Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain hammered against the windows of “Beans & Cream” like relentless drumming on a tin roof. Outside, the streets glistened under the dim glow of streetlights, puddles rippling with each drop. The café was nearly empty at this late hour, save for the warm hum of the espresso machine and the faint crackle of a worn-out radio playing soft jazz. Fiddleford McGucket stood behind the counter, wiping a mug absentmindedly, lost in his thoughts.

The bell above the door jingled, startling him from his reverie. A man entered, drenched from head to toe, his red hooded jacket soaked through and clinging to his frame. He walked with a slight limp, his steps uneven as if weighed down by exhaustion. Fiddleford squinted, unable to make out the man’s face beneath the shadow of the hood.

“Welcome to ‘Beans and Cream’!” Fiddleford greeted, his Southern drawl softening his voice.

The man gave a noncommittal hum and trudged toward a corner table by the window. Water dripped from his jacket, pooling on the floor.

Fiddleford hesitated before approaching. There was something about the man — an air of desperation clinging to him like the rain. He carried the kind of weariness that came from long days on the road and longer nights running from something.

“What can I offer you?” Fiddleford asked, forcing a welcoming smile as he neared the table.

The man glanced up briefly, just enough for Fiddleford to catch a glimpse of tired, bloodshot eyes.

“What’s the cheapest thing you’ve got?” the man asked, voice rough like gravel.

“The coffee. Black. Cheapest option we’ve got,” Fiddleford replied. “Would you like some?” he said with a smile

“Yeah, whatever,” the man muttered, fishing into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of coins — mostly pennies — and began counting them with trembling hands.

Fiddleford watched him silently. Store policy dictated they couldn’t accept such a mess of change, but as the man’s hands shook and his clothes dripped onto the table, Fiddleford bit his tongue. It was clear this man had been through hell, and the night wasn’t offering him any reprieve.

“Name for the order?” Fiddleford asked, notebook and pen ready.

The man paused before tugging his hood down, revealing a mop of messy, dark hair. He kept his head lowered, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze.

“Stanley,” he mumbled. “Stanley Pines.”

Fiddleford froze, pen hovering over the page. His mind stumbled over that name like a stone in the road.

“Pines?” Fiddleford repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Wouldn’t happen to be related to a ‘Stanford Pines’, would you?”

Stanley’s head shot up, eyes wide with surprise. For the first time, Fiddleford got a proper look at him — the familiar curve of his jaw, the soft eyes and long eyelashes. The resemblance was uncanny.

“You know my brother?” Stanley asked before quickly pressing his lips shut, realizing he’d said too much. His expression shifted to panic. "Please — don’t tell him you saw me."

“Uh… okay?” Fiddleford blinked, confused, and Stanley exhaled a shaky breath, offering a tired, grateful smile.

“Thanks,” Stanley murmured, settling back in his chair.

Fiddleford turned, ready to fetch the coffee, but Stanley’s voice stopped him.

“Hey… how’s Ford?” Stanley asked, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “You know him, right?”

Fiddleford paused, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah, we’re roommates.” the barista said, Stanley’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“Can you… can you tell me about him?” the man asked hesitantly and Fiddleford frowned.

“I’m sorry, but I don't really want to share that kind of personal information with a stranger.” Fiddleford said

Stanley’s desperation seeped into his expression. His eyes were hollow, haunted by something Fiddleford couldn’t quite place.

“Please, I'm his brother,” Stanley whispered. “I just want to know how he is doing.”

Fiddleford hesitated, torn between the urge to shut down any question and wanting to let the man know more about Ford. The man honestly gave him the creeps, yet it was such a pitiful sight in front of him. He looked like he was barely holding himself together, each word pulled from a place of deep longing. He decided that maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to let him know a bit about how Ford was doing. After a moment, Fiddleford sighed.

“Alright. My shift’s over in a few minutes. Let me get you your coffee, and we’ll talk.” Fiddleford said and Stanley’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thank you.”

-----

Stanley sat hunched over his mug, eyes downcast, lost in thought, his fingers curling around the warm ceramic as if trying to find some comfort in it. His rough appearance, his ragged clothes, and the worn, hollow look in his eyes painted a picture of a man who'd weathered too much.

Fiddleford watched Stanley for a moment, lost in thought. Fiddleford took a bite of his carrot cake, trying to read the man who, until moments ago, had been a complete stranger. Now, there was something almost painfully familiar about him, probably because he had the same face as his best friend, just more…tired.

“So, what do you want to know?” Fiddleford asked, his voice breaking the silence, but his eyes remained fixed on Stanley.

Stanley took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes flicking briefly to Fiddleford, before they dropped back to his cup, trying to hide his emotions behind the steam rising from it.

“Is he okay?” he asked, his voice low, almost desperate.

“I guess you could say he is,” Fiddleford replied, carefully placing the fork on his plate. “Do you want some cake, too? It's on the house.” His smile was gentle, tinged with a note of genuine kindness behind it despite the growing unease he felt about the stranger before him.

“I'm not a charity case” Stanley shot back, his tone defensive but with an undercurrent of exhaustion. Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“That's not the answer to my question,” he said, and just as he spoke, Stanley's stomach gave a loud growl. The color in Stanley's face drained a little, and he looked away, ashamed. Fiddleford smirked. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Without another word, Fiddleford stood and made his way to the counter, where he retrieved a fresh piece of carrot cake. He returned to Stanley's table and placed it in front of him.

“Thanks,” Stanley muttered, taking a tentative bite. His eyes widened at the taste. “Damn, this is good for a carrot cake.” Fiddleford's smile softened at the compliment.

“It's my momma's recipe. All the pastries here are from her, she made the menu too.” He pointed at the chalkboard menu that hung on the wal, a proud gleam in his eyes. “She runs the place.”

Stanley just nodded, his expression unreadable. The silence that followed was thick, neither man knowing quite what to say next. Stanley stared down at his coffee, absentmindedly tapping the mug. Finally, he broke the quiet.

“So, about Ford…” Stanley started, his voice soft but hesitant. “Can you tell me a bit more?” Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, then let out a small chuckle.

“Oh, yeah! Sorry, I got carried away with the cake.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, he's doing mighty fine in his studies. He excels in every class—except in physics and engineering. That's more my thing.” Stanley raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“So you're studying to be an engineer or something?” Stanley asked as he took a sip of his coffee

“Something like that,” Fiddleford replied with a shrug. “Still not sure, but definitely something related to mechatronics.” He paused, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “But Ford... he's got big ideas. Bigger than anyone realizes.” Stanley smiled at the mention of his brother.

“He always had great ideas,” he said with a soft voice. “Does he know what he wants to be yet?” Fiddleford leaned back in his chair, glancing over at the café’s dimly lit kitchen.

“What I'm about to say will sound really weird, alright? But…” He faltered, clearly unsure if he should say it. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “He wants to be a paranormal researcher.”

“A what?” Stanley's brows furrowed in disbelief.

“Yeah, I know! It's crazy. But he tried to sugarcoat it by calling it ‘anomaly research.’” Fiddleford did air quotes for emphasis, a playful smirk on his face that got into Stanley's face too.

“Ford was always a weird one, but this one definitely beats anything else,” he muttered, more to himself than to Fiddleford.

There was a pause, the two men sitting in an awkward silence before Stanley’s gaze turned reflective.

“Is he eating well? He used to pull all-nighters studying for finals and wouldn't eat a bite when we were younger. Does he still do that?” Stanley asked, playing with the last piece of carrot cake on his plate, moving it with his fork.

“Yeah, he still does it. I sometimes sneak pastries from here to get him to eat something.” Fiddleford said “He likes the raspberry one the most, but I try to bring in a variety so he doesn’t rot his teeth with all the sugar. He’s got a real sweet tooth.” Fiddleford said with a smile and Stanley's face softened, a wistful, almost bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

“He does. As kids, we didn’t celebrate Halloween 'cause our parents didn’t want us to, but sometimes I'd sneak off to get candy from the neighbors and bring it back. He always ate it too fast and ended up with a stomach ache.” He chuckled softly at the memory, but it was clear that it brought him both warmth and sorrow. Fiddleford leaned forward, amused.

“Oh, don’t tell me! We actually went to a Halloween party last year, and there was a bunch of candy near the bar. Instead of drinking, Ford devoured all the chocolates he could!” Fiddleford said and let out a small huffed laugh. Everyone was drunk out of their mind in that party while Ford took a piece of every candy bowl he found around. Going as far as to fill his pockets.

Stanley laughed, the sound light and cheerful, contrasting with his ragged aspect.

“Sounds like him alright,” he said, his smile fading a little. The silence lingered, and Fiddleford could see the sadness behind Stanley's eyes.

After a moment, Fiddleford opened his mouth to speak, about to make a cautious offer.

“Do you want to go meet him? He’s probably back at the dorms by now. I was heading there anyways, so maybe we could walk together.”

Stanley froze, the invitation hanging between them like an unspoken weight. He opened his mouth to respond, but then his face fell.

“Oh, we actually aren’t on speaking terms,” Stanley admitted quietly, almost reluctantly.

Fiddleford’s brow furrowed, his curiosity piqued.

