Chapter Text
The snow drifted from the sky and onto Fiddleford's reddened cheeks as he trudged towards the little cabin in the woods. His boots crunching into the snow created the only sound for miles. Some would say the silence was nice, peaceful even. Others, more paranoid, like Fiddleford, saw it for what it really was—unsettling and untrustworthy. He shook his head, imagining he was shaking off the nerves.
The wood creaked as his feet traveled up the steps. He stood at the door, scared, unsure, and fully prepared to turn right back around. He knocked.
When he had left Stanford and his death magnet of a project, he was fully prepared to never see the man again. After some weeks ruminating and forceful forgetting, he had come to realize how scared his old partner was. The paranoia in his voice. He didn't want to help with that damn portal, but he wanted to help Ford. Ford was alone. Ford was scared.
Dear God, could he relate. With his wife not wanting him back in Palo Alto, he was stuck. He didn’t truly have anyone to rely on in this town. Could he return home to the pig farm? What would his family say? What would even be the point of all his time away if he just ended up back there?
Far too many things wrapped his mind, but most of all, he just longed for Ford. A warm embrace in the cold of winter. He wanted to be there for Ford, just as much as he needed Ford to be there for him.
He waited at the door.
Nothing but silence.
He knocked again. Ford would surely recognize the familiar knock. He would surely open the door.
He knocked a third time, deciding he’d give up if there was still no response. Hell, there was always the bunker, right? Just as Fiddleford was about to turn away from the door, he heard a grunt and clicks of locks. The door creaked open.
"Sorry.. 'suh... closed right now." The voice was gruff and rugged. Maybe even a little slurred. Fiddleford turned in surprise at the unfamiliar voice. His eyes widened with shock. Stanford... but... God, so, so much worse. Surely the weeks hadn't been this unkind to him? Fiddleford could feel tears welling in his eyes—he’d have never left if he had known Ford would look like this.
Longer, unkempt hair, stained jacket—stained everything. Somehow looking more tired and distressed than Fiddleford had ever seen him. And did he gain weight?
"Ford, it's uh, it's me. 'Ave you been smokin' again? Ya don't sound too good... ya don't look too good, either. I- I mean, I like the hair! But 's just... ya, um—"
His ramble was cut off when Ford cleared his raspy throat. "I'm ah... not— not who you're looking for."
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Even with taking on his brother's identity, he knew he couldn’t lie to this man on his—on Ford's doorstep. He couldn’t lie to someone who had actually known his brother. Fiddleford’s eyes traced Stan up and down. With a rush, he forced himself inside the cabin, reaching out to touch Stan, to study him more closely.
The sudden movement put Stanley on the defensive, prepared for a fight. His racing thoughts came to a halt when soft, ginger fingers reached his face. The graze of a thumb against his chin... where Ford's crease should be.
"Yer not... the shapeshifter?"
The what?
"No I, uh. You're looking for my brother. He's not here right now... sorry." Stan watched as the gears clicked within the lanky man’s head. Quickly though, his face grew somber.
"Where... where is he?"
Stan wasn’t really sure what to say. Especially to what seemed like his brother's ex. Or just a friend? He really couldn’t place it. Would it be okay to ask? Oh, fuck it. "Um... how do you know my brother, exactly?"
"Oh... we were... partners—o-on 'is project! That he was workin' on!" The man's nervous fingers and sudden exclamation at the word ‘partners’ told Stan everything he needed to know.
“Alright...,” Stan shuffled back, beckoning Fiddleford to come inside, closing the door behind him. “Not really sure if you’d heard about me from him, ‘names Stanley. You can call me Stan if ya want.”
The lanky man nodded. “Fiddleford. I think Stanford had mentioned ya offhandedly some back in college.” College. Ford's college. Stan cringed at the thought. He could tell Fiddleford caught the expression by the way his eyebrows shifted in response.
“Nice to meet you, though.” Fiddleford nodded in what Stan could only assume was agreement. Despite the circumstances. And general awkwardness. Stan fiddled with his thumbs, unsure what to say now. The two brunettes continued to stand awkwardly in the quiet cold of the cabin.
The air was uncomfortable. The silence seemed to last forever until Fiddleford spoke again. “So... ya never really said where Ford was. Is he alright?”
Stan’s eyes flicked to the ground, God, this was only getting worse by the second. “Sixe—Ford’s not. Here. He’s. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“He—there was this... We fought and there was a—this giant portal. It was my fault he was pushed through. It’s all my fault.” His hands treaded through his own unwashed hair as he choked back tears.
≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫
Oh God. The portal. No no no, anything but the portal.
“He’s—he’s... Is he gone? Through it? Went through the portal?”
The silence created an easy answer. Painful but easy. Fiddleford swallowed hard. Stan coughed. Despite everything, the air stayed still.
“I need to get him back. I have to.”
Fiddleford clenched his teeth. He understood the pain, but he wasn’t sure he could allow for the risk of the portal opening again. He needed to convince Stan otherwise but... how could he? He couldn’t reason with Stan while he was in this state. The memory gun was an option, but he wasn’t sure the man deserved that. It didn’t help that a part of him wanted to help get the portal running just so that he would have a chance to see Stanford again. He needed Stanford more than anything right now.
Turning on the portal...
He couldn’t.
But...
He could pretend ? For Stanford—for Stanley’s sake. Pretending to help him with the portal. Slowly convincing him not to open it. It could work. It could work in Fiddleford’s favor too; he’d be able to see Stanford’s face every day. Even if it wasn’t really Ford.
“I’ll help. If you’ll have me.”
It took a few seconds for a response, but the embrace was sudden and rough. Stan squeezed his arms around Fiddleford. He was eager to embrace it, wrapping his arms around Stan as well, subtly nuzzling into his shoulder. As he breathed Stan in, he wished it could last forever. He’d pretend he was hugging Ford and everything was okay. Nothing had ever gone wrong. But of course, every good thing just had to end. Including a hug with a man that clearly hadn’t showered in weeks. Not that Fiddleford could judge; he probably needed to shower too.
Stan cleared his throat as he pulled away. “Sorry I... I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I kinda needed that too, I reckon.” Fiddleford’s smile was small and sincere. He didn’t ‘kinda’ need it, he absolutely needed it. Stan didn’t need to know that, though.
“I uh... I totally forgot to ask why you were here. To see my brother, obviously, but was there a reason?”
“We—” Fiddleford immediately cut himself off; maybe he shouldn’t be outing himself or Ford. “Ma wife, she don’t want me ‘round no more. I was hopin’ Ford’d let me stay here. I—I can find somewhere else to stay, though. I’d understand if ya wanted to be livin’ alone.”
It felt wrong to be this vulnerable with a stranger, a stranger who looked like someone you desperately love at that. It was painful, but the only other options were to go back home or coop up in the bunker. Going home felt like retreating and the bunker felt like he’d be alone for the rest of time. At least here, with Stan, he’d have someone. Someone who looked just as lonely.
≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫
A pang of guilt and anguish shot through Stan after hearing Fiddleford’s words. He related to them more than he’d ever liked to admit. This Fiddleford guy was alone, Stan was in the same boat.
“You can stay.” … “I need the company.”
He watched as Fiddleford’s eyes shot open in surprise; he could feel his own eyes widen as well. The words slipped out. It was too late to take them back, he’d just move past them. “Just uh... put your bags in Ford’s old room. You good sleeping on the same couch? Just for the night. I don’t really have much else right now. We can get something else in town tomorrow.”
Fiddleford nodded eagerly. “Yes! Yes... thank you.” Stan watched him scamper off to Ford’s room, following at a slower pace. Eventually, the two of them were standing in Ford’s room, finding a nice area to nestle Fiddleford’s bags. Stan made sure there would be enough pillows and blankets for the both of them. Two men cramped together on the one couch would be uncomfortable, but Stan had been through worse shit. Not to mention he was not sleeping on the floor—and it’s ‘rude to make your guest sleep on the floor’ or whatever nonsense Poindexter would come up with. “Do ya mind if I shower?”
Stan sniffed. God, he needed the shower way more than Fiddleford did. “Can I join you?”
“What?”
“I need the shower bad, probably smell way worse than you, pal,” Stan chuckled.
“W-well sure... But surely we wouldn’t have to shower at the same time?”
Stan shrugged. He’d gotten used to this kind of thing—prison, life-threatening situations, a shower with two guys in it really meant nothing. “Saves on the water bill. Would probably make washing backs easier too, if you’re into that.” He could see Fiddleford’s face redden, but there was no refusal. Was it just because he looked like Ford? Probably, Stan figured.
“Okay. I guess ‘s fine...” Fiddleford dug his face into his hands as he sauntered off to the bathroom, Stan followed. The two men shuffled around, clothes dropping to the floor. Stan fiddled with the knob; they stepped in on opposite sides of the shower. Eyes stayed pointed up. Bodies never touched. The warm water washed away grime, it created ease. “Yer hair could use a wash, hon.”
