Chapter Text
“I’ll have a latte, please, and two of those there blueberry muffins, and - oh! I’ll get a green tea as well, please, thank you!” Fiddleford Hadron McGucket paid for his order and shuffled to the end of the counter to wait for the drinks. As he stood amongst the throng of tired students, he assessed the people sitting around the crowded café. In a quiet, dimly lit corner, he could see his roommate-slash-best friend sat hunched over - probably over a textbook, knowing him. Drinks prepared, he grabbed his tray and thanked the barista again before heading over to the table Ford had evidently claimed.
“I got you a green tea instead of coffee because knowing you, you’ve only drank coffee today, and I got you a muffin because I wanted one but didn’t want to be the only one eating cake,” Fiddleford said in lieu of a greeting, pushing Ford’s tea in front of him and grabbing his own coffee before sitting down and shoving his backpack on the floor under his chair.
“I’m not drinking that shit,” said a voice that was much rougher than Ford’s, and Fiddleford finally looked up.
“You’re not Stanford,” said Fiddleford astutely.
“Nope,” Not-Stanford agreed.
“You must be Stanley.”
Not-Stanford grinned, reaching over to grab the muffin Fiddleford had bought for Ford.
“Yep.”
Fiddleford eyed the man with a certain degree of wariness - he knew the Pines twins were close, but he had heard…
stories
about the man sat across from him, and after all, he did steal Ford’s muffin just then.
“Stanford has told me a lot about you.”
Stanley grinned even wider around the muffin.
“All bad, I hope,” he winked, and Fiddleford rolled his eyes.
“Ah, Fidds. I see you’ve had the misfortune of meeting my brother,” came a third voice, and the two men looked up to see Stanford Pines smiling down at them, a fresh pile of library books cradled protectively in his arms. “I can only apologise for what he’s been saying in my absence.”
Stanley spluttered indignantly as Ford pulled up a chair and sat between them both.
“I’ll have you know, Sixer, that I am a fucking delight to be around,” he emphasised his point by waving his hands about a lot. Fiddleford privately thought that the argument may have been more effective if he didn’t have a bit of blueberry stuck to the side of his mouth.
Ford raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Thanks for the tea, Fidds.”
Fiddleford waved him off as he drank his own coffee. It was strange, meeting Stanley for the first time. Fiddleford was aware that Stanford was a twin - he had overheard plenty of phone conversations Ford had with the man, and listened to his roommate drunkenly ramble about his family multiple times. There was also a photo of the two as young boys, shirtless and shooting matching gap-toothed-grins at the camera, stuck above Ford’s desk next to a poster of the periodic table and his Lord of the Rings calendar. Sitting across from the man was different than simply being aware of his existence, however - he knew the Pines twins were identical, but it was still weird to meet someone who looked so much like Ford, yet so incredibly different. They both had the same square face with that strong jaw, the same broad frame with wide shoulders. Stanley didn’t look like he was much better rested than Ford tended to be, with similar creases fitting snugly under dark eyes. Stanley seemed to smile more than Ford, though - an easy grin ever-present on his face as he listened to Fiddleford and his brother chat. He had longer hair, too: where Stanford’s was kept short and relatively neat, Stanley’s hair had grown out at the back into a mullet. It also did not escape Fiddleford’s notice that the man’s ears were pierced - no, not just pierced, but stretched, with small black discs in each ear.
They even sat differently. Stanford sat ramrod straight, delicately sipping his drink and holding himself as if he were about to be scolded for the crime of just merely existing. He had a habit of hiding his hands - in his pockets, under the table, wherever he could - and you could always tell how stressed he was by how small he seemed to be trying to make himself. Stanley, however, took up space. He sat in that cafe with his legs outstretched, waving his hands wildly as he talked and letting his boisterous laugh echo in the room.
Fiddleford sat across from the two identical yet wildly different Pines twins, and could see their entire childhood vividly in his mind. He watched the two brothers interact, and he could instantly understand their entire dynamic. So many of Ford’s little idiosyncrasies immediately made sense.