“And why is that?”

Stanley opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, the kitchen door swung open, and Fiddleford's mother stepped into the room. “Fiddleford, I’m closing the café soon. Do you want me to give you a ride to the dorms?”

“I'm actually going to go walking with—” Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley, but before he could even offer a complete answer, Stanley had already stood up. Without a word, he turned toward the door, his figure silhouetted by the dim light from outside.

Fiddleford blinked, his stomach dropping as he watched Stanley leave in silence. The man didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. Then, with a sigh, he turned to his mother. "I take it back. I want that ride."

Chapter Text

Fiddleford worked the night shift again, as always. The café lights glowed warm against the rainy evening outside, illuminating the rows of pastries that sat neatly behind glass. The aroma of coffee beans and freshly baked goods filled the room, but the place was nearly empty at this hour. Fiddleford liked it this way— quiet enough to study, busy enough to keep his hands occupied when his thoughts wandered too far.

He hummed a tune under his breath while wiping down tables, the rain tapping gently against the windows. Just as he leaned over the cappuccino machine, which had once again decided to give up on life, the familiar chime of the doorbell rang.

Ford Pines and Bill Cipher strolled in.

Fiddleford straightened, his face lighting up when he saw Ford.

“Well, hey there, Ford! Good to see you!” His smile faltered when his eyes landed on Bill. “And you…”

Bill grinned as he shrugged off his coat.

“Don't you love to see me?”

Fiddleford’s smile twitched into something more forced.

“About as much as I'd love a bullet through my head.”

Bill chuckled.

“Such charm, McGucket. You wound me.”

Ford gave an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Come on, Fidds. Play nice.”

“I'm always nice,” Fiddleford said dryly, grabbing his notepad. “What'll it be tonight, boys?”

“The usual,” Ford replied, glancing at Bill, who gave a lazy nod.

Fiddleford jotted down their order and headed back to the counter, muttering under his breath as the cappuccino machine sputtered. He gave the machine a hit and then another, grumbling about how he wasn’t getting paid enough to play handyman. Not that he was really getting paid at all— just helping out his mom.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted to Ford. They'd been friends for a while, but Ford had never mentioned his brother before. Stanley Pines. It was strange, really. Ford rarely talked about family, sure, but not even a mention of having a twin? That felt deliberate.

The hiss of steam snapped him out of his thoughts. He cursed the machine one last time and set the coffee he was making aside just as Ford called out.

“Hey, Fidds! You want me to wait for you? Your shift’s almost over— we could head back to the dorm and play some D&D.”

Fiddleford smiled apologetically.

“Oh, actually, I’m heading home with my mom tonight. My sister’s coming over for dinner, and she wants me there.”

“Ah, that’s alright.” Ford’s face fell slightly. “I miss our late-night sessions, though.”

“Don’t worry, Ford. I’ll keep you company,” Bill said, clinging to Ford’s arm. Ford flushed, trying to look anywhere but at Bill.

Fiddleford grimaced at the sight.

“Please, Ford, take that horrible creature out of my café.”

Bill smirked, resting his chin on Ford’s shoulder.

“Horrible creature? Oh, McGucket, always so kind”

“You are welcome, Cipher” Fiddleford shot back, unable to suppress a grin.

“Oh? So now you are using my last name too? What a copycat you are” Bill laughed and soon Fiddleford followed. Though the tension between Fiddleford and Bill was palpable. It wasn’t hatred, exactly— more like a shared understanding that they enjoyed getting under each other’s skin. Bill directed Fiddleford a small smile as he took the pastries and coffee from the counter.

With the pastries in hand, Ford and Bill said their goodbyes and left the café.

An hour or two passed by, the place was almost empty now, with closing time fast approaching.

Just as Fiddleford began wiping down the counters, the doorbell rang again.

There he was.

Stanley Pines.

Stan stood just inside the door, his hood pulled low, raindrops clinging to his jacket.

“One coffee, please,” he said gruffly, fishing out coins from his pocket. Once again, he paid in pennies.

Fiddleford took the change without comment, pouring a cup of coffee and setting it down in front of Stan.

“Here you go.”

Stan took a seat by the window, staring out at the rain. Fiddleford grabbed two brownies from the display case and brought it to the table, sitting down across from him.

Stanley frowned.

“What are you doing?” he asked, brushing raindrops off his jacket.

“Just taking a seat,” Fiddleford said, taking a bite of the brownie.

Stan hummed in response, his eyes flicking to the pastry.

Fiddleford grinned, sliding the other brownie across the table.

“Want one?”

Stanley hesitated before taking it.

“Anything new to share?” Stan asked, taking a quick bite.

“Ford went out with a friend tonight,” Fiddleford said casually, omitting the part where Bill was more than just that.

“A friend?” Stanley chuckled. “Glad to hear he has more than just you. No offense, he just always sucked at making friends.”

Fiddleford laughed.

“Oh, he’s terrible at it. Honestly, it’s always the weirdest people who find him. He attracts anomalies like a magnet.”

Stan leaned forward, intrigued.

“Is that so? Tell me more.”

“There’s this guy, Bill Cipher. Not a bad guy, but I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him,” Fiddleford said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Rich kid, too. Comes from a good family. Makes me wonder what someone like him is doing in Backupsmore, hanging around folks like me and Ford.”

Stan raised an eyebrow.

“A rich kid, huh? Sounds like Ford’s making good connections.”

Fiddleford’s lips twitched into a smirk. ‘Oh, he’s doing more than making connections with him.’

“Yeah, well, even without the social skills, Ford somehow finds a way.” Fiddleford glanced at his phone— 9:30 p.m. It was time to close.

“It’s been nice to see you again,” Fiddleford said, standing. “But I’ve gotta close up soon. Want to keep talking outside? Maybe I could walk you to where you’re staying.”

Stanley shook his head.

“Nah. I’ll go on my own.”

“It’s pretty late,” Fiddleford pointed out.

“Quit it,” Stanley said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Sorry,” Fiddleford mumbled. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

“Yeah. Your coffee’s cheap—I might come back again”

Fiddleford chuckled, holding the door open for him.

“Goodbye, Stanley.”

Stan gave a brief nod, stepping into the rain.

“Goodbye, Fiddleford.”

As the door closed behind him, Fiddleford stood for a moment, staring into the night.

With a sigh, he locked the door and flipped the sign to ‘Closed’. The rain continued to fall outside, steady and unrelenting, much like the thoughts swirling in his mind.

----

This wasn’t the plan.

Then again, Stanley Pines never really had a plan to begin with.

He’d been passing through this town, looking for a cheap motel—nothing more, nothing less. Just another stop along the way, like so many others. But instead of finding a place to crash, he stumbled into a little café and met someone unexpected: Fiddleford McGucket, his brother’s best friend, apparently.

Stan hadn’t planned to stay. He never did. He was a drifter by nature, always moving on before things got too complicated. But hearing that Ford was here made him hesitate for some reason. He shouldn’t have cared, not after all these years of silence, but the temptation to linger was stronger than he liked to admit.

Now, it was late again. The café lights had gone dark, and the rain had let up to a steady drizzle. Stan stepped out into the quiet street and made his way back to his car, parked on the edge of town. The old thing was barely holding together, the windows fogged from the cold and the seats worn thin.

With a tired sigh, he opened the door and slid into the back seat. The chill of the night air clung to him, seeping through his jacket as he curled in on himself. He tugged the blanket from the trunk over his shoulders, but it did little to keep out the cold.

The café had been warm— too warm, maybe. The smell of coffee, the gentle hum of conversation, the way Fiddleford had smiled at him despite the oddness of his presence. Stan already missed it. The warmth, the roof over his head, the fleeting sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years.

With a shuddering breath, he pressed his face into the blanket and closed his eyes. He could almost hear the distant sound of the rain hitting the windows of the café, the low hum of Fiddleford’s voice as he made small talk.

For a brief moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like to stay somewhere—to stop running.

But that wasn’t who he was.

Sleep came slowly, pulling him under. The cold bit at his skin, and the ache in his chest never quite left. Yet as he drifted off, one thought lingered:

He wanted to know more. About Ford. About Fiddleford, who had smiled at him through the café window as he left. He made him feel, just for a moment, like he belonged somewhere.

Chapter Text

‘Okay, I messed up.’

‘I definitely messed up this time.’

Those were Stanley’s thoughts as he stepped into the café yet again.

At this point, he was practically a regular. Every night, like clockwork, he came in for a coffee and some small talk with Fiddleford. Asking about Ford. Asking about his day. Just... chatting. It was nice to have a routine, something steady. And while he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he kind of enjoyed the pastries Fiddleford pushed onto him.

(They were good, alright? Not his fault.)

He plopped down at his usual seat, taking a bite of his donut.

“So, how come you’re still working here when finals are breathing down your neck?”

Fiddleford, wiping down the counter, quickly replied.

“One of our employees quit, so I’ve been working double shifts to cover for ‘er.”

Stanley winced.

“Damn. That’s rough.”

“Eh, I manage.” Fiddleford smirked, resting his chin in his palm. “I got in on a scholarship, y’know. Natural smarts, brainpower pays the bills.” He waggled his eyebrows like an absolute fool.

