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The fact that Fiddleford doesn’t even mind the slurping - the defiant, declarative slurping of coffee that sounds like he’s flipping off all table manners and everyone who has ever cared about them enough to point them out to him - that he doesn’t even mind that anymore is really quite remarkable. It used to drive him crazy. In the beginning, he couldn’t stand to watch Stanley down a bottle of beer. And now he’s adjusting his glasses so he can see him more clearly, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkle as he squints them closed and takes another sip from his mug. The steaming hot chocolate fogs up his own glasses, and Fiddleford folds his hands in his lap and leans back into his seat, fighting the urge to reach out, pull the glasses from his nose and clean them for him. Stanley’s used to his unclear vision, having ignored his obvious impairment for most of his life; sometimes he lets his glasses become so smudged that Fiddleford has to point out to him they need cleaning.
He sighs. “Love that stuff. Seriously underrated.” There’s a sparkling in his eyes as he glances down at the mug in his hands. Fiddleford huffs.
“It’s all over your mouth,” he says, drawing a circle in the air in front of his own. Then he watches as Stan grabs a napkin from the stack in the middle of the table and wipes the chocolate off his lips. He shaves regularly now; otherwise it might’ve gotten caught up in his stubble.
He crumples the napkin. Then he leans back too, stretching his legs out under the table, making their shoes bump together. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “Your Christmas plans?”
He’s been back to living in Gravity Falls for almost a year now. Moved into the shack - the Mystery Shack, as Stanley renamed it - shortly after Stanley asked him to help with the portal. And they work on it ceaselessly, although not as ceaselessly as in the beginning. It’s a relief for the both of them, even if neither admits it out loud. Stanford is somewhere out there and the only two people who know about it are sitting in a diner - it should be shameful. Fiddleford used to feel ashamed. But it’s become easier to accept the feeling. They’ve reached the unspoken agreement that it isn’t good to spend hours on end in the basement. If Ford had known this, things would likely be different today.
So they go outside. To get coffee, to buy things for the shack. Fiddleford watches with strangely guilt-free amusement as Stanley scams the hell out of everyone who sets foot into the house - their house, a particularly useless part of Fiddleford’s brain supplies. Stanley sometimes looks older than he should, with everything he’s been through; but whenever he’s showing groups of tourists around, spewing nonsense to fill his pockets with their money, he suddenly looks so young. Youthful, although Fiddleford didn’t know him in youth. He sort of wishes he did, feels robbed of the possibility of getting to know Stanley when they were younger.
He doesn’t like to think about Christmas. He’s not sure how to go about it now - how to give his son the presents he deserves when he lives so far away now and hasn’t been where home once was in so long. He supposes he won’t get round calling Emma-May. It’s not as though he doesn’t want to talk to her; but he’s afraid that, even after so many months, she still won’t want to talk to him. What if she can’t stand to hear his voice? Fiddleford wants to be angry about it. But how can he when she’s right? Their marriage was a good thing. It’s his fault it crumbled.
No, he’s not gonna get round calling Emma-May. He doesn’t even know what kinds of toys Tate fancies these days: he deserves whatever it is that he wants for Christmas.
“Still undecided,” Fiddleford says. Stanley sighs.
“What d'ya think of a Mystery Shack holiday event? Or multiple events?” Stanley doesn’t care for Christmas or Hanukkah. The holidays are more of a lucrative opportunity for him, which is sort of nice. Certainly takes away the pressure.
“Such as?”
“I dunno. I could dress up as Santa Claus. Think about it: no one’d expect to get pick-pocketed by Santa Claus.”
Fiddleford laughs. “You have no shame.”
Stanley waves him off. “Oh trust me, I’ve dressed up as worse.”
Like what , Fiddleford wants to ask, but the waitress, walking by their table in the right moment, asks, “Like what?” and Stanley beams.
“I’ve worn all sorts of costumes!” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, but Stanley’s good at twisting words to make them sound like he wants, and so it comes out as a flex. The waitress chuckles.
They talk. She’s Susan. He’s Stanley. Fiddleford chews on the inside of his cheek.
“Could I…” he tries, but she doesn’t hear him. He repeats himself a little louder. “Could I order–”
“Yes? Sorry, what would you like?”
“A cup of mulled wine, please.”
“With raisins?”
“No raisins, please.”
She shoots him a smile. “One mulled wine coming right up!”
Stanley drinks the rest of his hot chocolate and licks his lips. Fiddleford gently knocks their shoes together under the table like it’s an accident and wills himself not to think about it further. He wishes this weren’t the only thing he can muster the courage for when it comes to Stanley.
Susan places the cup in front of him with a smile. “Here you go.” She sends another smile in Stanley’s direction but doesn’t restart their conversation, and Fiddleford spends a split moment trying to sort through the conflicting mix of relief and guilt that starts webbing in his chest, but decides it’s smarter to let it go and brings the hot cup to his lips instead.
He turns up his nose. “Too hot,” he mumbles and places it back on the table, cupping it to warm up his hands.
