Work Text:
Fiddleford was sitting in his room, staring at the memory gun on the table, desperately trying to look away. He wondered how he ended up here. He wasn’t even sure where here was. House, hotel, or abandoned building, it didn’t matter; it was somewhere isolated and alone. Forget his work on interdimensional travel; this was his true calling. Who needs your name in a history book when you can be out in the streets helping people? And he couldn’t be happier. Do you really have problems if you can’t remember what they are?
Memory erasure was normally excruciatingly painful, but the body’s defense mechanism of flooding the brain with chemicals to absolve itself of the sensation of physical injury has proven to be effective. More than effective, in fact, leaving its victims with residual relief, a sort of post-erasure high. Fiddleford had caught himself reading entire books and erasing them, just to feel a rush. Read. Erase. Read. Erase. Re-read? Is…is this the same story? Memories were able to return, much to his dismay, but only partially. The frequency with which he experienced deja-vu plagued him with intense paranoia, but it could all be alleviated with the pull of a trigger.
And to think, he owes all of this to that cat that lived outside his old house. Definitely not his proudest moment, but a necessary sacrifice for science. And she seemed so happy to eat the same treat for the first time over and over again. Surely people understood Fiddleford himself wasn’t the actual first test subject. And the cat only runs into walls some of the time now.
There was a time when he thought about using the gun on Stanford. He snuck the device in his bag, and was ready to pull the trigger. He had already input M-U-S-E into it. It hurt to see Stanford lie to himself about being fine, when clearly something was wrong. It would be so easy. They could keep working together, but away from the evil that had taken ahold of his lab partner. It would have been perfect. However, he couldn’t find the strength to follow through, knowing Stanford would despise him for it if he ever found out. And Fiddleford would eventually have to return to his wife, leaving him unable to take care of Stanford, should there be any complications from the memory wipe.
He had previously offered to erase some of Stanford’s childhood memories, noticing how pained he was every time it was brought up. But Stanford rejected the idea, disgusted. “Everything I’ve-, no, we’ve lived through…it’s all for something! If people like us don’t remember where we come from, how are we going to know where to go? The whole point is to return home heroes, remember?”
Despite the constant obliteration of his past, there were some things Fiddleford wasn’t able to forget. Emma-May was still at home. She couldn’t see him like this. He forgot he originally came out here to provide for her. God, how he missed Emma-May. He had a son, too! How could he forget he had a child? His heart ached and burned at their memories. His chest grew tight, and his breath shortened.
The last time he saw Emma-May, they got into a huge argument. He came home to see her for Christmas, but arrived without a single present . He’d never seen her so upset. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his family, but was held back by the fear of everyone finding out what he was working on and who he had become. The first McGucket to go to college and look at what happened! The thought of the gun firing was the only thing able to provide him with comfort. He had to pick the right word. The more it encompassed, the bigger the payoff. H-O-M-E? No, not that. He knew what would finally cure him of all his ails.
He now understood the thing that had been tormenting his mind for years. Why it was simultaneously so easy and so difficult to leave Palo Alto. Why he had wanted to start a family with Emma-May. Why he was so eager to run away to his old college roommate. What the two of them had shared under the stars that one evening. Why it was so hard to do what he was about to do. And why it was so easy. He began typing L-O-V…. His fingers were soon wet from the tears that began flooding from his open eyes. His shaky hands lowered the gun to his lap. He couldn’t do it.
It pained him to remember he left his wife alone. He never imagined that would turn out to be that type of person. He realized he never wanted to say goodbye. He missed her soft smile and embrace. Their house. The child. His senses were inundated with the smell of their home, and it hurt. The longing to return became overwhelming. His chest grew heavy and his limbs were full of gravel. He remembered their wedding day. And night. Every fiber of his being longed for the door across the room to open, with her waiting on the other end. He wanted her to save him. He needed her to save him.
But at the same time, the memories of another began to resurface as he thought of love. But they were different; the quiet, unspoken, and forbidden feelings. He knew he shouldn’t be having these thoughts, but could never find the strength to erase them, selfishly holding them close. The feeling of a six-fingered hand embracing his as they strolled through the woods together. The desire to put his hand on the man’s chest. Those very same hands gripping each other as they lie together. He thought about what it must be like to hold his face close to his, and what it would feel like when the hands in his hair pushed their mouths together to indulge in a long, overdue kiss. He imagined the warmth and comfort that alluring body was capable of sharing with his, and how he would return the favor. Just the two of them, in the woods. The life he knew he could never have.
S-T
He could still feel the rough grass scraping his back as they exchanged their deepest thoughts under the stars. He thought about what a life would look like where they really got to know each other.