“Alright, Mr. Smarty Pants, cut that out.” Stan chuckled, shaking his head.

Fiddleford, of course, doubled down—wiggling his eyebrows even more exaggeratedly until he broke into laughter too.

Once the laughter settled, Fiddleford leaned against the counter.

“Ford, though? He’s losin’ it. You should see ‘im. He’s practically buried in post-its.”

As if to prove his point, he pulled out his phone and showed Stanley a photo.

There was Ford, dead asleep at his desk, slumped over a mountain of textbooks—his entire body covered in neon-colored post-its. Right beside him were Fiddleford and some blonde guy, grinning like idiots at the camera.

Stanley frowned, pointing at the stranger.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the rich kid I told you about. Bill.” Fiddleford’s voice was laced with mock exasperation.

“Seems like a nice guy.”

“Nice ain’t the word I’d use, but to each their own.”

Stanley chuckled.

“What, you hate him or somethin’?”

“No! He’s just—ugh—always hanging around me and Ford. He acts like he owns the place, interrupts our study sessions, gets all lovey-dovey in the middle of things and clings to Ford—”

Fiddleford abruptly stopped, eyes widening as he realized what he just said. He looked at Stanley, whose face had shifted from amused to deeply confused.

‘Oh. Oh, dear…I messed up. Didn't I?’ was Fiddleford's first thought.

Stanley blinked.

“…Ford is with Bill?”

Fiddleford opened his mouth. Closed it. Internally kicked himself.

The silence was answer enough.

Stanley exhaled, grabbed his coffee, and took a long sip before muttering under his breath.

Fiddleford frowned.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid.” Stanley waved a hand. “Just saying... Shermie owes me twenty bucks.”

Fiddleford squinted.

“Shermie? Your other brother, right? What’s twenty bucks got to do with anything?”

Stan smirked, swirling his coffee.

“Huh. So Ford actually talked about Shermie, huh?” There was something bitter in his tone, but he brushed it off. “Years ago, me and Shermie made a bet.”

“…What kinda bet?”

“Whether Ford was gay or not.” Stanley grinned, leaning back. “It was just a dumb joke, but, man, I could really use that twenty right about now.”

Fiddleford crossed his arms, giving him a look—not of disapproval, but definitely unimpressed.

“Really? You bet on your brother’s love life?”

Stanley held up his hands.

“Hey, don’t gimme that look! It’s not my fault he was obvious! Back in high school, he never had a girlfriend, always stared too long at pretty boys, and—” he leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially, “—he had a portrait of Nikola Tesla by his bed. And I swear, he used to look at it way too fondly.”

Fiddleford blinked.

“Don't you tell me he had that photo since high school”

Stanley snorted.

“Wait—he still has it? Oh my god.” He cackled, shaking his head. “Man, I hope Bill doesn’t catch him staring at it. Guy’d lose his damn mind.”

Fiddleford laughed too, shaking his head at the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Oh yeah, I seen the way he looks at that photo,” Fiddleford admitted. “Always weirded me out a bit, but I gotta admit… kinda cute in a weird way.”

Stanley smirked.

“Guess I should call Shermie. That twenty bucks is mine.”

And with that, they both dissolved into laughter, the café’s warm lights flickering around them.

------

As their conversation dwindled, Fiddleford suddenly tensed, eyes locking onto something outside the café window.

“Oh, hell.”

Stanley frowned.

“What?”

Fiddleford leaned in, voice a harsh whisper.

“Ford and Bill. They’re comin’ in.”

Stanley nearly choked on his coffee.

“What?!” He immediately ducked lower in his seat. “Shit—shit—shit.”

Fiddleford rubbed his temples.

“Why are you panickin’ like a criminal?”

“Because I am one,” Stanley shot back, already scanning for an escape route. "And I don’t want Ford to know I’m here!”

“Well, ya better make yourself scarce, ‘cause he’s about two seconds from walkin’ through that door.”

Stanley’s eyes darted around before he spotted the open space behind the café counter. Without another word, he bolted across the room and dove behind it just as the door jingled open.

Fiddleford barely had time to process this before Bill’s voice rang out.

“Hey, whose foot is that?”

Fiddleford snapped his head around in horror, only to see that Stanley —brilliant, tactical genius that he was— had left his damn foot sticking out.

Bill grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

“Fidds, you got your boyfriend hiding under there?” He waggled his eyebrows.

Fiddleford stomped on Stanley’s foot so hard it disappeared behind the counter in an instant, accompanied by a muffled ‘Son of a—’

Lucky for them, Ford was still by the entrance, shaking the rain off his coat and oblivious to everything.

Fiddleford turned back to Bill, pleading.

“Please, Bill. Keep quiet. Don’t tell Ford.”

Bill frowned, clearly intrigued.

“Who are you even hiding?”

Before Fiddleford could answer, Ford finally approached the counter and began placing their order. Bill, ever the opportunist, ‘accidentally’ dropped his wallet with an exaggerated, ‘Oops!’ and crouched down to grab it—stealing a quick glance under the counter.

His teasing smirk vanished.

Because there, squatting in the cramped space, was someone who looked exactly like Ford.

But rougher. More worn down. Scarred knuckles. A faint bruise along his jaw. Clothes that had seen better days. His eyes—just as sharp as Ford’s, but weighed down by something heavier.

Bill shot up like a rocket, staring at Fiddleford with wide eyes, his usual smugness gone.

Fiddleford whispered a faint, ‘I'll explain later.’ with a quite panicked expression.

Bill swallowed, glancing between Ford and the counter, then back at Fiddleford. After a pause, he slowly nodded.

“Hey, Ford” Bill said, voice light but tight, grabbing Ford’s arm. “Let’s grab a seat, I got a lot to talk to you about.”

Ford blinked at him. “Wait I didn't pay yet—”

Bill ignored him, he was already steering him toward a nearby table, still processing what the hell he just saw.

-------

‘Okay, so apparently Ford had a doppelganger.’

That was Bill’s first —and profoundly stupid— thought.

Ford sat across from him, rubbing his tired eyes, dark circles evident from yet another late-night study session.

Bill blinked at him, then at the counter where ‘Ford 2.0: The Bootleg Edition’ was still hiding.

‘Damn. I think the knockoff actually looks better.’

Ford gave him a small, tired smile.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

Bill, still in mild shock, barely registered the question. “Uh…”

‘Quick. Say something, you moron.’

“Oh! Yeah, uh—” Bill stalled, tapping his fingers on the table. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over for break. My mom’s been asking about you, y'know. She loves you.”

Ford smiled, albeit apologetically.

“That’s really nice, Bill, but my family's already got something planned. My brother’s birthday is during break.”

Bill's lips pressed into a tight line and then opened with a small ‘pop’ sound.

“Oh. Right. No biggie—we can always meet up after.” He looked over the counter, to where Fiddleford and the stranger were, casually shifting the conversation. “Hey, Ford, weird question, but… do you have any other brothers? Besides Shermie?”

Ford visibly stiffened.

Bill, sensing weakness, went in for the kill.

‘That’s it! Gaslight him, Bill!’

"I swear I’ve heard you mention another brother before," he added, tilting his head.

Ford’s face darkened.

“No.” His voice was firm, clipped. “Shermie is my only brother.”

Bill immediately picked up on the unspoken ‘do not ask me that again’ laced in Ford’s words. He also picked up on the fact that the man, who was still under the counter, probably heard that too.

Bill awkwardly shifted on his spot, suddenly very aware that he might’ve just kicked an emotional landmine.

‘Okay, so we’re just straight-up erasing that guy’s existence, huh? Damn, this family’s got more drama than I do.’

Bill kept his easygoing grin, but internally, his brain was running at full speed.

‘Okay, so Ford’s reaction was way too stiff. Either he’s hiding something, or his “not-brother” under the counter owes him money and faked his own death.’

Ford was clearly done with the topic.

Bill, however, was not.

He tapped his fingers on the table, pretending to think.

“Huh. That’s weird. I must be misremembering.”

Ford didn’t respond. Just nodded.

Meanwhile, under the counter, Stanley was not having a good time. His legs were cramping, he was really hoping Bill wasn’t about to sell him out, and most importantly—he just heard his own brother act like he didn’t exist.

Stan muttered under his breath,

“Unbelievable.”

Unfortunately, Bill had insane hearing when it came to things he wasn’t supposed to hear.

‘Oh-ho. This is getting good.’

Bill smirked but said nothing. He’d play along—for now. But he wasn’t about to let this mystery slip away.

After a minute of silence, Ford finally spoke again.

“So, uh, what about you? What are your plans for break?”

Bill, still grinning, waved a hand.

“Oh, y’know. The usual. Ruin my family’s Christmas, start a fight, leave before dessert.”

Ford sighed.

“Bill.”

Bill gave him the most innocent look possible.

“What?”

Before Ford could launch into a lecture about ‘healthy family relationships,’ —although he probably wasn't qualified to give that talk either— Fiddleford walked over, tray in hand.

“Here’s y’all’s order,” he said with his usual drawl, pointedly looking at Bill like ‘don’t you dare say anything’

Bill took his coffee and caked with an exaggerated wink.

