handed Ford his coffee.
Oh, his thoughts said. But I’m not...I can’t be….
“Faggots,” his father’s voice sneered. “Unnatural, disgusting, homos….”
Ford shook his head. But he’s….
Beautiful, his subconscious supplied unhelpfully.
Ford scoffed and went to tuck his journal away, but he hesitated. Cautiously, he scribbled something at the end of the paragraph before sticking the book in his drawer and going to bed.
Perhaps I will ask him to dinner sometime.
*
“Hey, Fran,” Seth said as Fiddleford walked into the coffee shop after class.
“That’s not my name,” he said cooly, despite the heat rushing to his cheeks. “My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. It hasn’t been Fran for a year now. You’d do best to remember that.”
Seth shrugged and went back to wiping tables.
“Don’t mind him,” Annie whispered, nudging Fiddleford as they passed each other. “You know he’s just jealous of you.”
Fiddleford gave a small nod as he tied his apron around his waist and took his place at the counter. He couldn’t help but stare almost eagerly at the door, waiting for Stanford to show up.
The student did not disappoint, entering the cafe after another fifteen minutes. He, for once, didn’t have a small library of textbooks with him, instead just carrying his sketchbook. With a friendly wave he approached the counter, the confidence in his stride so potent Fiddleford had to take a step back. The barista couldn’t stop his face from flushing involuntarily. “H-hello, what can I get for you today?” he asked, sticking a nervous smile to his face.
“I don’t know,” Stanford said, leaning casually against the counter, “I’ve just been getting your homebrew this week. I need variety--what do you recommend?”
Fiddleford felt the heat reach his neck and chest and he subconsciously tugged at his collar. That smile was going to kill him. “I, uh,” he stammered, before taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. “I would recommend our caramel macchiato, ‘s one of my favorites.”
“Alright…” Stanford twitched a little but managed to hold his smile. “I’ll take one of those.”
Fiddleford nodded and said, “Great choice,” turning to begin making the order.
“How m--?”
“On the house, sugar,” Fiddleford added with a wink. He almost giggled at the sight of a sudden flush creeping across Stanford’s cheeks before setting about making the drink.
“Here y’are, then.” The barista handed Stanford his drink, and let his fingers brush across Stanford’s six. “Wow,” he said softly before he could stop himself. “Polydactyly?”
“U-um, double post-axial,” the man replied, avoiding eye contact and withdrawing his hand quickly.
“Amazin’,” Fiddleford mumbled. “Can I…?”
Stanford shook his head. “N-no, sorry. I don’t...no.” The look on his face said, I’m very uncomfortable.
“Well, I like them,” the barista said. “Now go take a seat, please; there’s a bit of a line.”
The student blushed harder as he realized that there were about four people behind him. “Sorry,” he whispered, and scurried to his seat, much deflated.
The rest of the day, Fiddleford couldn’t help noticing the student looking at him from time to time as he drew in his sketchbook. He hardly even noticed when Seth made jabs at him, or when Annie made some sly comment. When he wasn’t serving a customer, he was watching Stanford sketching.
During his break, Fiddleford got brave. He stepped out from behind the counter and headed straight for Stanford’s table. “Hi,” he said. “Can I see what you’re drawin’?”
Stanford jolted and went to cover his sketchbook. “N-no, I mean--it’s not finished, I--”
“Please?”
The student sighed and moved his arm, and Fiddleford saw a beautiful cross-hatched sketch of himself with a pleasant smile on his face, leaning on the counter. “That’s amazin’,” Fiddleford commented. “I really like it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, sure! You’re really good at drawin’.” Fiddleford grinned.
“Well, um...do you want it?”
“I--what?”
“Do you...want to keep it?”
“Well, I...if ya want ta give it to me, I’m not gonna complain.”
“Okay, let me...let me just sign it.” The student scribbled some initials on the bottom right corner of the paper, then flipped it over and wrote something on the back before taking it out of his sketchbook and handing it to Fidds. “W-well, I’d better get going. I...I have a thing tonight. I have to leave early.” He hastily gathered his book and his pencils and hurried out the door, leaving Fiddleford standing there staring after him.
“Hey, F, what’s with the long face?”
“I think I just let him get away,” Fiddleford sighed.
“Nonsense! Look at the paper he gave you!”
Fiddleford stared at the drawing. “I don’t see anythin’.”
“The other side, you dingus!” she laughed, flipping it over in his hands for him.
There, scribbled on the back, was a phone number.
*
“Hello, Stanford Pines speaking.”