“So, what brings you to Backupsmore, Stanley?” Fiddleford finished the dregs of his coffee, turning to the twin in question.
“You mean just visiting my brother here isn’t a good enough reason?”
Ford gave him an unimpressed look.
“Nah, I had an interview here this morning, actually.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking slightly bashful. “Just for a handyman sorta role, but-”
“But nothing.” Ford interrupted, a fierce look in his eyes. “You’d be a fantastic handyman.”
“Whatever,” Stanley said, but Fiddleford could tell the man was pleased.
Fiddleford was vaguely aware that the man lived somewhat nearby to the university. With neither of the brothers any longer having contact with their father (a fact that was revealed to him when Ford was very, very drunk) and as a consequence, unfortunately having limited contact with their mother also, Stanley had followed Ford up to the town Backupsmore was located in. As far as Fiddleford was aware, he rented an apartment closer to the city and got by doing various odd jobs. Fiddleford, a farm-boy by blood, could respect this, and thought that though their methodology differed, it was clear that being hard-working was a trait the twins shared.
“Well, you certainly won’t be stuck for things to do with a job like that,” Fiddleford remarked. “This school is falling to bits. It could use someone reliable to stick it back together again.”
Stanley looked like he wanted to protest further, but before he could get a word in, Ford was agreeing with Fiddleford before spilling into a rant about how every chair in the science lab seemed to wobble constantly, and that was that.
After that first meeting, some sort of seal seemed to have broken, and now Stanley kept popping up around every corner.
Him getting the handyman job attributed to that, of course. When he had got the job, he had called Stanford, and when they had hung up Ford couldn’t stop grinning.
Fiddleford’s initial observation about the job was correct: there was no shortage of tasks for Stanley to complete as Backupsmore’s resident fix-it guy, and as such was always showing up on campus to stop a leak here or tighten a hinge there. With his brother being fairly well-known on campus, a lot of students thought, at first, that Stanford had taken on another side-gig in addition to his work as a research assistant, but this only lasted around a week before people started understanding the difference - Stanley was friendly and conversational, enough so that he became well-known on campus in his own right, going as far as receiving invites to house parties and events that Ford and Fiddleford didn’t even know were happening.
Whilst watching Stanley reach up to fix a high shelf in the library, Fiddleford could understand why he received so many invites. His hair was tied back in a low pony as he bit his lower lip in concentration, and his white T-shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a slither of his soft, hairy belly.
“Could you hold this steady, Fidds?” Stan’s voice shook Fiddleford out of his trance, and the man forced himself to tear his eyes away from how Stan’s arms flexed against tight, white sleeves.
“Oh! Sure!” he held the shelf up where Stan had asked. Being a few inches taller, he was able to hold the shelf straighter and Stanley hummed in satisfaction.
“Good, thanks Fidds,” Stanley grabbed a screwdriver and a spirit level from his kit, and got to work fitting it in. “So, any crazy plans for tonight?”
Fiddleford scoffed. “If you count mapping out the next stage of our D, D, and more D campaign with Stanford as ‘crazy’, then yeah, totally.”
Stan groaned.
“Ah, not you too! Sixer was obsessed with that nerdy game as kids - he always tried to get me to play, but it was way too much math for me. I didn’t get why I couldn’t just be a badass hunky orc that just punched everything.”
“Ah but Stanley, the math is what makes it fun, ” Fiddleford said, purely because he knew it would annoy Stan.
“I will throw this at you,” the man deadpanned, wielding his screwdriver threateningly, but Fiddleford could tell he was fighting a smile.
Stanley finished tightening the screws and took a step back. “You should be able to let go now, Fiddlenerd.”
Fiddleford removed his hands slowly, taking a hesitant step back. The two looked at the shelf for a moment.
“Here, you should christen it,” said Stan, and before Fiddleford could ask what the hell that meant, Stanley was passing him a pile of abandoned books. “Make sure it does it’s only job.”