"Thanks, hon."

Fiddleford did not dignify that with a response.

But just as things were settling down, Bill, ever the menace, ‘accidentally’ dropped his spoon.

“Oh, whoops!” he said in an obnoxiously loud voice, sliding off his chair. “Lemme just—”

He bent down, conveniently angling himself so he could peek under the counter.

And there, crouched like a guilty raccoon, was still the mysterious man.

They locked eyes.

Bill directed the man a playful smile and Stanley gave him the most threatening look possible, silently mouthing ‘don’t you dare’

Bill slowly sat back up, slapping a hand over his mouth to keep himself from laughing.

Ford blinked. Confused.

“Uh…? You okay?”

Bill, barely holding it together, gave a stiff nod followed by a hum of approval.

“You know what, Ford? I think I’ll grab us a table away from the counter.”

Ford frowned.

“Why?”

“No reason,” Bill chirped, already grabbing his tray. “Just thinking about your posture, babe. We should go to the ones that got the plush back. C’mon.”

Before Ford could argue, Bill steered him toward a table across the café.

Bill was more than ready to see this show unravel. But perhaps after finals were over. No need to stress Ford further.

Chapter Text

"Okay, that’s it. Care to explain what’s going on here?" Bill’s voice was light but there was an undeniable edge of demand behind it, as he stood at the entrance of the café, watching Ford walk away to the dorms.

------

It seems like we are missing some vital information. Let’s rewind to a few minutes ago.

----

Inside the café, Bill and Ford were happily munching on pastries, their easy chatter filling the quiet space, while Fiddleford stood by the counter, looking like he was about to spontaneously combust from the tension.

“Will you stop that?” Fiddleford mumbled, trying to focus on wiping down a cup, while Stanley fidgeted with his foot, trying to stay as out of sight as possible.

“Maybe if you moved, I wouldn’t have to do the moonwalk every time I try to shift my weight, I can barely breathe in here!” Stanley shot back, barely able to keep his voice down without making a scene.

Bill, seated across the table, couldn't help but laugh every so often at the bickering, clearly enjoying the comedy show unfolding. Ford, on the other hand, was eyeing the two of them with a mix of confusion and concern.

“Are you always this whiny?” Fiddleford asked, leaning away from Stanley, trying to create a little space between them. His voice was barely audible.

“Shut up,” Stanley muttered under his breath, giving Fiddleford a look that clearly said ‘don't tempt me.’

Fiddleford's gaze dropped, glaring at the floor beneath the counter.

Just then, Ford’s voice broke through the tension.

“Uh, Fiddleford, you alright?”

Fiddleford quickly plastered on a smile.

“Yeah! Just... something fell to the floor. Nothing to worry about!”

Ford looked skeptical, his brow furrowed.

“Okay…”

As Ford pulled out his wallet to pay for their coffee, Bill, ever the dramatic one, cut in and rushed to the counter.

“Babe, you’re always treating me. Let me pay this time.” Bill winked, and Ford, ever the softie, blushed slightly. “How about you head to campus first, though? I need to talk to Fidds for a sec.”

Ford hesitated for a second before nodding and pressing a quick kiss to Bill's cheek.

“Alright, Bill. See you two at the dorms?”

“Yeah, I'll also go,” Fiddleford answered, with a tired but genuine smile. “I'll be there after my shift.”

Ford’s smile was warm as he replied.

“Good to hear.”

-----

Now that you know the brief context, let's go back to the present.

---

Bill, now standing closer to the counter, had Stanley in his sights. His eyes widened with a mix of amusement and realization.

“Huh… you two look the same.” Bill muttered, half to himself as he looked at Stanley, the corners of his lips twitching into a grin.

Stanley shot him a sharp look, obviously annoyed at being looked at as if he were some rare specimen.

“Yeah, no shit. We’re twins, idiot.”

Bill’s smirk only widened.

“Twins you say? Interesting” Bill said, stepping closer and putting a hand on Stanley's shoulder “and hey! Don’t treat me that way. I’m your in-law now. I’m part of the family!”

Bill added, grin still on his face and wagging his eyebrows teasingly.

Stanley shot him a glare.

“In-law? You’re just his boyfriend.”

Bill was ready to shoot back, not going to tolerate the absolute disrespect thrown to the stability of his relationship. Just as he was opening his mouth, Fiddleford spoke.

“Will you two quit it?” Fiddleford said, sounding more exasperated than usual. He rubbed his temples, his patience wearing thin. “Stop being assholes to each other.”

Bill flopped down into the nearest chair with a dramatic sigh.

“Ugh, you’re no fun, Fidds.” He looked at the two men, his grin still in place. “Anyway, explain. Now.”

Fiddleford glanced from Bill to Stanley, clearly weighing the situation. Stanley folded his arms across his chest, scowling.

“I’m not telling him anything,” Stanley grumbled, eyes narrowed. His posture was defensive, like a dog ready to bite.

Bill leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Oh, come on. You’re not gonna leave me hanging here, are you? I have to know who this mystery twin is.”

Fiddleford sighed deeply, the weight of the situation starting to feel heavier. But before he could speak, Stanley interrupted.

“I’m not some damn mystery,” Stanley snapped, irritation making his voice rise just enough to carry over to the other side of the room.

“Well, you sure seem like it. Ford never told me about you” Bill said mockingly.

Fiddleford glanced nervously at the door, making sure Ford wasn’t anywhere near.

“Stanley—”

“No,” Stanley cut in sharply. “I'm not telling this weirdo anything.”

Bill, sensing the tension, shifted in his seat, lazily crossing his legs as he leaned forward, eyes alight with amusement.

“Come on, don’t be shy. What’s a little family drama?”

Fiddleford pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting every choice that led to this particular moment. Meanwhile Stanley started pacing around the café.

“Or maybe…” Bill’s grin widened. “I should ask Ford about this.”

Stanley froze mid-step. His head snapped up, and for a moment, anger and something dangerously close to panic flickered across his face.

Bill wanted the truth? Fine.

In a few quick strides, Stanley was in front of him. He crouched to Bill’s level, gaze burning into him, and then—suddenly—he shoved him back against the wall. Bill gasped, his cocky smirk vanishing for the first time.

“Listen here,” Stanley growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Ford and I? We’re not on good terms. I screwed up his life. He doesn’t want me near him, so if you so much as think about telling him about me…” He leaned in closer, close enough that Bill could feel his breath. “You’re done for.”

For the first time, Bill looked genuinely caught off guard.

“…Alright,” he muttered, raising his hands slightly.

Stanley released him with a smirk, stepping back.

“Guess we’re good, then.”

Across the room, Fiddleford exhaled, rubbing his temples. Watching the scene unfold, he couldn't help but wonder—how the hell was Stanley even related to Ford? They were nothing alike. The man in front of him just shoved Bill against the wall as if he was ready to rob him of his wallet and start a fight. While Ford was the type to get muggled and then even offer to the robber everything else he had.

Fiddleford was then taken out of his train of thought by Bill, who was now straightening his coat, letting out a low chuckle.

“So you’re hiding him from Ford, Fidds? Seriously?” Bill asked teasingly.

“Not hiding him,” Fiddleford corrected quickly. “Just… keeping things under wraps for now.”

Bill’s grin returned, slow and knowing.

“Well, this is gonna be fun.”

Stanley folded his arms, his expression dark.

“Not. A. Word. To. Ford.” He said, reminding Bill of his previous words.

Fiddleford, sensing another fight brewing, quickly stepped in.

“I’ll explain everything later, alright? Just don’t drag Ford into this.” Fiddleford said and Bill just looked up at him, not answering to his pleas “Please…”

Bill noticed the hint of desperation in Fiddleford's tone, he leaned back, considering, then shrugged.

“Fine. I’ll keep my mouth shut…” Bill said, sighing.

He turned to leave, pausing at the door.

“See you at the dorms, Fidds.” And with that, he was gone.

Stanley looked at Bill disappear and then let out a heavy sigh as he dropped into the nearest chair.

“Now I see why you don’t like him.”

Fiddleford looked down at Stanley and then shook his head.

They were both knee-deep in this mess now, whether he liked it or not.

Chapter Text

“I definitely messed up this time. Why do I always mess up?”

Was Stanley’s first thought as he slumped into the front seat of his car, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“I'm screwed.”

Was his second thought.

Not that it mattered when your brain’s running at a hundred miles per hour, smashing into every regret like a demolition derby. The order of your thoughts stops being important.

And just like his thoughts, Stanley’s car was an absolute disaster. Cramped, cluttered, and smelling faintly of old fries and desperation. Fast food wrappers, empty coffee cups, and a truly concerning number of unpaid parking tickets littered the seats. Somewhere in the pile, there was probably a roadmap to a better life, but knowing his luck, it was buried under a month-old burger he forgot about.

He sighed and leaned back, staring at the stained ceiling of his car like it held the answers to all his problems.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

He groaned as he remembered everything that had happened tonight. Ford’s little boyfriend was clearly up for trouble, that guy had seemed way too excited about the dirt he dug up, and Fiddleford? Poor bastard nearly had a breakdown on the spot.

