Chapter Text
Ford has always prided himself on his ability to focus on his work. Aside from his friendship with his twin he found interpersonal relationships distracting and unnecessary. Why waste money and time on a date that he could spend on research?
He knew that made people uncomfortable, so he put on his best face in public, mirroring Stan's easy laugh and open affection until he could replicate it enough to get by on his own. And for a long time that was enough. He went on a calculated single date every couple months to keep his parents happy. (“A strapping young lad needs a lady around!” Filbrick said once, heavy hand landing far too solidly on Ford's shoulder.) He let words he didn't quite believe in slip from his mouth in earshot of his mother, compliments on his date's appearance and general demeanor that were enough to keep her from wondering.
Ford was polite and attentive at first, but within an hour or so he would give up on the pretense and become distracted. The ticking of his watch against his wrist would inform him of all the time he was missing and at the first available excuse he would slip home. He never went on a date with the same girl twice, they knew better now. He guessed.
It didn't hurt his feelings, he just wondered sometimes what his brother saw in romance. Stan liked to wine and dine his dates, go to movies and give them flowers and moon over them when they weren't around. He got giddy when dates did the same in return.
The thought of someone just... giving something to him because they liked him made Ford queasy. He supposed if it was a practical gift it might be ok, maybe a new multitool or parts for his latest invention. But flowers and chocolates and all those other horrible romantic cliches left uncomfortable prickles along his spine and a bad taste in his mouth.
So he went on the occasional stiffly formal date, left a perfunctory kiss on his date's cheek at the end of it, and didn't trouble himself with anything beyond what was necessary to make him seem socially acceptable. Appearances were everything, after all. At least according to his father. Ford would never get into his dream school without a good work/life balance. A healthy attraction to girls looked good on paper, he supposed.
Attraction was just so foreign to Ford. He'd asked Stan once, after his brother had snuck back in from yet another secretive date, what it was like to be attracted to someone. Stan had furrowed his brow and waved his hands in the air while describing what sounded like a bad case of food poisoning. A swooping stomach and increased heart rate didn't sound super healthy to Ford, but when he said as much to Stan the other had snorted with laughter and gently punched his shoulder.
“I can only tell ya what I feel, Poindexter,” he'd said one spring afternoon, just a few weeks before everything went to hell. “I just want to take care of my partners and be taken care of. It's nice, and makes me feel all fuzzy like a blanket.”
Ford had flung his arm over his face with a frustrated huff. “Maybe I'm just doing it wrong. I'll let you know if I have an opportunity to test the theory.”
Stan had responded with an offended squawk and insisted that relationships weren't a science to be experimented on. It was “rude.” Ford's further objections were met with a pillow to the face.
It was the last good day in a long time.
-----
Getting out of his parents' house had always been a dream of Ford's and now – stuck in a “mostly bug-free” college dorm with a no-show for a roommate – he's not so sure he's pleased with the outcome.
He spent his days lonely in a way he had never considered. After all, he had been far too furious with Stan to truly grasp the suffocating silence of their once-shared room, but as the darkness of an unfamiliar space closed in around him, Ford missed his brother. Not enough to ask his mother if she'd heard anything and risk Pa's wrath, but enough to wonder very briefly if he'd made a mistake.
No. He can't think like that. Dwelling on the past will only hinder his ability to look towards the future. Over the first few weeks of freshman year Ford gets very good at putting his brother out of his head. The empty air and missing-limb feeling slowly fade into a background of white noise that Ford can ignore as long as he's filling his head with other thoughts. Ford began to fear late nights, when the unnatural stillness of his empty room jerked him out of sleep with all the grace of a lead brick.
He tried to go on dates like he did in high school, hoping maybe time and distance from family would improve his success rate. Maybe if he found a steady girlfriend his room wouldn't be so lonely. It wasn't as if Backupsmore had any true enforcement of their already lax co-ed “guidelines...”But these dates were just as performative and clinical as his dates before college. A pleasant walk, surface-level conversation, an inexpensive yet nice dinner that he zoned out of halfway through, and a dry, meaningless kiss on the cheek as he dropped his date off at her dorm building door. After a few weeks Ford just stopped trying.