S-T-A
Because that was the thing about Stanford, wasn’t it? He was always hiding something. Fiddleford had poured his heart out to him, only to be met with deception and abandonment! Stanford knew all about Fiddleford’s family, yet he didn’t even know he had a sibling, let alone a twin, until three years into college! And in his moment of greatest distress, Stanford turned him away on the grounds that he was weak and incompetent.
S-T-A-N
Stanford could never admit he was wrong. There was always some excuse behind every hurtful thing he threw in Fiddleford’s direction.
S-T-A-N-F
The way he released their pet axolotl into the wild the day he brought it home! The photos of them around his house being replaced with triangular symbols as part of his “new housing décor theme.”
S-T-A-N-F-O
The first person he met in college. The only person who really understood him.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R
The man he left his entire life behind for.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D
“This portal is going to make us me famous!”
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D P
There was no confusion in his life before now. He knew he loved Emma-May and whatever Stanford was doing to his mind was ruining him. Everything has been worse since he met him.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D P-I
Maybe Stanford only ever saw him like he saw that cat for his own research. Staying subject to the same mistreatment in exchange for the same treat over and over and over again. A necessary sacrifice for science.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D P-I-N
That goddamned prick from New Jersey who thinks he’s better than everyone else just because he was the smartest person in his hometown.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D P-I-N-E
The man who might as well have left him for dead.
S-T-A-N-F-O-R-D P-I-N-E-S
Fiddleford wasn’t even aware his hands had moved the dial until the name was staring him in the face. The warmth of his tears clashed with the cool air surrounding him. His eyes felt dry and stung. He stared down at the green glow of the text. He absentmindedly began to move the gun. Something deep within him, inaccessible to his conscious mind, began to move it closer to his head. His body automatically began relishing in the anticipation of the feeling of the gun’s powers. He needed the sensations it provided him. He remained unaware of the ongoing war between his reflexes and conscious mind. His hand moved to pull the trigger. Ah,that noise. That beautiful noise.
Something awoke within his body upon hearing the machine at work, yet his brain resisted, wanting to hold onto everything that was about to be incinerated. Suddenly all of the good memories of Stanford came rushing back. The way he got to learn about the supernatural and see more of the country because of him. The way they stayed up all night the first day of college, laughing while they figured out mathematical equations. They way he finally felt seen. Then, fear suddenly struck him. Did too much of his life revolve around Stanford for this to be safe?
Unlike every other time he used the machine on himself, his mind seemed to resist. His neurons fought to stay alive against the battalion of lightning coming to lay siege to his memories. He let out a blood curdling scream so violent he couldn’t breathe. His throat hurt.
His body began to feel lighter. The screams turned into laughter. He could only cackle like a maniac while his brain felt like it was being burned alive. There was a tightness in his temples that extended to his inner eyes. They twitched and began to ache. He could no longer keep them open. The laughing turned into a final prolonged scream as Fiddleford released one last unanswered cry for all of this to be over.
Then, it ended, just as quickly as it began. His ears were left ringing. He could barely hear the noise of the metal gun hitting the ground, but it was enough to draw his attention. He could hardly grasp onto the fragments of who he was, let alone where he was.
What was going on? Oh that’s right. He was thinking of Emma-Ford. Yes, Emma-May. Where was she? She must be somewhere outside that door. What was she? His wife in the woods? Wood. He noticed there was wood beside him, concluding he was in the right place.
He looked in front of him and saw an unfamiliar balding man with a large beard, reflected in a mirror. Who was the person staring back at him? Startled, he backed into something resting on the ground and tripped. His back planted on top of it, causing a twinge to surge through his body. He began crawling his way towards the exit. He kept pushing on the wall, wanting to escape the danger he felt in this room. He eventually discovered he had to move the wall towards himself to leave.
The piercing sunlight was fueling his headache like gas on a fire. He could barely keep his eyes open. He clambered around aimlessly on the ground, not sure what he was looking for. As his hands extended in front of him, they latched onto something silk-like and moving: the pants of someone walking by.
The face that looked down at him seemed familiar somehow. It revived a small part of his nearly dead brain. The stranger’s fez allowed him enough shade to see the face underneath. Fiddleford wasn’t sure why, but he enjoyed looking at it. Something about the nose and the glasses resting atop it. That smile.
“Oh uh… hey there….uh…you…? the gruff voice said nervously laughing, as he began to pull away. Upon hearing his voice, any feelings of familiarity began to fade, leaving Fiddleford with nothing, yet again. His weakened grip was unable to continue to hold onto the pants of the stranger as they started walking in the opposite direction.
He tried to speak, but seemed to have forgotten how. He wasn’t even sure what to say. It was as if every thought he was ever capable of having had vanished. His head ached and the heat from the sun weighed him down. Fiddleford’s tired body decided to stay where it was, coaxing his mind into rationalizing its choice in place of rest. Everything quieted. Maybe Emma-May would wake him when it was time for breakfast.