Now it was Stanley’s turn.

But no. No time for that.

For once, the weather was tolerable—no rain, no bitter cold creeping into his bones, no risk of waking up with icicles forming under his nose. He could actually get a decent night’s sleep, and he wasn’t about to waste it worrying over things he couldn’t change.

Everything could be fixed tomorrow. All he needed was gas, a plan, and a town that was not this one.

Simple, right?

------

It was not simple.

Apparently, Stanley had even less money than he thought. He rifled through his pockets, then checked under the seats, hoping the universe would take pity on him and materialize a few extra bucks.

It did not.

Not even enough for half a tank. Hell, barely enough for a quarter tank. That wasn’t gonna get him far—not far enough to put real distance between him and this mess.

Which left him with one unfortunate, inescapable option.

He needed a job.

Job hunting was something Stanley often did. Either that or pickpocketing—an art he’d perfected on the road, but that was out of the question now. Not with Ford in the same town. He couldn’t risk anyone connecting him to his brother.

Stanley groaned and let his head fall against the steering wheel.

A job.

That meant working. That meant having to stay longer and therefore risk running into Ford.

But before he could fully spiral into self-pity, his stomach let out an earth-shattering grumble.

Right. Priorities.

Before he worried about money, gas, or impending doom, he needed food. Something hot, filling and not from the questionable bag of chips he found under his seat last night.

Maybe things weren’t looking great, but at least hunger was a problem he knew how to solve.

One step at a time.

He pulled out the few crumpled bills he had left, turning them over in his hands. Not much, barely enough to stretch a day or two. His stomach growled again, louder this time.

Screw it.

If he was gonna go broke, he might as well treat himself first.

-------

The sun was already setting by the time Stanley got to the café. He had combed through the area looking for any job opportunity before he got there, but apparently he wasn't only running out of money but also luck.

“Huh. You’re back.” Fiddleford sounded mildly surprised as he spotted Stanley walking into the coffee shop. He was in the middle of serving a couple of customers their pie, but once he finished, he made his way over to Stanley’s table.

“Why wouldn’t I come back?” Stanley asked, already fishing a crumpled dollar bill and some spare change from his pocket.

Fiddleford shrugged.

“Dunno. After what happened with Bill, I figured you’d just disappear.” His tone was casual, but there was an edge of expectation behind it.

Stanley almost said that had been the plan—until Fiddleford spoke again.

“But I’m glad you didn’t. I’d have missed our late-night conversations.” He offered a small smile, and for reasons Stanley couldn’t quite place, he found himself returning it.

Fiddleford took out his notepad.

“So, what’ll it be?”

“Just a slice of carrot cake.” Stanley replied

“No coffee this time?” Fiddleford teased, raising an eyebrow.

Stanley shook his head.

“Gotta save up, so no.”

Fiddleford’s smile faltered for just a second before he smoothed it over.

“Alright. Just the cake.”

And with that, he turned and disappeared into the kitchen, but soon came back with the order, and looking around he noticed there weren't that many customers. Perhaps he could take a small break and chat with Stanley.

“How come you are here so early?” Fiddleford asked, already taking a seat.

“I just wanted to have a taste of that carrot cake before I go,” Stanley said, shrugging like it didn’t matter.

“Oh…so you are actually leavin’ town.”

Stanley shrugged casually, taking a spoonful of the carrot cake.

“There’s not much here for me, I’ve been looking around for a job, but no one’s hiring.” Stanley admitted.

“Is that so?” Fiddleford tapped the table with his finger, thinking. “Well… we are lookin’ for someone here. Someone to help with packaging and makin’ drinks. If you want, I could put in a word for ya.”

Stanley blinked, surprised.

“Are you being for real?”

“Yeah,” Fiddleford said with a nervous grin. “I’m basically runnin’ the place. I just need my Ma’s approval to hire you, but don’t worry—she’ll agree right away!”

Stanley stared at him for a long moment before a smile tugged at his lips.

“You serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Fiddleford promised with a chuckle.

----

Later that night, the cozy warmth of the café had been replaced by the equally homey warmth of the McGucket’s kitchen.

And Fiddleford, was on his knees, putting on quite the performance.

“Please, please, please, Ma!” he begged dramatically, clasping his hands like a man pleading for mercy. “He needs the job!”

His mother, a stern woman with a no-nonsense air, crossed her arms.

“Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, stop grovelin’. You look ridiculous.”

“But Ma!” Fiddleford threw himself at her hand like he was in some soap opera. “He’s my friend’s brother! He’s practically family!”

She raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“And what makes you think he’s a good fit? Last time I let you hire a friend, she left. Emma still owes me a shift!”

Fiddleford flinched a bit, but he quickly straightened up.

“Because he doesn’t seem like the type to quit a job once he gets it. He’s desperate, Ma. He needs this. He ain’t gonna risk his next meal.” His mother remained silent, clearly unimpressed, so Fiddleford quickly added, “He also… uh… paid for his coffee with pennies the other day. Pennies, Ma! That’s dedication!”

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile.

“Sounds more like desperation than dedication.”

“Same thing in his case.” Fiddleford shot back

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You’ve got a heart too big for your own good, y’know that?”

Fiddleford grinned, sensing victory.

“So that’s a yes?”

“On a trial basis,” she clarified, wagging a finger at him. “If he messes up, he’s out, and you’re the one cleanin’ up his mess.”

Fiddleford's smile was far too wide as he heard that.

“Deal! You won’t regret it!”

She shook her head with a fond smile.

“I already do.”

------

The next night, Stanley walked into the café, still dressed in the same clothes as always, and Fiddleford found himself tempted to ask if he owned anything else.

Stanley settled into his usual seat, and before he could even ask, Fiddleford was already bringing over a steaming cup of coffee.

“Here you go,” Fiddleford said with a warm smile.

“Thanks, Fiddleford.” Stanley smiled back, fishing out some change to pay.

“Oh, no, save it. Workers get free coffee,” Fiddleford replied with a wink.

Stanley blinked in surprise.

“Your mother said yes?”

“She did,” Fiddleford nodded. “On the condition that you’ll be on a week-long trial run. I’ll be training you, so don’t worry too much.” He paused for a moment. “It’ll be the night shift, though. I hope that’s alright.”

Night shift. Stanley felt a wave of relief wash over him. A warm place to stay through the night and a bit of stability — it was more than he’d dared hope for.

“It’s perfect as it is,” Stanley said, his smile more genuine this time. “When do I start?”

“As soon as you can,” Fiddleford said, but then gave him a once-over, pointing at him with a playful smirk. “Although, I’m gonna need you to get a bit more presentable if you’re going to be working here. Nothing against your looks —you’re quite a handsome fella actually— but your hair could use a trim, and maybe a shave. We like to keep a clean image.”

Stanley’s cheeks turned pink as he tugged his hood up self-consciously.

“Oh, alright,” he muttered. After a pause, he asked, “Do you know if there’s a nearby motel?”

“Yeah, there’s one just up the road,” Fiddleford said, raising an eyebrow. “Wait— where have you been staying all this time if not in a motel?”

“In my car,” Stanley admitted, his voice low, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his face.

Fiddleford’s mouth fell open slightly then quickly closed it.

“Oh my…” He trailed off, unsure what to say.

“It’s fine,” Stanley quickly reassured him. “I’ll just book a room, clean myself up, and be ready for tomorrow.”

But in truth, he regretted splurging on that carrot cake yesterday. With the little cash he had left, paying for a room would mean he couldn’t afford another meal anytime soon.

“I can walk you over to the motel, if you’d like.”

Stanley came back to reality and gave a small nod.

“That’d be helpful.”

“Alright,” Fiddleford said with a grin. “Let me finish my shift, and I’ll show you the way.”

Chapter Text

Stanley Pines had pulled off a lot of dumb ideas in his life.

Taking a café job with zero experience in that area? Easily top ten.

He stood behind the counter in an apron that was a fit too tight, adjusting it awkwardly. Fiddleford glanced over at him, leaning against the counter with an unimpressed look.

“You ever worked in a café before?” Fiddleford asked, raising an eyebrow. Stanley shrugged.

“No, but I’ve drank coffee before. That’s close enough, right?” Fiddleford gave him a slow, unimpressed look.

“That’s like sayin’ you can do heart surgery ‘cause you’ve seen doctor TV dramas.” Fiddleford replied dryly and Stan snorted.

“Alright, bad example.” He adjusted the apron, tugging at it. “Not that I trust doctors anyway.” Fiddleford let out a heavy sigh, clearly resigned.

“Alright, here’s the deal, Stanley Pines,” he said, stepping closer until he was right in front of Stanley. “You’re on a trial basis, so stop it with your absurd replies, and don’t you dare touch the espresso machine. You’re going to wash dishes, and maybe—just maybe—I’ll let you take orders without fearin’ for my life.” Fiddleford said, and Stanley raised an eyebrow, eyeing the espresso machine with growing suspicion.

“What, you think I’m gonna mess up something?”

Fiddleford just looked at him, no words needed.

“…Fine,” Stan muttered, trudging toward the kitchen. “I’ll do the damn dishes.”