Fiddleford took the books and reached up to push them in the centre of the shelf. Nothing happened.
Stan cheered.
“Another job well done,” he said, slapping Fiddleford rather hard on the back. “Couldn’t have done it without your expert help, of course.”
Fiddleford determinedly did not look at the ass of his best friend’s brother as he squatted down and packed up his toolkit. Stanley zipped the bag up and shrugged his red hoodie back on, swinging the bag over his shoulder and pulling his phone out his pocket.
“It’s about time I went on break, I reckon,” he tapped out a text to someone before looking up at Fiddleford. “You hungry?”
Fiddleford was.
“Cool. I just hafta let that scary librarian lady know that her shelf is fixed, and then we can go get some lunch, yeah?”
Unsure of what else to do, Fiddleford followed Stan to the main desk and tried not to laugh as the handyman tried (and failed) to charm the terrifying librarian, her hawk-like gaze hardening as Stan was unrelenting in his flirtations. Eventually he gave up, and grinned at Fiddleford as they walked out the library.
“She loves me,” he threw an arm around Fiddleford’s shoulders, which was unfortunate, as Fiddleford was trying very, very hard to not think about Stanley’s arms.
“You have a strange idea of what love is,” Fiddleford said wryly, and Stanley laughed, loud and unashamed.
The autumn air was crisp and fresh, and Fiddleford breathed it in gladly. The pavements were covered in crunchy leaves, painting the scenery with amber hues. Students milled around outside the library in little groups, a few of them waving at or calling out to Stanley as he and Fiddleford walked past.
“You’re pretty popular, huh?” Fiddleford looked over at Stan, who was mid-wave to a student with bright pink hair and a huge leather jacket.
“Huh? Oh, nah, not really. I think everyone just knows me ‘cuz of Sixer,” he brushed Fiddleford off easily, but Fiddleford wasn’t convinced. Stanford was known across campus, of course: he was Backupsmore’s star student, winning the school more awards than it had ever seen and setting the curve for every subject he took. He was well-known, but he didn’t have many friends - he wasn’t unliked, necessarily, but he wasn’t the easiest person to get close to. He was very dear to Fiddleford, but even he could admit that the man could be difficult. He was highly intelligent and used to being the smartest man in any room, which has led to him being at times rather narcissistic and big-headed. He was socially awkward (read: autistic), and missed a lot of social cues in casual conversations, which could make him come across as unintentionally rude to those who didn’t know him well. He was also pretty damn weird, even by Backupsmore standards. The six-fingers was one thing, but there was also the way he would rather spend his evenings playing Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons than going to a club, and how he had absolutely zero interest in any sort of romantic relationship at all. All this is to say that Fiddleford highly doubted that the reason so many people stopped to say hi to Stan was because of his brother.
Fiddleford chose to say nothing, but he did hum his disagreement.
“Where are we headed, anyway?”
“I was thinking that cafe round the corner - their toasted sandwiches are ridiculously good.”
“ God, yes,” The toasted sandwiches were famous on campus. “That’s the best idea anyone has ever had.”
Stanley laughed again, and the two of them headed towards the cafe. The lunchtime rush had seemingly ended, so the two of them walked into a relatively empty building. Fiddleford rolled his eyes as Stan held the door open for him and gestured with a flourish.
“After you, m’lady,” said Stanley.
“I will crush you,” Fiddleford smiled sweetly.
The two of them walked up to the counter. Unsurprisingly, the girl behind the counter seemed to know Stanley as well.
“Stan! How’s my favourite handy-man?”
Leaning casually on the counter, Stan winked at the woman. “All the better for seeing you, Susan. How’s the squeaky door?”
“Oh, it hasn’t squeaked once since you fixed it,” Susan said with a blush. “What can I get you boys?”
The two of them placed their order, and Susan gave them a price that was much lower than Fiddleford thought it should be, and Stan waved his card over the machine before Fiddleford could even offer to pay.
“I’ll Venmo you,” he said, but Stanley waved him off.