And then, year half over, a mutual friend introduced him to Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.
The man was wiry and nervous and came complete with a banjo/hamboning habit that in any other situation might drive Ford to madness. Had in fact driven his former roommate to kick him to the curb and their mutual friend knew Ford had space.
Anything was better than the stagnant silence of Ford's room at midnight.
-----
“Nice place ya got here.” Fiddleford dumps the last of his luggage on the foot of the empty bed and goes to peer out one of the narrow windows that overlook the ball fields out back. Ford merely grunts in what he hopes is an appropriate greeting and keeps staring daggers at his textbook. His scientific knowledge is going to change the world and here he is, studying some low-effort English general education class.
His professor doesn't even grade quality, just quantity! He wrote three pages on how the class was a waste of his time and got an A.
Maddening.
“Earth to Stanferd,” Fiddleford says, and Ford's eyes snap up to meet the amused squint of his new roommate. “Now what'd that book ever do to ya? Ya look like you want to set it on fire.”
Wordlessly, Ford holds up the “100 Essential American Short Stories” textbook and Fiddleford winces.
“Ah. Haywick's class.” Fiddleford leans heavily against his lofted bed and absentmindedly picks at his nails. “Prob'ly the worst class in this whole institution. I swear they just use it ta weed out the science majors so the tenured profs don't have ta read more garbage than they already do.” He lets out an exaggerated shudder. “As long as you can string words together ya should be golden.”
Ford has many thoughts that he could express about that particular statement, but he settles for “It's a waste of my time.”
Fiddleford just tilts his head back and laughs, exposing a slender throat and Ford has the sudden inexplicable urge to reach out and touch. He shakes his head minutely to get rid of the thought. When he refocuses on his new friend, an easy grin is shining in his direction.
“Why don't ya take a break? We can get some grub an' talk about how not to blow up our room with personal projects.”
Ford looks reluctantly back at his desk, but he knows all the projects he currently has can be done in a fraction of the time it takes other people. With a sigh and a stretch to pop his back, he stands. “Alright, Fidds. Lets grab some 'grub'.”
-----
The next few years pass in a haze of general education classes and increasingly complicated projects that take up vast swaths of their tiny room. Fiddleford focuses more and more on personal electronics, his side of the room a humming glow of electricity and diodes. In stark contrast, Stanford's side is stacked full of books and scale models of future inventions.
He wants to present nothing but groundbreaking research and Fiddleford often has to remind him that even the greatest scientists had to learn the basics first. This sentiment is often accompanied by a wrapped sandwich or an admonishment to “take a shower and go the fuck ta sleep Stanferd, it's been three days.” The two students share their space fairly easily and nothing explodes or otherwise makes their living arrangement uninhabitable.
So, college is going well all things considered.
It's a lazy Saturday afternoon Spring of Junior Year when things take a turn in an unexpected direction. Stanford has been working half-heartedly on his typewriter in the rising heat of the old brick dorm and Fiddleford is nowhere to be found, so Ford assumes he's probably out scouring junkyards for useful scrap.
He's half a paragraph onto a new page when a horrendous thumping and scraping sound filters in from the hallway. Ford has just enough time to look up as the door crashes open and Fidds careens through the doorway followed by what looks like a whole small vehicle's worth of scrap wrapped up in a ratty canvas tarp.
Ford smirks in the direction of the inventor before turning back to his homework. “Leave any good scrap for the rest of us?”
There's an amused snort accompanied by some shuffling and metallic banging. “It's just some cables an' a couple fenders I think I kin pound flat. Besides, it's not like you use scrap with all yer 'Applied Theoretical Physics' or whatever it is Hansley is teaching these days.” Ford feels him move across the room and then the warm weight of his friend is draped over his back, Fidds' chin digging slightly uncomfortably into his scalp.
“It's 'Applied Gravitational Theory for the Modern Scientist' and it's a joint course between Hansley and Gregson.” Ford chuckles. “They spend more time yelling opposing theories at each other than actually teaching the class.”