-----

Soon the dishes and cups were done, with only one casualty (a coffee mug) Stanley swore wasn't his fault.

The bell jingled, and chaos erupted.

It was like the entire population of the town decided to descend on the café at once. Laptops, earbuds, notebooks, and exhausted eyes—all demanding caffeine, and now.

Fiddleford didn’t miss a beat. He was already at the espresso machine, preparing orders like a drill sergeant as he steamed milk with mechanical precision.

“Stanley! I need two caramel lattes, one iced matcha—light on the ice—get me the oat milk.”

Stan was already moving, grabbing cups, scrawling names with a marker that were barely legible.

“Alright, alright, I got it—uh, how do I know which one’s oat milk again?”

“The blue cap, Stanley!”

“I thought that was almond!”

Fiddleford groaned, pouring a perfect latte without even looking.

“Blue cap’s oat. Orange cap’s almond. Pink’s coconut. Don’t mix ‘em up unless you want a lawsuit.”

Stan muttered something under his breath about dairy being too damn complicated, but he followed instructions. He wasn’t completely useless after all.

-----

Some of the drinks were ready and Fiddleford did not get paid enough to also have to hand them out. Therefore that task was given to Stanley.

Stan called out the next order, balancing a tray of drinks with slightly shaking hands.

"Kayla? Your vanilla-oat-sugar- thing is ready."

A pair of college girls approached the counter, chatting and laughing to themselves. One of them stepped forward with a bright grin.

“That’s me!” she said, taking the drink. “Thanks. Looks perfect.”

“Yeah, it’s all him,” he said, jerking his head toward Fiddleford. “I’m just the delivery guy.”

“Well, delivery guy,” she said, eyeing him with a smile. “You got quite the looks.”

Stan blinked, confused.

“...Huh?”

“I mean, your hair. It’s got that whole messy but intentional thing going on. Kinda hot.”

Stan froze and the first girl stifled a giggle. While the second one decided to also contribute to the conversation.

“Totally. Like that 'bad boy with a heart of gold’ vibe.”

Stan looked from one to the other, trying to figure out if they were joking.

“Uh...thanks?”

They both laughed, clearly entertained. The girl —Kayla— gave him a little wink before they walked off with their drinks.
Stan turned slowly back toward the counter, baffled.

“What the hell was that?”

From behind the espresso machine, Fiddleford raised an eyebrow as he frothed milk.

“That, Stanley Pines, was you bein’ flirted with.” Fiddleford said as a matter of fact and Stanley scoffed.

“No way.”

Fiddleford just smirked.

“Two girls gigglin’ over your ‘rugged charm’ and tellin’ you your hair’s hot? Sure seems like flirtin’ to me.”

Stan shook his head, looking genuinely thrown.

“Nah. They’re just bein’ weird. I don't look that good.” Stanley said and Fiddleford just smiled.

“You are dense as a brick, you know that?”

----

By the end of his first shift, Stanley was wrecked.

His feet ached from standing too long, his hands were ice-cold from handling countless drinks, and he was seriously starting to wonder if this town had a secret underground coffee cult, because there was no way this many people needed caffeine at night.

Every other night he’d come in, the place had been quiet—just him, Fiddleford, and the occasional customer. But tonight? It had been absolute chaos.

Stan slumped against an empty chair, rolling his shoulders with a groan.

Everyone was finally gone.

"How the hell was the café this crowded?"

"Sunday night rush," Fiddleford answered as he walked over, carrying two cups of coffee and a plate with cheese and ham bagels. "College students pullin’ all-nighters to finish what they didn’t do on the week, college teachers needing a bit of coffee and a sweet treat before they have to teach their students again, late shift workers needin’ a pick-me-up...Welcome to the nightmare, Pines."

He set the coffee cups down and handed Stanley a bagel.

Stanley took it without question, biting in and letting out a tired sigh as the warm, savory flavor hit his tongue.

"Thanks," he mumbled between bites.
Fiddleford took a seat across from him, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn. "This is way more tiring than I expected"

"Don’t you tell me, I’m twice as tired as you are," he said, rubbing his face before taking a sip of his coffee. "And you are lucky we didn’t get any rude customers tonight."

Stanley scoffed, resting his chin in his hand.

"Right. Forgot that’s a thing."

"Oh, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet," Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. "You ever work retail?"

"Does scamming people count?" Stanley deadpanned and Fiddleford gave him a puzzled look.

"Depends. Did ya get yelled at a lot?" Fiddleford asked and Stan thought about it for a second.

"Eh, most of the time, yeah."

"Close enough then."

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, both too tired to keep up the usual back-and-forth.

Fiddleford took another slow sip of coffee, then glanced at Stanley. The dim lighting of the now-empty café softened his features, and without all that scruff, he looked… different.

“Y’know, those girls were right…” Fiddleford said without thinking and Stanley raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Fiddleford smirked, resting his elbow on the table.

“You actually look handsome without all that stubble. Could probably charm a few more customers into droppin’ by.”

For a second, Stanley didn’t react—just sat there, staring at his bagel like it had personally offended him. Then, the tips of his ears turned pink.

But if Fiddleford noticed, he didn’t comment on it. He just took another sip of coffee, waiting for the inevitable snarky response.

Stan cleared his throat and waved a hand dismissively.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say, McGucket." Stanley said, clearly flustered. Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

"I ain’t lyin’, Pines."

He didn’t reply. Stanley just very casually turned his attention back to his bagel—suddenly very interested in his food.

And if he wasn’t looking Fiddleford in the eye?

Well. That was just a coincidence.

Chapter Text

By the time Stanley clocked in for his third shift, he was already questioning every life choice that led him here.

His back ached like he'd been run over by a truck, his feet were killing him, and the only thing keeping him upright was the promise of free coffee and sheer spite (something he had been running on for the past few years).

He slumped against the counter with a groan.

Tonight’s shift was blessedly calmer—a nice break from the chaos of the last one. But as Stan quickly learned, a slow night came with its own kind of torture.

Training.

“Alright,” Fiddleford said, sleeves rolled up and full of purpose, “it’s time you learn how to make somethin’ that ain't just pouring stuff over ice.”

Stanley blinked.

“Wait, you’re trusting me with the fancy stuff?”

“I said you were gonna learn, not that I trust you.”

Which is how Stanley ended up standing awkwardly next to Fiddleford at the prep counter, staring down the blender while the man leaned over him—talking him through a frappé recipe with far too much close contact.

“Now, you just gotta add the syrup after the ice, or else it won’t mix right,” Fiddleford said, reaching around to guide Stan’s hand toward the button of the blender.

The guiding touch lingered a little longer than necessary. Just enough to send a little static crawling up Stanley’s spine. He cleared his throat and pulled his hand back with more force than needed.

Several minutes later —and only one small incident while pouring the contents of the blender— the frappé was ready, and it actually looked good.

Unfortunately, his luck wasn't as good the rest of the shift.

After almost serving decaf instead of espresso (twice), accidentally pressing the wrong syrup pump (who knew there were so many kinds of caramel?), and burning his hand on a mug that had no business being that hot, Stanley was officially benched in regards of hot drinks.

Fiddleford sighed heavily, grabbing Stan’s wrist and dragging him to the sink.

“Stick to cold drinks for now, Pines,” he said, running cool water over the burn and shaking his head.

Stan winced.

“I wasn’t that bad…”

“You burned yourself...twice"

“Sorry...”

Fiddleford groaned, massaging his temples.

“You are a hazard. A slightly charming one, but a hazard nonetheless.”

“Wait, charming?” Stan grinned through the pain. “You think I’m charming?”

“Shut up and hold your hand under the water.”

-----

For the next hour, everything was… fine. Calm. Manageable.

And then—
Standing just outside the entrance.

Was Stanford Pines.

Stanley froze mid-step, like a deer in the headlights.

(Panic mode: ACTIVATED.)

Fiddleford, catching his wide-eyed stare, followed his gaze. The blood drained from his face.

“Oh, hell.”

Stan’s brain short-circuited. He had maybe five seconds before Ford walked in.

“McGucket,” he hissed, voice low and wild. “I need somewhere to hide. Now.”

Without missing a beat, Fiddleford pushed him toward the kitchen.

“Go. Go!”

Stan didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted through the kitchen door just as the bell above the entrance jingled.

And as if that wasn’t enough—right behind Ford, trailing in with a smirk and zero shame, was Bill.

“Heya, Fidds!” Bill chirped, sauntering in like he owned the place. “Miss me?”

Fiddleford, still steadying his nerves, forced a smile that was far too tight.

“Bill. Ford. Didn’t expect y’all tonight.”

Ford adjusted his glasses, oblivious as ever.

“Thought I’d stop by for a coffee.”
Fiddleford swallowed.

“Right. The usual?”

“Yes. No sugar.”

“Got it.”

He turned toward the espresso machine, trying not to look like he was unraveling. But he could feel it—Bill’s eyes on him. Watching. Waiting.

“You okay there, Fidds?” Bill asked, head tilted in mock concern. “You look a little... tense.”

“I’m fine,” Fiddleford said too quickly and Bill’s grin widened.

