Chapter Text
The car’s engine let out a low, pitiful sputter as Stanley Pines turned the key and sighed, sinking back against the worn leather seat. The smell of oil and something faintly burning clung to the interior like the cola stain on the floor of the back. The radio was the only thing still working properly (the only thing he could attempt to fix without having to buy new parts, that is), crackling with the voice of some singer crooning about love lost and how depressed they were despite the up-beat music behind their words. He listened for a moment, staring out through the streaked windshield at the quiet suburban street ahead of him.
The neighbourhood was one of those quiet, almost too-perfect places. Trimmed lawns, neat driveways, and front porches adorned with the first hints of Halloween decorations. Orange plastic pumpkins, grinning skeletons, and ghosts made from old bed sheets hung lazily from trees, swaying in the breeze. The sun was already starting its slow descent, casting the homes in a warm, golden light that made the edges of everything feel soft, like the world had been dipped in honey.
Stanley’s foot tapped idly against the pedals as he half-listened to the music, the singer’s voice scratching through the static.
Seems to me… you just turn your pretty head and walk away–
His hand shot out and twisted the knob, cutting off the song mid-lyric. The sudden silence felt heavier than the noise had, leaving him alone with the dull ache in his head and the gnawing hunger in his gut. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast—if a stale gas station doughnut counted—and his stomach growled in protest. The small amount of cash he had left would barely get him through the next few days unless he could sell something soon.
The backseat was cluttered with the remnants of his sales day: a bunch of busted-up vacuum cleaners that had seen better days—the ‘Stanvacs’ he’d so proudly called it—some ‘Ripoff’ band-aids that he promised wouldn't give you rashes (they gave you rashes), and a handful of other cheap, likely lead filled, knock-offs. Junk, really. Junk that no one in their right mind would buy. Not unless they were desperate, or didn’t know any better.
“Come on, Stanley,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve got this. Just need to find the right sucker.”
He kicked the driver’s side door open and stepped out, the cool autumn air hitting him instantly, his unbuttoned jacket flaring around him before he quickly pulled it against himself. It smelled like damp earth and drying leaves, with just a hint of something warmer, like a dying threat that summer wasn’t entirely gone yet. He stood for a moment, stretching his legs and adjusting the collar of his (stolen; from the back of some loser’s van) jacket against the breeze. The sun, now half-hidden behind the houses, painted long shadows across the street, and the sky was just starting to blush pink and orange.
He eyed the row of houses ahead, all neat little boxes with their closed doors and pulled curtains, the kind of places that made a guy like him feel out of place. But he couldn’t think about that right now. He had to focus. He fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes, pulling one out and lighting it with a flick of his cheap plastic lighter. The smoke curled up into the air as he leaned against the side of the car, watching the first hints of twilight creep into the sky.
Stan took a long drag, the smoke burning his lungs just enough to make him feel something besides hunger. The cigarette hung loosely between his fingers as he watched the sun sink lower, his mind drifting to the familiar worries. Gas for the car, maybe some real food—hell, even just a slice of pie from that diner down the road. But to get any of that, he needed a sale.
“Just one sale,” he muttered under his breath, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Then we’re in business.”
He flicked the cigarette onto the pavement, grinding it out under the heel of his boot before pushing off the car. The last of the warm sunlight brushed his face as he headed up the driveway of the next house. His heart pounded just a little as he straightened up, pulling his crumpled tie back into place and running over his sales pitch in his head. With any luck, the people here wouldn’t notice the busted vacuum’s rattling or how the band-aids didn’t actually stick.
He reached the front porch, knocked twice, and waited.
The seconds stretched out in silence as Stanley waited at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced back at his car, half-expecting to see the smoke from his cigarette still lingering in the air. The neighbourhood was quiet, almost too quiet, the kind of place where you could hear the wind rustling through the drying leaves and the occasional distant bark of a dog. The kinda place you’d get wacked on the back of the head and no one would be around to witness it and if someone did, they’d be brushed off ‘nothing bad ever happens here!’
Finally, the door creaked open just a crack, enough for an elderly woman to peer out. Her gaze narrowed as soon as she saw Stanley, her eyes flicking from his dishevelled hair to the vacuum cleaner he’d propped up beside him.
“Not interested,” she said, not unkindly, but with the sort of finality that came from years of saying no to strangers on her porch.
Stan barely had time to open his mouth before the door shut with a soft click, leaving him standing there with his hands halfway raised in a defeated shrug.
“Thanks a lot, lady…” he sighed, tugging at his tie again, which had already loosened itself after his attempt to tighten it earlier.
“Right. Next one’ll be better,” he muttered, though even he didn’t fully believe it.
He dragged the vacuum back down the porch steps, its wheels catching on the edge and making an awful clattering noise that echoed through the stillness. He tried two more houses after that—each rejection faster than the last. People didn’t even bother to open their doors anymore; they just waved him off through windows, or shouted excuses about being too busy or not interested.
By the time he reached the fourth house, he was starting to seriously consider calling it a day. His stomach twisted with hunger, and the cigarette had done nothing to ease his growing frustration. The sun was dipping lower, casting the world in long, amber shadows. He could feel the chill in the air more now, seeping through his jacket, gnawing at the back of his neck.