Stanley leans over the table a bit and takes a hold of the cup - his palms covering Fiddleford’s fingers without thought - and lifts it to take a sip. Fiddleford doesn’t let go. He blames it on his slow response time and the swiftness of the moment, and before he knows it, Stan’s already done stealing from his drink.
“Hm. I should order one of those.”
Fiddleford neglects to respond and instead drinks. The heat be damned - he’ll burn his tongue if he must. The beverage warms him up from inside out. It’s almost comforting.
He turns his head to catch Susan’s eye. Fiddleford takes in his profile, the curve of his nose, the drops of melted snowflakes in his hair. The wine is as strong as he hoped, the smell of alcohol almost stings.
He’s not supposed to hope that Emma doesn’t pick up when he calls. And he doesn’t really want that, of course, but he can’t help but let his mind wander to the possibility of staying in Gravity Falls over the holidays. Would it be different from any other day they spend together? Stan probably wouldn’t allow any gifts. Fiddleford can think of a few things he’d like on the spot, though, so he’s gonna have to accept one nevertheless.
Stan’s Adam's apple moves in his throat as he downs his drink, and Fiddleford watches like he always does. After all this time, he still isn’t sure whether watching soothes the ache his feelings cause or whether it aggravates it, makes him frustrated. He doesn’t have much of a choice, anyway. Stan somehow always manages to pull his attention to himself.
“We should head back,” Stan says once his mug is empty. Fiddleford wants to protest, but he can’t. Obviously, he can’t. This isn’t - they’re not in Gravity Falls because they want to be. Or at least Stan isn’t. This isn’t some kind of vacation. And they don’t spend as much time as they do together because Stan likes it so much. He’d rather be somewhere else, doing something else with someone else. Fiddleford curses himself because he can't bring himself to share the sentiment.
He grabs his scarf, slightly damp from the snow, and starts wrapping it around his neck. Stanley just pulls his jacket on, the same jacket he uses all year round. He doesn’t run particularly cold. “I think I’ve got the password we were looking for figured out,” Fiddleford says, referring to the portal in vague enough terms to remain inconspicuous.
Stan looks at him with a smile. “Really?”
It’s Fiddleford’s favourite part, really. “I think so.”
He can’t allow himself to wonder whether Stan thinks of their collaboration as anything more than a means to an end. Whether their friendship - if that’s even what it is - will persist even after all of this is over, if Stan will want to keep him around. Needless to say, they don’t talk about things like that. It would be ludicrous.
Stan, beaming, pats his shoulder fervently. “You’re a fucking genius.” Fiddleford doesn’t look at him.
The waitress gives them a discount. Fiddleford resists the urge to roll his eyes, swallowing back a comment along the lines of, “I wonder why.” It's his fault for thinking so much about things that are far beyond the realm of possibility.
“Fucking weather,” Stan grumbles when they step outside.
“It could be worse,” Fiddleford argues, watching his feet so he doesn’t slip on the icy pavement. “Just take care not to fall.”
“Where’s your car when we need it?”
Fiddleford snorts. “Come on, we’re not gonna drive the way from the shack to Greasy’s.”
“We could .”
“Would be a waste of fuel.” Fiddleford shakes his head. “So dramatic.”
“Me?” Stan asks even more dramatically, placing a hand on his hip. “You try walking through the snow with my shoes, then we’ll talk.”
“I told you you need some warmer clothes,”
Stan clicks his tongue. “Always something perfectly reasonable to say.”
Fiddleford huffs. “I’m–” sorry , he wants to say, but is hit with a snowball. “Oh, come on now,” he says, holding back a chuckle.
Stan just shrugs. “An impulse.”
Fiddleford can’t accept that argument. So, ten minutes later, they’re racing down the path from Greasy’s, the icy road forgotten, out of breath, fingers aching from the cold, snow in both their jackets’ hoods.
“Timeout,” Stanley manages, holding up his hands, and Fiddleford fires one last shot before he concedes. They walk on, panting and chuckling like kids. Despite the snow in his neck, it feels sort of warm.
Fiddleford stops when he sees the next phone booth. He has some spare change in his pocket, and somehow, he can never bring himself to call Emma from their phone in the shack. Feels like two worlds colliding that he’d rather keep apart. He clears his throat. “I’ve got to make a call,” he says, pointing at the booth.
Stan nods, like he knows who he’s talking about, and a complicated expression crosses his face. “Sure,” he says, doesn’t ask any question like maybe he gets it. “I’ll, uhm.”
Fiddleford shakes his head. “You don’t need to wait in the cold. I’ll be right behind you.”
Stan blinks. “No,” he says after a moment. “I’ll wait here ‘till you’re done.”
It feels so strange to dial her number. Fiddleford leans back against the wall of the booth, pressing the phone to his ear and reciting what to say in his head. His heart’s hammering against his chest - but then his eyes find Stan, standing some few metres away, glancing at Fiddleford occasionally like he’s trying to hide his curiosity.
It’s a soothing thing to know, Fiddleford thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. That Stan’s waiting for him.