“Mmm. You sure?”

Fiddleford shot him a flat look.

“Yes, I'm fine. Thanks for askin'.”

“Suuuure,” Bill purred, leaning against the counter like a cat who’d cornered a mouse.

Thankfully, Ford remained blissfully unaware. He accepted his coffee with a nod.

“Thanks, Fiddleford. See you around.”

“Take care,” Fiddleford managed and Ford turned toward the door. Relief began to settle.

But then—Bill lingered.

He glanced toward the kitchen. Right at the door Stanley was hiding behind.

Fiddleford’s stomach dropped.

Bill looked back at him and winked and—miraculously—said nothing. He turned and followed Ford out without a word.

The bell jingled overhead.

And they were gone.

A long beat passed. Then, slowly, Stanley peeked out from behind the kitchen door.

“They gone?”

Fiddleford exhaled, long and shaky.

“Yeah. They’re gone.”

Stan stepped out, running a hand through his hair.

“They almost gave me a heart attack.” Fiddleford said with a faint laugh.

“Yeah, well,” Stanley muttered, leaning on the counter. “Seeing Ford again after all these years? Not exactly good for my heart either.”

Fiddleford hesitated, arms folding.

“I never asked… what happened between you two?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. He took a quick breath, then stared at the floor for far too long before he spoke.

“We weren't on the same page, he had plans different from mine and—,” he said finally. “And by that, I mean I screwed up his life.”

Fiddleford frowned but stayed quiet. It was clear—Stan wasn’t used to talking about this.

“I was a disappointment. Always have been, but Ford wasn't. I'm just the screw-up brother who dragged him down,” His voice was low, rough. “ I cost him a scholarship and after that?… he cut me off. Didn’t want me around and I doubt he wants to see me again.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Stanley let out a bitter laugh.

“He told Bill, his literal boyfriend, that he only has one brother—Shermie. So yeah. I think it’s safe to say I’m not exactly welcome back.”

Fiddleford’s chest ached. Unsure of what to say. The silence that followed felt too heavy for the little café.

Eventually, Stanley pushed off the counter, slipping back into his usual smirk.

“Anyway, thanks for covering for me. You ever need me to take a bullet for you, just say the word.”

Fiddleford smiled faintly.

“No problem, Stanley.”

-----

After a long, exhausting shift, the café finally settled into silence.

Stanley let out a groan, rolling his shoulders with an audible crack.

“If I survive another day of this job, I’m demandin’ a raise.”

Fiddleford snorted from behind the counter.

“This is your third shift, and you’re already gettin’ free food, Pines. What more could you possibly want?”

Stan paused, squinting like he was giving it real thought.

“More free food?”

Fiddleford chuckled and tossed a rag his way.

“Wipe down the tables, smartass.”

Stan grumbled under his breath but shuffled off to obey, wiping crumbs off a nearby table.

Then the café door jingled.

A middle-aged woman stepped inside, brushing the rain off her coat. Her sandy blonde hair was tied back in a loose bun, and sharp green eyes immediately landed on the two of them and Fiddleford’s expression softened.

“Well, hey there, Ma. Didn’t expect you tonight.”

Stanley straightened instinctively. ‘So this was Fiddleford’s mom.’ He thought.

“I was runnin’ errands nearby,” she said, warm and familiar as she approached. “Figured I’d stop in before headin’ home. You boys holdin’ up alright?”

“Yeah,” Stanley muttered, cracking his back with a wince. “Though your son’s working me to death.” Stanley offered as a poor attempt to joke.
However Fiddleford’s mom did laugh, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Sounds about right.” She said before turning her full attention to Stanley, studying him more closely. “You must be Stanley,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Fiddleford’s told me a lot about you.”

Stan blinked.

“Uh. He has?”

Fiddleford rubbed the back of his neck, clearly trying not to look awkward.

“Nothin’ bad, I swear.”

“Only good things,” his mom confirmed with a kind smile. “Said you were a hard worker—though maybe a bit of a whiner.”

“Wow. Real nice.” Stan shot Fiddleford a betrayed look and Fiddleford just laughed.

“You were complainin’ not five seconds ago!”

His mom chuckled, then clasped her hands together.

“Anyway, I was thinkin’—since y’all are workin’ together, and since I don’t like strangers workin’ in my café...” She gave Stanley a look that was both warm and firm. “How ‘bout you come over for dinner tomorrow?”

Stan’s brain stalled.

Surely this was a joke. But neither Fiddleford nor his mom were laughing.

It was just... a genuine offer. Plain and simple.

And that? That threw him.

This was normal.

And “normal” wasn’t something Stanley Pines had much of anymore.

The last time he sat down for a family dinner, he’d been seventeen. Ford had gone on about his latest invention that would set his future right, angling it for West Coast Tech. Their father had nodded along, then turned to Stanley and asked if he’d finally start learning something from his brother.

Since then?

Most of his meals were gas station sandwiches, greasy diner plates, or on the worst days—nothing at all.

So now, when this stranger—this warm, no-nonsense woman—invited him like it was the most natural thing in the world...

Stan didn’t know what to say.

His instinct was to say ‘no’. Make up some excuse. Avoid the awkwardness. But then he looked at Fiddleford.
He wasn’t pressuring. Just... waiting.

Quiet. Maybe even hopeful.

And somehow, that made it harder to turn down.

"You sure?" Stanley asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I—"

“Of course I’m sure,” she said firmly, waving off his doubt. “Ain’t no reason to be eatin’ alone when there’s room at the table.”

Stanley opened his mouth, then closed it again.

His gut still screamed ‘no’.

But for once… he ignored it. He sighed before he spoke.

“Alright, alright. Guess I can stop by.”

Fiddleford’s mom beamed.

“Wonderful! I'll come pick you two up after your shift tomorrow.” The woman said and Fiddleford, very poorly hiding a grin, nudged his arm.

“Looks like you’re officially part of the family now, Pines.”

Stan rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, McGucket.”

And just like that—

Stanley Pines had accidentally agreed to a family dinner.

Chapter Text

The café was closed. It had been an uneventful day, and Stanley was grateful it hadn’t been nearly as hectic as the last one. His legs still ached, and his back had seen better days. His mind quickly went back to the task at hand as he felt some drops of water splash and cling to his pants.

The whole place smelled like lemon cleaner—he might’ve overdone it with the mop, and now the sharp scent was clinging to the back of his throat.

“Hey, Fiddleford. How long until Ms. McGucket swings by?” Stanley asked as he kept on mopping the floor.

Fiddleford, crouched near the cupboard and organizing supplies, let out a laugh.

“You don’t have to be all formal. You can call her by her first name, y’know?” He said casually and Stanley went quiet. Fiddleford waited for a reponse, then peeked out at him. “Wait—you don’t know her name, do you?”

“You never told me!” Stanley said, flustered.

“I did!”

“No, you didn’t! I would remember.”

“I’ve got a great memory, Pines,” Fiddleford replied, standing up and dusting off his hands. “And I’m pretty sure I was tellin’ you all about my family the other day—unlike someone who refuses to let any information out.”

“I just like to keep things private,” Stanley shot back. “Ain’t my fault you like being an open book.”

Fiddleford laughed—a full, genuine laugh that caught Stanley off guard.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford began, pausing for a moment “I just enjoy chatting with you. I ain't much of a talker either.”

“Is that so?” and for some reason, there was a hopeful glimmer in Stanley’s eyes.

But before Fiddleford could answer, the door chimed.

His mother—whose name, Stanley would soon find out, was Loraine—stepped into the café.

The door swung as Loraine stepped inside. Her eyes flicked from the mop bucket near the counter to the mop in Stanley’s hand.

“Well, looks like y’all’ve been busy,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. Fiddleford straightened up with a grin.

“Just tryin’ to keep the place neat, Ma.”

“You mean makin’ your new coworker do all the heavy liftin’ while you organize sugar packets?” She shot back and Stanley let out a short laugh. She then turned her attention to Stanley. “You hangin’ in there, hon?”

“Barely,” he replied with mock seriousness. “I think your son’s trying to kill me with lemon cleaner.”

“I can smell it from the parking lot,” she said, crinkling her nose.

“But he was the one who set the cleaning supplies!” Fiddleford protested and his mother just ignored him.

“Stanley, don’t let him bully you into over-moppin’. He once made a floor so slippery I nearly broke my tailbone with the fall.”

“Oh, that was only one time!” Fiddleford protested again and this time his mother listened.

“One time too many,” she said, already turning her back to the entrance of the café “Now, y’all ready? Dinner’s just about finished and I don’t like lettin’ it get cold.”

Fiddleford nodded and tossed his rag onto the counter.

“Yeah, we’re just about done here.”

Stanley hesitated for half a second, eyes flicking toward the door, then back at Loraine.

“You sure I’m not… y’know, intruding?” he asked, voice low and Loraine raised an eyebrow, her expression softening.

“You’re not intrudin’,” she said firmly. “You’re invited. That makes you family for the night, at the very least.” She said with a reassuring voice and Fiddleford gave Stanley a gentle nudge with his elbow.

“Come on, Pines. She’s already made enough food for six people, it would be a shame to let it go to waste.”