“Consider it a thanks for your DIY assistance,” he said with a wink, and Fiddleford hoped he hadn’t gone as red as Susan did when Stan flirted with her.
This was becoming a real issue. He barely knew the guy - he would say hi, sure, when they crossed each other on campus, and had hung out once or twice with Ford at the cafes on campus, but they hadn’t had the opportunity to get all that close. Stanley, to Fiddleford, was just the brother of his best friend.
The stupidly attractive brother of his best friend, perhaps, but what does that matter?
Stan led them over to a table by the window, thanking Susan as she promised to bring over their order when it was ready. Once they had sat down, Fiddleford noticed Stan drumming his fingers on the table repeatedly - a habit he evidently shared with his brother. Fiddleford bit back a smile.
“So, Fiddlenerd. You study mechanics, right?”
“Mechanical engineering, yes,” Fiddleford frowned. “And don’t call me that.”
Stanley grinned, unapologetic. “Right, that’s what I said, Fiddlenerd. You know anything about cars?”
Fiddleford sighed. Getting Stan to stop calling him Fiddlenerd was a losing battle, it seemed. At least when he called Fiddleford a nerd, it seemed to be with the same fondness with which he called Stanford a dork, and with none of the cruelty of the bullies back in Tennessee, so Fiddleford supposed he couldn’t be too mad.
“A bit? I used t’ fix up the tractors, back home. I can look at an engine and understand it, but robotics is my forte.”
Stan nodded thoughtfully. “Robotics sounds pretty cool. You could build a real-life Autobot!”
Fiddleford took in Stanley’s excitement and had a sudden realisation.
“Hey! You’re just as much of a nerd as I am!”
Stanley gasped in mock offence, but it was so obvious to Fiddleford now - every joke he had made at Fiddleford or Ford’s expense, it was all compensating for the fact that Stan, too, was a giant dork.
“I am not! I just - I like the Transformers movies, alright? And, y’know, maybe I’ve read some of the comics, but -”
“ Comics? You like comics?” Fiddleford bounced up and down in his seat, almost giddy with this reveal. “D’ya read any others?”
Stan looked bashful all of a sudden.
“Uh…”
“Aw, I’m not pokin’ fun, I promise. I just - do you like X-Men ?”
At this, Stan grinned. “I - yeah. Yeah, I do.”
Fiddleford grinned back. “I think we’re going to be very good friends, Stanley Pines.”
“I had lunch with your brother today.”
Ford looked up from his laptop, a forkful of instant noodles halfway to his mouth.
“What?”
“I had lunch with your brother,” Fiddleford repeated. “Y’know, big guy, swears a lot, looks a bit like you?”
Fiddleford flopped onto his bed as Ford frowned.
“I know who my brother is, Fiddleford. Why’d you have lunch with him?”
“Ran into him in the library. Hey, you didn’t tell me he was a comics nerd!”
Ford unplugged his laptop and brought it (and his noodles) over to Fiddleford’s bed. Without being asked, Fiddleford budged up so that the two of them could sit next to each other, and he opened up Netflix.
“What? Oh, yeah. It was the only way to get him to read when we were kids,” he scooped up another mouthful of noodles. “What are we watching?”
Fiddleford mulled that over. He pictured a smaller version of the Stanford he knew - a Stanford who loved deeply but strangely - who wanted to share the things he loved with the people he loved. Fiddleford knew that Ford was a bookworm from the moment he could read, of course he would have wanted to share that love of reading with his twin. Of course the twins would have loved the X-Men, where those who are different overcome adversity and discrimination to do great, wonderful things. Fiddleford’s heart hurt a little, at imagining these tiny twins reading about these heroes eagerly, putting themselves in their shoes.
“Fidds?”
Fiddleford blinked. “What?”
“I asked you what you wanted to watch, and you zoned out?”
“Oh! Sorry ‘bout that!” Fiddleford smiled apologetically. “How about X-Men?”
Ford raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he searched for the movie.