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It's a cold night.
Stanley Pines has found himself sitting in a room with a stranger, one who abruptly invited himself into his newfound abode through Southern twang and swirling cadence, pile of melting snow in tow. When said stranger calls him sweetheart with starry eyes and a sweet smile, craftily hiding a request for shelter in spun sugar words, it's a hard thing for him to refuse.
How could he possibly have said no?
So, here Stanley finds himself, watching reruns of The Duchess Rejects on his brother's shitty couch next to a man he doesn't know but wishes he did. He clears his throat, hoping to catch the stranger's attention. It does, so he follows with what he thinks he does best (or at least what's worked the most for him): flirting.
"So, uh, what brings a country stud like you up to bumfuck nowhere, Oregon? Seems like it's too cold here for someone as smokin' as you. Would make sense if you're lost or somethin'," Stan says.
The strange man laughs, turning his head to Stan.
"Layin' it on a bit thick there, huh, sugar?" He replies through his lashes. "You haven't even asked my name yet. Lord knows you should at least do that before lettin' a stranger into your home."
"Well... Uh, I mean, I-- How could I have asked that when you just waltzed right in like you own the place, huh?"
"It ain't that hard, hon. C'mon now, don't be shy," the man teases. Seems like he knows Stan's game better than Stan himself.
"Alright, smart guy, what's your name? And what's your deal showing up here in the middle of the night?"
"The name's Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Born and raised in the beautiful state of Tennessee, and no, you better not get any cute-sy ideas with that one. As for how I done got here, I don't rightly know--I remembered a house and someone who's your spittin' image, so I thought I'd give the idea a little chance and came to this here spot. Seems it worked out, though I don't really know why I was lookin' for here in the first place."
Stan furrows his brow. Someone who looks like me, he thinks. Goddammit, Sixer, why didn't you tell me you have an ex out here? Now I've gotta deal with your shit, like always...
"Alright," Stan says. "I know what's goin' on here. Hate to break it to ya, hon, but Sixer skipped town. Don't know where he went. I'm warming up his house for him for if he ever comes back. You ain't gonna find much luck here."
Fiddleford flinches, eyes darting away from Stan, back to the TV. Stan feels slightly worse than he did a moment ago.
"Strange," Fiddleford says. "I've heard that nickname before."
"Sixer? Nah, you couldn't've. I'm the only person on the planet that called him that. And unless I'm the mistaken one, this is the first time I'm seein' ya, doll. Why the hell would you know my nickname for him?"
Fiddleford flinches again. Stan feels even worse. He sighs.
"Look," Stan says, reaching out a tentative olive branch. "I don't think we're really gonna get anywhere with this. You're lost, I'm lost, Sixer's nowhere to be found. Why don't we just sit here and watch Duchess together to forget our problems for a little bit? We can figure this all out in the morning. God knows we're probably gonna have the time with all that snow out there."
Fiddleford looks at Stan again, contemplatively. As he silently stares, Stan begins to sweat, rubbing his neck nervously. "Or, heh, we could, uh... Um... We could, uh..." He stammers and averts his eyes, too afraid to have his offer pushed aside.
A moment later, Stan feels tentative fingers on his wrist. His breath hitches, and he caves.
His hand slowly reaches for one not his own in a desperate attempt, seeking a warmth which it knows is hard to find. It's been so long--Rejection's cold will reach through the skin and into tissue, through blood and deeper still into bone. He's known this to be true for longer than he wants to admit, and it takes every minuscule speck of his pride not to call out as he reaches. He shuts his eyes.
The seconds stretch as if he were in limbo, seemingly endless lengths of time that he thinks he can almost see; each second a line floating through the air, stretching until the next second comes and passes the previous line by. It makes him sweat. Makes him think of nights alone in the cold, the dark stretching far, far, too far, until he can no longer keep control of it. His heart starts to race.
A hand is placed gently on his outstretched palm. It answers his call, seeking the same warmth. It slots into place.
"Yeah, sugar," Fiddleford finally responds. "We can talk in the mornin'." Stan looks up, and there's a small smile waiting for him.
Yes, it is a cold night. But maybe, with this stranger who strangely feels like home, that cold will start to thaw.