Fidds hums in agreement from above him and the vibration sends a strange shiver down his spine. “Alright then, Mr. Modern Scientist. I'mma gonna go get myself cleaned up and then what would ya say to trying the new burger joint down the street?”
“Sure, Fidds, I could use a break.” Ford reaches for his typewriter, intent on finishing this paragraph at least but freezes as he feels the unmistakable press of a kiss against the top of his head.
“Back in a jiff, Stanferd.”
Then Fiddleford is out the door before Ford can really process what just happened.
-----
They don't talk about that first kiss.
They don't talk about any of the kisses that come after, feather-light brushes of lips against Ford's hair as he sits transfixed at his desk. They don't talk about Ford trailing his fingers affectionately across Fiddleford's shoulders as he heads to class in the morning and passes the man still tinkering away.
Little gestures just become part of the routine alongside reminders to eat and shower and “For the last time, Fidds, if you don't go to sleep I am going to smother you with that quilt your ma sent you last week.”
The first few times Ford tensed up, expecting his friend to say something or want something in return. But slowly, ever so slowly, he relaxes into the touch and finds it soothing in an odd sort of way. He finds himself considering his friend in a new, warm light. It feels like comfort and home, something he hasn't felt in a long time. He wonders if he's finally cracked in the absence of his brother and...
He grinds that thought into metaphorical dust. His brother is no longer his business. Stanley hasn't made any attempt to contact him and Ford only knows his general whereabouts because sometimes Ma will mention him over the phone before pausing uncomfortably and going “Oh, honey, I forgot again. I'm sorry.”
But sometimes, in the dark of night against the backdrop of Fiddleford tinkering (usually) or snoring (rarely), he wonders what Stan would think of him now that he's having weird thoughts about his roommate. He's not sure the thoughts are romantic and they sure as hell aren't sexual, but they're weird and fuzzy. It's like his heart stutters just a little bit when Fidds walks into the room and speaks to him in his atrocious drawl, its like he forgets how to breathe for just a second whenever they brush against each other in their tiny corner dorm room.
It's distracting and that is the last thing Ford needs right now. So he throws himself harder into work and harder into ignoring Fiddleford's affection and somehow makes it through the rest of spring without embarrassing himself. However, if a new tool or five mysteriously ends up on Fiddleford's workbench because it just felt right to do something... well that is on Ford and no one else ever has to know.
The most puzzling thing is this: The kisses don't stop in the Fall when Fiddleford shows back up to school and immediately starts going out with Emma-May. Fidds still drops the occasional soft kiss on the top of Ford's head and goes about his day like nothing happened. Ford doesn't know how to feel about this. On the one hand, he's relieved because now he can stop wondering what it all means and focus on his thesis. He's gunning for a very prestigious grant and a nice plot of land in the middle of Oregon, he has to be the best of the best. On the other hand, he feels a sort of empty ache every time Fidds doesn't return to the room until late. It's like he wants to reach out but knows that all he will grasp is empty air.
Ford decided a long time ago that he didn't have time for relationships, he isn't going to start now on a man who is already taken. He will accept Fidds' open affection for the friendly overture it most likely is and be happy that his friend is happy.
He throws himself so hard into his work it is hard to see anything beyond theories and calculations. He doesn't see the veiled longing in Fiddleford's eyes or the jealous way Emma-May hovers whenever he is around. Not as the two roommates start drifting apart as graduation nears. Not as Fiddleford nervously asks him to be his best man. And not even as Fiddleford announces that he's moving to California with his new bride as soon as graduation is over.
Ford expects this. Everyone leaves in the end, after all.
He doesn't expect the crushing feeling of suffocation at the wedding or the way his traitor heart beats so hard he swears that everyone else in the room can hear it.
Ford barely gets two sentences out beyond his best man speech before he's racing back to his empty dorm room and throwing the last of his possessions into his car for the long drive to Oregon.
He's crossed several state lines before he realizes he forgot to say goodbye.