Maybe he should try growing his hair out.
Stanley leaned against the side of his car once more, fishing out another cigarette and lighting it. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and letting the smoke settle in his lungs. The distant sound of crickets began to hum, filling the quiet with a steady rhythm. For a brief moment, he let himself relax, the weight of the day slipping away as he watched the sky turn a deeper shade of gold. The dying leaves swirled around him, carried by the cool breeze that picked up as the day shifted to early evening.
He could just go find a parking lot to sleep in. Maybe he could try again tomorrow–
His stomach growled, snapping him back to reality.
Stanley sighed.
99% of gamblers quit before they win big, right?
He flicked the cigarette away, straightened up, and turned toward one last house at the end of the block. The porch light was already on, casting a faint glow over the front steps, and the house looked slightly older than the others, its paint chipped and the wood on the railing worn from years of use.
With a deep breath, Stanley grabbed the vacuum and headed toward the porch.
Stanley knocked twice, this time a little more cautiously. He wiped the nervous sweat from his brow and glanced around the porch, noticing a few small knick-knacks that looked handmade—maybe crafted by the person living here. The wind stirred again, ruffling the loose strands of his hair as he heard movement behind the door.
He started to attempt to fix it as the door creaked open, revealing a tall, lanky man with wavy blond (or was it brown?) hair sticking out from beneath a worn green cap. He had round, green-tinted glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and wore a long-sleeve brown shirt with an orange and yellow floral pattern (which Stanley disliked) and wide-legged jeans.
“Howdy there,” the man said with a southern drawl, looking at Stanley with curiosity and a polite smile rather than the immediate dismissal Stanley had gotten used to that day. “What can I do ya for?”
Stan blinked, momentarily thrown off by the genuine greeting. He quickly gathered himself and put on his best sales smile, though it felt a bit strained.
“Uh, hey there! Name’s Stanley Pines,” he began, setting down the vacuum and giving it a quick pat. “I’ve got just the thing to make your life easier—this here is the Stanvac 3000, the finest vacuum cleaner you’ll ever lay eyes on. It’s got suction power like you wouldn’t believe, picks up dust, dirt, and—uh, just about anything, really.”
He’d decided to get rid of that honestly awful tagline for the product, but since he couldn’t think of any other one, he just avoided the topic of some sort of catchphrase.
The man’s eyes flickered with interest, though Stanley caught the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. He didn’t say anything right away, just adjusted his glasses and looked from the vacuum to Stanley, as if sizing him up.
“Well now, that’s a mighty fine pitch ya got there,” the man said, his lips twitching into a small smile. He had a gap between his two front teeth. “Though I gotta admit, I’m more of a broom kinda guy. Got a shop out back where this ol’ thing might just get clogged up with sawdust faster than it’d clean it.”
Stan chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, uh… might not be the best for sawdust, but it’s got potential for everything else!” He cleared his throat, trying to recover. “But hey, if vacuums aren’t your thing, I’ve got some other fine products—bandaids, lightbulbs, f-forks, you name it.”
The man tilted his head, still watching Stanley with that same look.
He seemed to be weighing something in his mind before finally nodding.
“Tell ya what—why don’t you come inside for a bit?” the man offered, stepping aside and opening the door wider. “Got some apple cider inside if you’re thirsty. We can talk about all them gadgets you’ve got there.”
Stan’s brows shot up in surprise. He wasn’t sure if it was the promise of cider or the kindness in the man’s tone, but before he could second-guess it, he found himself nodding.
“Uh, sure. Yeah, that’d be… that’d be great, actually.” He hesitated for just a second before stepping inside, the warmth of the house washing over him and proving just how cold it really was outside.
The man gave him a friendly nod. “Name’s Fiddleford. Fiddleford McGucket.”
Stan nodded, mouthing the name. The faint scent of wood polish and freshly baked bread greeted him, mixing with something faintly metallic, like the sharp tang of oil or machinery.
The front room was cosy and cluttered, but it didn’t seem like a mess, just… a lot of stuff. On a small, worn-out coffee table sat an intricate clock in the process of being assembled, tiny gears and springs laid out with meticulous care. Against the far wall, there was a shelf lined with small devices that somehow looked both manufactured and handmade at the same time—something that looked like one of those tiny computers, little clocks, and a few things Stanley couldn’t even recognize. A couple of framed photographs sat atop the mantel, too far away to make out clearly, but at a glance, it looked like a family reunion photo.
“Make yourself at home,” Fiddleford said cheerfully, closing the door behind them with a soft click. His drawl was slow and warm, the kind of voice you’d hear on the radio, or at least that’s what Stanley thought. “Don’t mind the mess. Been workin’ on some projects lately, things got a little, er, scattered.”
Stanley nodded, taking it all in as he moved to stand awkwardly near the couch, not quite sure where to sit—or if he should sit at all. His eyes were drawn to the clock on the table, its inner workings exposed, waiting to be pieced together. There was something delicate about it, something that required patience, focus. It was hard to imagine the lanky, hippie looking man before him being the kind to spend hours tinkering with something so precise.