“Oh. Thanks...” Stan splurted some shampoo on his hand, rubbing his hands together before massaging it into his hair. A second pair of hands gently placed themselves on Stan’s head. Tenderly massaging the scalp. Stan’s hands slowly dropped as he leaned into the touch. It was needlessly intimate; this was probably one of the most intimate situations he’d ever been in, but he couldn’t help it. It felt... nice . He was so relaxed. And God damn it, he missed the touch like a motherfucker. The desperation for someone to want him like this... He’d never admit how it had been crushing him for years.
Soft, careful hands led his head to the water, massaging out shampoo and bringing in conditioner. Fiddleford’s hands danced and tangled through the mullet, sliding smoothly through darkened hair. A second rinse to wash everything out. The careful hands slid from Stan’s head to his back, scrubbing against skin and scars. The touch was everything . “Hey, let me get yours—your back. You scratch mine, I scratch yours and all that. I can get your hair too if ya want.”
≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫
Fiddleford could hardly take hearing the words. They didn’t sound like Stanford, but that face, it fooled him too easily. He only nodded, trying to hide the smile that had been on his face since he started washing Stan’s hair. He’d wondered why Stan would encourage the behavior, but he would appreciate it nonetheless.
As soon as he saw Stan reach for the shampoo, he bent down enough for ease on Stan’s end. Stan’s hands were rough; they grasped and clutched at Fiddleford’s head, like they didn’t want to lose anything. Even so, when they worked through Fiddleford’s hair and down his back, he could feel how effortlessly they cleansed him. There was care within his touch. “Thank ya, Stan. ‘M sorry I barged in like this. Must be awkward to shower like this.”
Stan’s gruff voice let out a chuckle. “Really isn’t much of an issue. It was my suggestion anyway. You ready to get out?” Fiddleford nodded eagerly. “You got clothes to change into? I can get you some of my brother’s if not.”
As much as he would love to be within those clothes, to smell them—he had packed well. He didn’t want to lie to Stanford’s brother when first meeting him. God, he didn’t know what he’d do with himself. “We can get out now, I’ve got ma own clothes.” Thus they shuffled out, Stan rustling around and finding them towels. They dried off in a rush before wrapping their towels around their waists. “Thank ya, Stanf—” he had to cut himself off. Their eyes locked momentarily. They smiled. Sure, it was a weird situation, but they could both feel how badly they needed it. There was a well-needed solidarity in that.
Stan sighed as he found some of Ford’s clothes to slip into. “Yeah, sure. Hey, it’s uh, gettin’ late out there. Think I’m hittin’ the hay now, if ya wanna join?” Fiddleford rustled through his bag, grabbing some clothes comfortable enough to sleep in.
“I’d reckon it’s fine to get some shut-eye now. We still good with the sleepin’ situation?”
“Couldn’t care less, really. So long as you’re still fine crampin’ up together.” Fiddleford noticed the pink tint that crept onto Stan’s face, only hoping that his blush was that subtle.
“Y-yeah... ’s fine by me, I s’pose.”
And so it was agreed upon. Stan fluffed up a couple pillows, unfolded a couple blankets, and got himself snug. It was cramped; Fiddleford would have to end up nuzzling close—it wasn’t a problem, but it was a hard thing to ignore. Even so, they ended up spooning. It didn’t feel weird for Fiddleford; he could reminisce in the soft of Stan’s stomach pressed against his back. He felt at home with those slow warm breaths. It was similar to being with Ford. He didn’t want to give this up. Fiddleford’s only worry in this moment of bliss was Stan finding his projection repulsive and creepy; even if Stan did, he had the memory gun, didn’t he?
≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫
At some point during the night, Stan decided that Fiddleford was still enough that it’d be impossible for him to be awake. In that moment, Stan took his arm out of its uncomfortable position and wrapped it around the man he laid with, really leaning into the spooning going on. Stan was sleepless but full of thoughts. He could so easily spot Fiddleford’s projection, but he relished in it right now. Going this long without any kind of intimacy. Without these real showings of love. He just hated to think about how lonely he was. He didn’t care if he had to pretend to be someone else if it meant it could feel this good. He’d start being Stanford every damn day if it meant he could wash hair with another person. He didn’t care that it was a man, or even that this man was a huge nerd. He’d spent hours thinking about the shower from earlier. It wouldn’t leave his brain.
Eventually, as he held Fiddleford close, he could feel himself escaping insomnia and drifting off to sleep. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to wake up. He knew he had to bring Ford back, but if he could just be Ford in this state of peace for a bit longer, he certainly wouldn’t have a problem with it.