“...Howdy, Stanferd. It’s...Fiddleford. From Physics?”
“Ah...um, hello.”
“Hi. Ya gave me yer number, remember?”
“Yes...yeah, that’s right.”
“So ya wanted me ta call, right?”
“...I suppose that’s logical.”
“Anythin’...ya wanted ta talk about?”
“Not really, I guess. I think I just…” He sighed. “Would you like to...get together sometime?”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean….” An audible facepalm. “We could study together. In the library. Sometime.”
“Ah...I’m free weekends till four.”
“How’s Saturday at one?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Will I see ya tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
Another pause.
“Well...goodbye,” Fiddleford said.
“Goodbye.”
Stanford hung up. Fiddleford dropped his phone and stared up at the ceiling. “He loves me not,” he sighed.
*
Stanford flopped back on his crummy dorm mattress with a frustrated exclamation that fell somewhere between a sigh and a scream. His roommate, a nice young man named Dan Corduroy, looked at him with a mildly concerned expression and asked, “Everything okay?”
Ford threw his arms over his eyes and shook his head. “I don't know what I was thinking,” he groaned.
“You were thinking that you've got a crush on that barista,” Dan chuckled.
“Why is it so hard to just ask him to dinner?”
“I don't know, I'm not in your head,” the ginger laughed.
Stanford, of course, knew why it was so hard to ask out a cute barista. But he wasn't about to talk about it to Dan.
Disgusting, his father’s voice rang sharply in his head.
Yeah, Ford definitely wasn’t about to talk about that to his roommate.
*
Saturday came too quickly. Ford’s jittery hands fidgeted with the pages of a textbook while he waited in the library for Fiddleford. When the lanky young man finally showed up, Ford nearly dropped the textbook onto the floor. As it was, he slammed it down a little too hard on the table and stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped over. “F-Fiddleford!” he exclaimed, and as one all the librarians turned and hissed at him. “Sorry,” he added in a much lower volume.
“Are ya sure my name isn’t too much of a mouthful for ya?” Fiddleford asked, not bothering to hide his grin. “Feel free ta call me F or Fidds. All my friends do.”
“Okay, I just wasn’t...sure,” Ford faltered. “Okay, um, so what should we study first?”
Fiddleford--F, Ford corrected himself--sat himself down comfortably next to Ford and whipped out a large Statistics textbook and a thick spiral-bound notebook. “Well, I’ve been strugglin’ mightily with some content in this class. Perhaps you know more about it than I.” He turned to a page and pointed. “This, here.”
“Oh, this is simple!” Ford exclaimed with a grin. “You see, the interval from x-bar - 2Sx to x-bar + 2Sx will capture µ 95% of the time. It’s the most common confidence level. The confidence level will give us a plausible set of values for the parameters.”
“Oh,” F mused. “I think I see. I checked and rechecked the formula, but I wrote in the critical value wrong in the first step.”
Ford nodded. “Just revise that and you should come up with the correct percentage.”
F did just that. “Wow, thanks for catching that, Stanferd!”
“No problem...and, ah, Ford, please.”
“Oh, of course.” F smiled pleasantly. “Now, about standard error….”
The time passed quickly, almost too quickly. The pair worked together, quiet and pleasant, on the complex statistical formulas in F’s textbook, and then on the physics questions in Ford’s. F’s hand sometimes strayed a little close to Ford’s, and each time he drew it quickly away. Occasionally their foreheads or elbows almost bumped, and they’d both secretly blush and pretend that they didn’t feel jolts of electricity from the points of contact.
At five minutes to four, F said, “I’d best be goin’, I’ve got things ta do.”
“If you must,” Ford sighed, almost melodramatically.
“Yes, I must,” F agreed. “I’ve got family swingin’ by soon and I need ta get my place ready.”
“You’d better hurry then,” Ford said, and then added, “This was fun.”
“It was,” F agreed, packing up his books and slinging his bag over one shoulder. “I’ll see ya Monday.”
“See you then,” Ford replied.
You’re just going to let him slip away? Ford chided himself as F headed for the door.
“Wait!” he called.
The librarians hissed again. He made a mental note to check later and make sure they weren’t gorgons or naga.
F turned with a slight smile. “What?”
“I, um, uh,” Ford stammered, “there’s a new Space Battles movie coming out next weekend….I mean, you don’t have to come with me if you don’t--”
“I’d love to,” F interrupted. “I really would. Saturday at seven?”
“Sounds good to me.”
And then F was gone, and Ford had never felt so alive.