“So, uh,” Stanley began, trying to find his footing, “you into clocks or something?” He gestured toward the half-assembled piece, feeling like he should make small talk now that he was inside this stranger’s house.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
What if this guy was a murderer? Or worse, actually a hippie.
Fiddleford smiled, a flicker of pride in his expression. “Oh, I dabble here and there. Clocks, robots, computers… I like anything mechanical that I can take apart and put back together again. S’pose I just enjoy makin’ things run smoother, you know?” He tipped his hat back slightly and glanced over to the kitchen. “How about that cider I mentioned? Been brewin’ some fresh stuff for the fall.”
Stan had started zoning out, but he nodded, feeling his throat dry up at the reminder of the cider. “Yeah, that sounds pretty good, actually.”
As Fiddleford made his way into the kitchen, Stanley let himself breathe a little, his eyes wandering across the room. It was hard not to notice the subtle, personal touches scattered around—handcrafted trinkets, warm orange and yellow tones that matched the man’s worn shirt. It felt different from the places he was used to—run-down motels, the cramped, messy backseat of his car. This place had a warmth to it, a care.
Someone actually liked living here.
There was a clinking sound from the kitchen, and soon Fiddleford returned, carrying two tall glasses of cider, the amber liquid catching the last rays of sunlight that filtered through the window. He handed one to Stanley, who took it gratefully, the cold glass a comfort in his hand.
“Here ya go,” Fiddleford said with a smile. “Fresh from the batch this mornin’.”
He could only hope it wasn’t poisoned, but hey, what a way to go, right?
Stan took a sip, surprised at how sweet and smooth the cider was. It had a slight tang, which hopefully wasn’t rat poison, and he couldn’t help but let out a small, contented hum. “Damn, this is good. Didn’t think Indiana had it in ‘em to make cider like this.”
Fiddleford chuckled, clearly pleased. “Well, reckon it’s ‘cause I ain’t from here—M’from Tennessee. Now, why don’t you take a seat and tell me ‘bout them gadgets you’re tryin’ to sell?”
Stan hesitated only a moment before sinking into the couch, the worn fabric creaking under his weight. He set the glass of cider on the coffee table and shifted the vacuum cleaner closer to his side.
“Oh, right, uh,” he began, feeling a little silly now, surrounded by all the intricate things Fiddleford had built himself. “Well, like I said, it’s the Stanvac 3000. Best vacuum you’ll find anywhere.” He paused, running his hand awkwardly through his hair. “Or, well, maybe not the best, but it’s, uh, sturdy… when it works.”
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, but his expression remained friendly. “A vacuum, huh? Can’t say I’m in the market for one at the moment, but uh… I hope ya don’t mind me askin’—how’d you end up sellin’ these things? I mean… you seem different than the typical salesmen that come ‘round here—you look like you got more on your mind than th’ vacuums.”
Stan snorted, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “You’d think that, huh?” He leaned back against the couch, letting himself relax a little, though his fingers still fidgeted with the cuff of his jacket.
He sighed.
Sometimes it would come up, and he’d have to tell his sob-story to try to pity someone into giving him more money than they would have previously. The worst part, though, was that it wasn’t just some story or lie to make more money.
He was telling the truth.
“I’m, uh…” He shook his head. “Listen, I’m just trying to make a few bucks, y’know? Pay for gas, maybe get somethin’ to eat before I head out of town.”
Fiddleford nodded, his eyes softening with understanding. “O-Oh, I see.” He paused for a moment, looking away for a moment before back up at Stanley. “How much have you made today—if that ain’t intrusive.”
“Uh…” He looked away. “Nothing.” Stan laughed softly.
God, he was pathetic wasn’t he? Why was he telling this man this?
Then again, nothing better than telling your woes to some random guy you’ll never see again—Stan had learned that a long time ago from going to bars; many a bartender knew his father and brother’s name.
There was a moment of quiet, broken only by the soft hum of the house and the distant ticking of what must have been one of Fiddleford’s clocks. Stan’s eyes drifted awkwardly over the scattered gadgets and odd-looking devices resting on various shelves and countertops.
At least once the man kicked him out for randomly dropping his problems on him, he’d never have to see him again.
Fiddleford watched him for a moment longer, then leaned back into his own seat, stretching his legs out slightly. “Well,” he began softly, as if talking to a child, “if it makes ya feel any better, I reckon most folks ‘round here ain’t exactly in the market for much of anything. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with you or your salesmanship, I’d wager. Just how things are.”
Stan chuckled softly. “Yeah, well, feels like my luck’s just been runnin’ on empty for a while now.” He took another sip of the cider, the cold from the drink settling in his chest.
Fiddleford shifted in his seat, as though considering something. “Y’know…” He said as he adjusted the collar of his shirt, “if you’re not in too much of a rush to leave town just yet, I could take a look at that vacuum of yours in a bit. Might be able to tweak it, make it more efficient or somethin’. Robotics ‘n’ machines are kinda my thing.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “You’re an engineer?”
Fiddleford smiled modestly, nodding. “Y-Yeah. Mostly work on clocks and computers, but I reckon a vacuum can’t be too different.” He glanced toward the cluttered workbench in the corner. “Been workin’ on all sorts of gadgets for as long as I can remember.”
Stan glanced at the vacuum again. “I mean, it could use a miracle, that’s for sure.” He smirked but then paused, a little hesitance creeping in. “You’d really do that? For just some guy who just showed up on your doorstep?”
Fiddleford met his gaze, his expression still soft. “’Course I would. ‘Sides, I don’t get much company ‘round here. It’d be nice to have someone to talk to while I work.” His eyes twinkled behind those green-tinted glasses. “And who knows? Maybe it’ll even help you sell the thing.”
There was a lightness to Fiddleford’s offer, something that didn’t feel like pity or charity but genuine kindness. It made Stan’s usual defences falter for just a second. He nodded, swallowing down the usual quip that would’ve brushed the moment off.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice softer. “I’d appreciate that.”
They sat there for a moment, sipping their cider in companionable silence. The last light of the day slipped through the window, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves again, a warm breeze cutting through the chill.
“So,” Fiddleford said eventually, leaning back in his chair, “you travelin’ a lot? Or just passin’ through Indiana?”
Stan glanced over at him, catching the hint of curiosity in Fiddleford’s gaze. He shrugged, setting the glass down again. “Yeah, been on the road for a while now. Guess I don’t really stay in one place for too long.”
Fiddleford hummed, his smile still there but more thoughtful now. “Must be somethin’, seein’ all those places. Bet you’ve got some stories.”
Stan chuckled, though the resulting smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’ve got a few.” There was a pause. “Nothin’ worth telling, though."
Fiddleford looked like he was about to say something, but then hesitated. He seemed to think for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft but steady. “You ever… stick around long enough to find somethin’ worth stayin’ for?”
Stan glanced at him, surprised by the question. There was something in the way Fiddleford asked it, something that felt like more than just polite conversation. It was careful, like he was probing for an answer without pushing too hard. Stanley knew that way of speaking, of wording things to get something more out of whoever you were talking to.
Stan shifted, suddenly feeling the weight of the question settle between them. He didn’t answer right away, instead taking another sip of the cider to buy himself a few extra seconds. “Nah,” he said finally, his voice quiet. “Never really found a reason to stick around.”
Fiddleford nodded slowly, like he wasn’t surprised by the answer, but there was something in his eyes that suggested he didn’t quite believe it. He leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers lightly tapping against his glass. “Reckon that must get lonely after a while,” he said, his voice still soft, like he was just making an observation.
Stan laughed, but it came out hollow. “Yeah, well, you get used to it.” He glanced away, focusing on a spot on the wall as he ran a hand through his hair. “Besides, people are overrated, y’know? They’ll let you down if you give ’em the chance.” He said it casually, but the bitterness underneath was unmistakable.
Fiddleford frowned a little, his eyes narrowing just a bit, like he was piecing something together. “Guess I can understand that,” he said, his tone gentle. “But… not everyone’s like that. Some folks stick around, even when you don’t expect ’em to.”
Stan looked at him, surprised by the tone of Fiddleford’s words. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he wasn’t just offering some empty reassurance. He really believed it, and that was scary.
Stan shifted again, the weight of the conversation pressing down on him. He wasn’t used to this, to someone caring enough to dig beneath the surface, especially someone he’d only just met. Normally, he’d crack a joke, brush it off, and change the subject. But there was something about this man—something quiet, patient—that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, it was okay to be a little honest.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well… not sure I’m the kind of guy people stick around for.” The admission came out quieter than he intended, like it slipped past his usual defences before he could stop it, like it wasn’t just a joke.
Fiddleford tilted his head slightly, watching Stan with that same thoughtful expression. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said after a moment, his voice soft. “Sometimes folks just need a chance to see what’s underneath all that.” He smiled a little, like he was trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, you seem like good company to me.”
Stan blinked, caught off guard by the compliment. He wasn’t sure what to say to that. He hadn’t expected anyone to be so… genuine. For a moment, Stan felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the cider, something that settled in his chest and made him feel a little less like the drifter he’d convinced himself he was.
He snorted, trying to brush it off, but there was no real bite to his tone. “You don’t know me that well.”
Fiddleford chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe not,” he agreed, his smile lingering. “But I reckon I’ve got a pretty good feel for people.”
Stan glanced at him, still unsure what to make of it. There was a part of him that wanted to push back, to say something sarcastic, to keep his walls up. But the look in Fiddleford’s eyes, that calm, easy kindness—it made it harder to keep up the usual act.
He exhaled, running a hand down his face. “You’re a weird guy, y’know that?”
Fiddleford grinned, shrugging. “Yeah, I’ve been told.” He took a sip of his cider, then added, “But you’re still sittin’ here, so I can’t be that bad.”
Stan couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking his head. “Guess not.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, the air between them feeling a little lighter now, the weight of their earlier conversation settling into something more manageable. Outside, the wind had picked up a bit, making the trees sway gently, their branches casting shifting shadows across the room.
After a while, Fiddleford glanced at the clock on the wall. “Well, I’d say I’ve kept you long enough,” he said, though there was no rush in his tone. “If you’re plannin’ on headin’ out of town soon.”
Stan hesitated, glancing toward the window, the fading light barely visible now. The idea of getting back on the road, of driving into the night with nothing but static on the radio and miles of empty highway ahead of him… it didn’t seem as appealing as it had this morning.
“Nah,” he said after a moment, surprising himself. “I’m in no rush.”
Fiddleford smiled at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Good,” he said simply. His smile brightened the room, and Stan felt a warmth wash over him that he hadn’t expected. It was a strange sensation—being invited in, welcomed, even. He glanced around the cosy space, and felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this was what it felt like to have a moment of connection.
“C’mon, then,” Fiddleford said, standing up and giving a gesture toward the couch. “I’ll grab us s’more cider, and you can tell me about those stories you’re not sure are worth sharing.”
Stan chuckled as he followed Fiddleford to the kitchen. “Oh, now you’re gonna get the dirt on me, huh?” he teased, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Only if you wanna share,” Fiddleford replied over his shoulder, his tone light. “But I promise not to judge. I’m a pretty good listener.”
Stan watched as Fiddleford busied himself at the fridge, reaching for the cider and pouring it into two glasses. There was something endearing about the way he moved, his hands deftly working without a hint of rush, as if he actually found joy in taking his time.
“Alright, fair enough,” Stan said as Fiddleford returned, handing him a fresh glass. “I’ll bite. What do you want to know?”
Fiddleford settled back down on the couch, and Stan took a seat across from him. “Well,” Fiddleford started, leaning forward with genuine curiosity, “I guess I’m curious about what’s kept you on the road all this time. What’s the draw?”
Stan took a sip of his cider, contemplating the question. He had his rehearsed answers for strangers, but something about Fiddleford made him reconsider.
He paused.
He couldn’t tell him.
What was he supposed to say?
Tell him the truth? That his father kicked him out and how he couldn’t go back home until he was a millionaire? Then he’d have to tell him the truth about what an absolute fuck-up he was…
He gave him the rehearsal.
“I don’t know, man. It’s just easier, I guess. No roots, no commitments. Just me and… the open road.” God, did people actually like that? Not having a home to go to? Not having anyone who ever cared about or loved you?
Having someone who, when they thought of you, didn’t grimace in anger and disgust?
God, those people were lucky.
Fiddleford nodded, his expression thoughtful. He believed him. “That sounds nice, in a way. But… don’t you ever feel like you’re missin’ something? Like there’s a whole world you’re not part of?”
Stan hesitated, the cider suddenly feeling heavier in his hand. Oh, boy. Fiddleford would never know the truth in his words. “Sometimes,” he admitted carefully, slipping the truth in, “but look at it this way, if you don’t let anyone in, you can’t get hurt, right?” Or they can’t get hurt because of you.
Fiddleford’s gaze softened, a hint of sadness flitting across his features. “I reckon that’s true,” he said quietly. “But I think it’s also a shame. Sometimes the hurt can lead to some of the best moments.”
Stan felt the weight of the words settle onto his shoulders. “Maybe,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know. Life sucks, it… wears you down to nothing. Having to care for another person during that? Or… another person being forced outta obligation to care for you?”
“I mean yeah, sometimes life sucks, sometimes it feels like there’s nothing left, like it’s just this… horrible, foggy abyss that don’t want you passin’ through, but… other times it gives you something good to hold onto, something that makes it worthwhile. It ain’t a ‘have to’. It’s a ‘get to.’”
Stanley scoffed softly at that.
“Yeah?” He asked. “Where the hell is that? Where’s my good thing?”
“I dunno, but I think I’m looking at mine.”
Stan’s heart skipped a beat at his words, his face falling.
Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed, and he glanced down at his glass of cider.
“What?” Stan chuckled softly, trying to ignore the warmth rising in his chest. “You don’t even know me.” His voice cracked, but he covered it with a cough.
“Maybe not yet,” Fiddleford said, “but I’d like to get to know you, Stanley Pines.”
Stanley Pines.
When he was younger, the only reason someone would talk to him was either to bully him or to have a reason to talk to his brother.
No one ever wanted to talk to him.
And no one ever did.
They spoke with the man selling faulty products at the door, they spoke to the drunk crying over the mother he hadn’t talked to in years in the bar, they spoke to the loser who was late on the motel’s rent and who never paid.
But never him.
He scratched the back of his neck, trying to shrug off the unexpected flutter in his chest. He wasn’t used to compliments, not like this.
“Y-yeah?” Stan said, a hint of a (admittedly nervous) smile pulling at his lips. “Can’t say I blame you. I mean, I am a pretty interestin’ guy.” His voice was strained slightly, on the verge of cracking. He was lying, a cover up for how his insides felt like they were twisting into a maze.
He leaned back, watching for Fiddleford’s reaction.
Fiddleford chuckled softly, his gaze lowering to the glass in his hands. “I reckon you are,” he said, his voice steady but soft. There was a pause, and then, a little more quietly, he added, “A… bit hard to figure out, maybe. But interestin’.”
Stan’s heart skipped again —damn it— and he cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. He tilted his head, giving Fiddleford a once-over, though he was careful not to make it too obvious. “Well, you’re no slouch yourself. Bet you’ve got a hell of a brain in there, all that engineering stuff. Gotta be pretty sharp to make those kinds of gadgets.”
There’s no possible way that this (honestly beautiful) man could be interested in men , let alone Stanley.
Fiddleford’s cheeks flushed slightly, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “Aw, well, I dunno know ‘bout all that. I just like tinkerin’ with things. S’pose I’ve always been good at puttin’ stuff together, ever since I was a kid.” He glanced up, meeting Stan’s gaze, and for a second, there was something more in his eyes. “It’s… kinda nice when somebody notices, though.”
Stan’s stomach flipped. There was a softness in Fiddleford’s voice that wasn’t just about machines. He leaned forward a little, dropping the usual bravado for something more sincere. “I notice,” he whispered, quieter than he meant. His voice cracked again, despite himself, “Smart’s… pretty attractive, y’know?”
Just a test.
If he was wrong, it’s not like he’ll ever actually see this guy again. And despite Stanley’s fatigue from not eating regularly, he could probably take this man in a fight. Yeah, this guy looked like a twig.
But Fiddleford’s eyes flicked up to meet Stan’s again, and there it was—that look of recognition, that brief moment where the words between them seemed to shift.
“Yeah,” Fiddleford said slowly, his voice almost a murmur. “I guess… I feel the same way. ‘Bout people who can hold their own. Takes more than just brains to keep goin’ on your own… like you do.”
Stan felt the weight of that response, and his pulse quickened.
His gaze lingered on Fiddleford, searching for something more—a sign, a confirmation.
“Not a lot of people would call that a compliment,” Stan said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. He watched Fiddleford carefully, lowering his voice just a bit. “Most people think I’m a handful. Or worse.”
“I ain’t most people.”
Stan’s breath caught for a second, and their eyes met again.
His face felt alight, burning away, exposing how vulnerable he really was, how vulnerable he knew he was.
A discomfort settled in his stomach as he shifted his weight.
He looked down at his hands. He wasn’t ever really this nervous. He’d flirted with men before, gotten their numbers, he’d stolen girlfriends, he’d gotten sick at bar, sent a man to the hospital and then shacked up with that guy’s wife for two weeks—somehow all of this was easier to do than sitting in a home that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, being flirted with by a southern man.
The silence stretched out longer than he intended.
His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat.
He swallowed hard, clearing his throat again, trying to shake the feeling of being so… exposed.
“So, uh,” Stan began, trying to latch onto anything that might steer the conversation somewhere less... personal. “You, uh, you ever build somethin’ that just blows up on ya? Like a gadget that goes haywire or whatever?”
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Blows up?” he repeated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I reckon I’ve had a few projects go sideways, but nothin’ too catastrophic. Why?”
Stan chuckled, though it came out a little forced. “Eh, just wonderin’. I’ve had my fair share of mishaps… and by mishaps, I mean near-death experiences.”
Fiddleford’s smile widened, and for a second, Stan thought he’d successfully defused the situation. But then Fiddleford tilted his head, his eyes narrowing just slightly, as if he could see right through Stan’s attempt at deflection.
“Stanley,” Fiddleford said softly, and Stan felt his chest tighten. “You don’t gotta… I mean, you don’t have to talk about that if it’s uncomfortable.”
Stan’s hand fumbled with the glass in his grip, nearly knocking it over as he set it down. “What? No, I’m fine. I’m totally fine.” His voice came out a little too loud, a little too defensive, and immediately he winced, cursing himself internally.
Fiddleford didn’t seem fazed, but there was something in his gaze—a softness, a patience—that made Stan feel even more exposed.
“I ain’t tryin’ to push ya,” Fiddleford continued, his voice gentle. “I just think you don’t give yourself enough credit. You’ve been through a lot, haven’t ya?”
Stan opened his mouth to respond, to come up with something clever or dismissive, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, all that came out was a strange, half-laugh, half-cough sound, and he quickly reached for the cider again, more to give his hands something to do than because he actually wanted another sip.
He took a quick gulp, too quick, and immediately regretted it as he choked, cider going down the wrong way. His eyes watered, and he coughed again, his face flushing as he tried to regain control of his breathing.
“Ah, crap,” Stan wheezed, slapping his chest as if that would somehow help. He could feel his ears burning, the embarrassment prickling at his skin.
Fiddleford, for his part, was watching with concern, though there was a small twitch at the corner of his lips, like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“You alright there?” Fiddleford asked, leaning forward slightly, his hand hovering in the air as if he wasn’t sure whether to pat Stan on the back or not.
Stan waved him off, coughing again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he rasped, even though his face and lungs felt like they were on fire. “J-just went down the wrong pipe. Happens.”
Fiddleford chuckled, and though it was soft and good-natured, Stan’s face somehow grew even redder. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, desperate to regain some semblance of composure.
“Guess I’m not as smooth as I thought,” Stan muttered, mostly to himself.
Fiddleford smiled at that, and there was something warm and reassuring in the way he looked at Stan—like he didn’t mind the awkwardness, like maybe he found it… endearing. Somehow.
“Well…” Fiddleford said after a moment, his voice soft again. “I like that about you.”
Stan blinked, caught off guard. Why was this man so nice to him? Did he want something? There was no possible way he wanted the wares in Stanley's car. Or his car. Or the nonexistent cash Stanley had drawn on a notepad to make his wallet feel less pathetic. His brain scrambled for a response, something to brush it off, to make it less real.
“Yeah, well,” Stan began, his voice a little shaky, “don’t get used to it. I’m usually a lot cooler than this.”
Fiddleford’s smile widened. “Sure you are.”
Stan’s pulse quickened again, but this time, it wasn’t just from embarrassment. There was something in the way Fiddleford looked at him, something that made his heart feel heavy and flutter all at once.
They sat there for a moment, the quiet settling in again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… something else. Something Stan wasn’t quite sure how to handle.
“So, uh,” Stan said again, feeling the need to fill the silence but unsure of what to say. “You, uh, do this a lot?”
“Do what?”
Stanley blinked, looking away. Might as well address the elephant in the room, right? “Flirt with guys who try to sell you a faulty vacuum?”
Fiddleford let out a soft laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Can’t say I do. You’re the first, actually.”
Stan raised an eyebrow. “The vacuum thing?”
Fiddleford took a sip of his cider.
“...that too.” He said softly.
Stan held his tongue, ignoring the instant response of ‘why me?’ that wanted to leave him. He swallowed. “I guess there’s a first time for everything, huh?” He laughed softly, strained.
“Yeah,” Fiddleford replied, his voice quiet, his gaze lingering on Stan. “I guess there is.”
Stan’s breath hitched slightly at the weight of those words, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do—whether to lean into it or back away.
“I-I should… go.” He let out softly.
He stood abruptly, his heart pounding, a knot tightening in his chest. It was a familiar feeling—one he hated. The moment things got too close, too real, his instinct was to run, to pull away before it could hurt. Before it could get messy.
It’d happened only a few times, once with a girl who worked at a library, and the other time was with some guy who worked at the front desk of a lawyer’s office.
Stanley had started feeling something more than just contempt for both of them, so he disappeared. They didn’t know his real name, anyway.
But as he turned, his hand gripping the back of the chair, he felt a quiet voice stop him in his tracks.
“You don’t have to.”
Fiddleford’s voice was shaky and it cut through the haze of Stan’s anxiety like a lifeline. Stan froze, his back still turned, his grip tightening on the chair as he stared down at the worn floorboards. His throat felt tight, and for a second, he wasn’t sure if he could speak without his voice cracking. Don’t turn around. Don’t look him in the eyes. You’ll just get stuck.
“I mean,” Fiddleford continued, his voice softer now, with that same damn kindness Stan wasn’t used to, “you can go, if ya really wanna. I ain’t gonna stop ya. But… you don’t have to.”
Stan swallowed hard, his mind racing. He didn’t know what he wanted. Every instinct screamed at him to leave, to get out before he made a fool of himself or worse—before this guy saw him for who he really was. Just a washed-up con man, not worth anyone’s time. He could already imagine how it would end.
Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His breath was shallow, and he could feel his pulse in his ears. Then he felt it—a gentle touch, barely there, a hand brushing against his arm. Stan flinched slightly, not out of fear, but out of surprise. Fiddleford wasn’t trying to hold him back, just… holding him?
When was the last time someone did that?
His mother?
Stan exhaled sharply.
He should leave before he messes everything up like he always did. Only thing he was good at.
Fiddleford’s touch lingered, warm and reassuring, and suddenly, the weight of it all—the weight of everything —it hit Stan like a freight train. His hand slipped from the arm of the couch, and for a moment, he just stood there, eyes fixed on the floor.
“I… I don’t…” His voice wavered, barely audible. He still couldn’t turn around, couldn’t face Fiddleford, but something inside him was begging him to stay. Just for a second.
“Hey, you don’t gotta explain anything to me,” Fiddleford said softly, his hand falling away, though the warmth of his touch lingered. “I ain’t askin’ for that, okay? I just—”
Stan heard him take a breath, and then Fiddleford’s voice shifted, a little more direct. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been through. But I can tell you’re not used to this—to someone… stickin’ around. And maybe you don’t think you deserve it, but… I don’t agree with that.”
Stan’s heart stuttered, his thoughts like static.
“I don’t need anything from ya, if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” Fiddleford continued, his words slow, deliberate. “But if you wanna… if you want someone to talk to. Or even just to… be there.” He paused, and Stan could almost hear the nerves behind Fiddleford’s calm tone. “Well, I wouldn’t mind.”
Stan’s stomach twisted. His throat tightened, and he forced himself to take a shaky breath. This was too much. Too real. Too close. Too good to be true.
This was like that girl from that disco club, didn’t she turn out to be a murderer or something? No, that’s not right. Stan knew if that was all that was wrong with her, he wouldn’t have left her so fast. What was wrong with her again? Did he still have her number?
Oh, right, she was married.
Stanley swallowed, letting out a shaky exhale.
He needed to leave, to get out, to—
“I’m just sayin’,” Fiddleford said, his voice quiet, “I-I really liked talkin’ with ya an’... if you want my number… you can have it.”
Stan’s head snapped up. He turned slowly, his eyes wide, searching Fiddleford’s face for some sign—any sign—that this was a joke, that he was being set up for some cruel punchline. But Fiddleford was looking at him with that same calm, patient expression, his posture open, unguarded.
No pretence.
No expectations.
Stanley didn’t understand it.
He couldn’t remember the last time someone had told him anything like this, had acted like this. It wasn’t a deal , it wasn’t an exchange, it wasn’t someone trying to get something out of him. It was just… a number? Just a way to reach out, if he wanted to.
His breath was shaky again, and he let out a nervous chuckle, trying to break the tension that was crackling in the air. “Y-you serious?”
Fiddleford smiled, though it was softer now, a little unsure but still warm. “‘Course I am.”
Stan blinked, the back of his neck prickling with heat. He rubbed at it, trying to shake off the strange, uncomfortable mix of emotions swirling in his chest. “I, uh…” He trailed off, not sure what to say. He should just decline. Laugh it off, walk away like he always did.
But instead, his mouth betrayed him.
“I… I live in my car. I don’t have a phone to call you on…”
And I don’t have spare change to use a payphone. I can’t afford it.
The second the words left his mouth, he felt like an idiot. God, he was pathetic. He braced himself for Fiddleford to laugh, to make some comment about how ridiculous that was. But Fiddleford didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.
“Well,” Fiddleford said, still calm, still soft, “when you do, it’ll be waitin’ for ya.” He pulled a small notepad and pen from his pocket and scribbled something down, tearing the paper carefully before folding it and holding it out.
Stan stared at it, his hand twitching at his side.
For a long moment, he didn’t move. His pulse thudded in his ears.
And then, slowly, as if his body were acting on its own, Stan reached out and took the paper from Fiddleford’s hand.
The moment their fingers brushed, it felt like everything around them shifted. The air thickened, and Stan felt his breath hitch again, his heart pounding in his chest like a wild thing. He quickly pulled the paper into his jacket pocket, clenching it tightly in his fist as if it might disappear.
“Thanks,” Stan muttered, his voice hoarse.
Fiddleford smiled again, wide and… he looked happy.
He actually looked happy.
There was a pause.
“Oh! Right, m’bad,” He let out. “Almost forgot.” Fiddleford shifted slightly, reaching into his pocket. Stan watched, confused, as the other man pulled out a small cloth bag, the kind you’d keep loose change in, and set it gently on the table between them.
“Here,” Fiddleford said, his voice calm, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. “For the payphones.”
Stan blinked, his eyes wide as he stared at the bag. “For… the what?” He wanted to cry, his voice breaking as he looked back up at Fiddleford.
“For when you wanna call,” The man explained softly, pushing the bag just an inch closer. “You said you don’t have a phone, so…” He shrugged, a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “This way, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout it.”
Stan felt like he couldn’t breath, his insides twisting uncomfortably. His immediate reaction was to refuse—because of course he was going to refuse. He didn’t want to cry.
He finally took in a breath, which shook, and stared down at the bag on the table.
Was this just… charity? Was that all this was? Did he look that bad? No, he’d taken a shower at some random gym. He didn’t need charity. Especially not from someone like Fiddleford, someone who looked at him like he actually cared.
“You know, I-I really appreciate this, man, but I–”
“I don’t use payphones real often. I do all my own laundry. I don’t need this. You can take it—really, I been tryin’ to pawn this off on someone for months. Be doin’ me a favour an’ callin’ me—or anyone—in the process. Honest, it’s selfish, me givin’ this to you.”
He knew Fiddleford was lying, but… hey, how’s he supposed to know that, right? It’s not selfish, it’s not a handout if he pretends he doesn’t know it’s a handout.
Stan sighed.
“Y-yeah, alright. Okay, thank you.” He said, taking the bag and putting it in his pocket.
There was a pause.
“Come back tomorrow.” Fiddleford said softly.
“W-what?”
“For th’ vacuum,” he continued. “It’ll be better than new when ya do. I promise.”
Stanley sucked in a breath. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll come back tomorrow.” He swallowed, shifting his weight. He was usually better at this. He knew what to say, usually. Usually this was the only thing he was good at. Talking.
But even this wasn’t working anymore.
He watched as Fiddleford adjusted his glasses, and looked back at him through them. The man’s gaze lingered on him, turned down and soft. It made Stan not want to leave, but he knew he had to.
He swallowed.
“Guess I better get goin’,” Stan said, his voice now more quiet than before. He looked away, unable to meet Fiddleford’s eyes again for fear he’d end up sleeping on the couch for the night, and not in his car like what was planned.
Fiddleford nodded faintly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
There was a moment—a hesitation—where Stan could have stayed.
But he didn’t. He instead nodded and forced a smile as he turned back to face Fiddleford when he opened the door, the cold air wafting in.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”