Stanley glanced between the two McGuckets, then let out a quiet sigh and offered a crooked smile.

“Alright. Guess I can tag along.”

“Good,” Loraine said, already turning for the door. “Because I made some peach cobbler, and if you’d said no, I’d’ve taken it personally.” She said as she glanced one last time at Stanley and Fiddleford leaned in to whisper.

“She is not joking.” He said and Stanley chuckled as he grabbed his jacket and followed them out into the cool night air.

-----

The McGucket house was smaller than Stanley expected, but warm and comfortable. The kind of place that felt lived in.

The scent of home-cooked food filled the air as they sat at the dinner table—Stanley awkwardly taking a seat across from Fiddleford while his mom set the last dish down.

“Alright, boys,” she said, settling into her chair. “Dig in before it gets cold.”

Stanley, not needing to be told twice, grabbed a serving of roasted chicken and mashed potatoes.

“So, Stanley,” Loraine began, scooping some rice onto her plate, “how you likin’ the café so far?”

Stanley paused mid-bite.

“Uh—” He swallowed. “it’s… busy.”

Fiddleford snorted.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“But you’re holdin’ up alright?” Loraine pressed, clearly trying to be polite.

Stanley hesitated. He wasn’t used to people caring how he was doing—especially not people who barely knew him.

After a moment, he just shrugged.

“Yeah. It’s not bad at all, everything's fine.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” she said, smiling. “Fiddleford always says he is quite busy with the café, so it’s nice he’s got someone helpin’ him now. He is quite fond of your presence.”

Stanley glanced at Fiddleford who nearly choked on his mashed potatoes after his mother had spoke. He quickly drank some water and was now pointedly focused on his plate, not lifting his face.

As they continued eating, Stanley found himself glancing around. The house was quiet—quieter than he expected. Fiddleford had told him he had siblings. But looking around…

It didn’t feel like a house full of people, but it sure looked lived in.

“So, uh…” Stanley gestured vaguely to the empty space around them. “Where’s the rest of the McGuckets? Thought you had a big family.”

Fiddleford’s mom nodded, taking a sip of her iced tea.

“Oh, I do. Fiddleford’s the youngest. His brothers and sisters all moved out over the years—jobs, marriages, you know how it is.”

Stanley blinked.

“Wait. He’s the youngest?”

“What, is that so hard to believe?” Fiddleford asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Kinda,” Stan admitted. “You act like an old man sometimes.” Stanley said and Fiddleford kicked him under the table.

“Gee thanks” Fiddleford muttered which made Stanley laugh.

“Yeah, he’s always been an old soul, my boy.” Loraine said with a brief laugh “What about you, Stanley?” she asked. “Got anything to say about your family?”

Stanley froze.

For a brief second, he considered lying. Just brushing it off. Instead, he just shrugged and set with a:

“Ain’t much to say.”

Fiddleford’s mom raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying that

“Oh, come on. Everyone’s got somethin’ to say about their family.”'

“Not me,” Stanley said simply, keeping his eyes on his plate. Fiddleford shot him a quick glance but didn’t push. Stanley thought that was the end of it.

But then—

“What about your brother?”

Stanley stiffened.

Slowly, he looked up—eyes immediately locking onto Fiddleford. He hadn’t expected Fiddleford to tell his mom about that.

Fiddleford, sensing the shift in mood, rubbed the back of his neck.

“Uh—” Fiddleford began, ready to finish this before it started, however, his mom, not noticing Stanley’s sudden tension, kept talking.

“Fiddleford has told me all about Ford, and he is quite a character! Must've been quite interesting to grow up along him.”

Stanley exhaled sharply.

He flicked his gaze back to his plate, stabbing at his mashed potatoes.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “Fiddleford says a lot of things, apparently.”

The warmth in his voice was gone and Loraine finally seemed to notice something was off.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t mean to pry—”

“It’s fine,” Stanley cut in quickly. A little too quickly.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, without looking up, Stanley grabbed another bite of chicken and shoved it in his mouth—clearly done with this conversation.

Fiddleford sighed but didn’t say anything. His mom, frowning slightly, took a sip of her tea.

Stanley just focused on eating.

Because if he didn’t—

He might say something he’d regret.

-----

The conversation never quite recovered after the mention of Ford.

Loraine had tried to steer things toward lighter topics, and Fiddleford himself had kept things casual, but Stanley’s responses had been shorter. Less engaged.

By the time they finished eating, Stanley had quietly pushed back his chair.

“Well,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket, “guess I oughta be heading back to—”

He stopped.

Just stopped.

Because he had nowhere to finish that sentence.

His gut told him to say “back home”—but he didn’t have one.

He could say “back to the motel”—but even that wasn’t guaranteed. He hadn’t paid for another night yet.

And he sure as hell wasn’t about to admit that he regularly slept in his car.

So instead, he just let the sentence die.
And of course, Fiddleford noticed.

Stanley could feel the eyes on him, could feel the gears turning in Fiddleford’s head before he even spoke.

“It’s rainin’ pretty hard,” Fiddleford said, voice light. “I can give you a ride if ya want.”

Stanley bristled immediately.

“I can walk.” Stanley replied quickly, making Fiddleford hesitate before speaking again.

“Yeah, but it’s cold out too and—”

Stanley clenched his jaw, already hating where this was going.

“Perhaps you can stay, we have a room available—”

“I’m not some charity case, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford—to his credit—didn’t flinch. He just exhaled through his nose, hands awkwardly being stuffed in his pockets.

“I don’t think of you like that.”

“Yeah? You sure about that?” Stanley muttered, yanking on his jacket.

Fiddleford leaned forward slightly, voice even.

“Stanley, I’m just offerin’ you a warm place to stay since it's raining. Ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

Stanley hated how calm Fiddleford was. Hated how it made him feel like he was the one making this into a thing.

He shook his head.

“I don’t need your pity.”

Fiddleford frowned.

“It ain’t pity, it’s—”

“Just drop it, alright?”

Silence.

Loraine, who had been listening to everything, shifted slightly in her chair, clearly uncomfortable.

Stanley let out a sharp breath and turned toward the door.

“Thanks for the dinner, ma’am.”

His voice was too stiff. Too formal.

Then he left.

And Fiddleford, just let him.

Chapter Text

The light from the street lamps slanted through the café windows as Fiddleford wiped down the espresso machine. He’d arrived early—too early—hoping for a chance to organize everything before Stanley even set foot in the café.

But instead of doing that, he found himself replaying last night’s dinner in his head. Over and over as he mentally cursed himself for talking so much.

A soft chime at the door took Fiddleford out of his head. In stepped Stanley—hair damp from the drizzle, eyes meeting Fiddleford’s before flicking away and settling on the counter.

“Hello” Fiddleford ventured, voice gentle.

“Hello” Stanley said back with a light smile, the one that became a habit since meeting Fiddleford.

Speaking of habits, Stanley had a habit of ignoring his problems, and this was no different. By the time he had pushed open the café doors, he had already decided that last night didn’t matter.

The rain. The awkward dinner. The “fight”.

Didn’t matter.

At all.

Wasn’t important.

All that mattered was work.

He forced himself to act normal, shaking off the stiffness in his limbs from spending another night in his damn car.

---

The rest of the shift passed in silence, the usual banter completely absent between them. Stanley kept his head down, focusing on the tasks at hand.

The coffee machine hummed, the cash register beeped, and the scent of fresh brews filled the air, as the silence between them felt heavier by the second.

Stanley tried not to let it get to him. He was used to silence. He was used to isolation, honestly, but this… this felt different.

Fiddleford, who always had something to say at any given moment, was now a quiet presence across the counter, merely going through the motions.

As the café slowed down for a brief lull, Fiddleford finally took a seat by the counter, leaning back in his chair, and glancing up at Stanley who was cleaning the back counter.

“Hey,” Fiddleford called softly, breaking the silence for the first time in hours. “You want a coffee?”

Stanley didn't get to reply, Fiddleford had already stood up from his seat and prepared some coffee, setting it down in front of Stanley, a little quieter than usual.

There was no joking tone, no “hope this fixes your mood,” just a simple offering.
Stanley hesitated, his fingers brushing the edge of the cup.

He accepted it without a word, but the gesture caught him off guard for some reason. It wasn’t the first time they had a coffee in work hours—or after.

But it was the first time there was no quip or joke.

Fiddleford watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Look, I…”

Stanley’s gaze lifted, locking onto him, expecting something but unsure of what exactly.

Fiddleford’s voice was low, as if he wasn’t sure if the words were coming out right.

“I’m sorry about… last night,” Fiddleford said, his eyes fixed on the counter. The words came out heavier than he expected. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that or like I was thinking less of you. I just… didn’t expect my mom to say all that—” He faltered, struggling with the next part. “I was just trying to look out for you. I care about you and—”

The sentence trailed off. He let it hang there, unable to find a version that didn’t sound like he was pushing too hard. Stanley already had enough on his plate—not in the desired way though—and Fiddleford wasn’t about to add more.

“It’s fine,” Stanley muttered, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at him. He took a sip of coffee to hide behind. “I probably overreacted. Could’ve handled it better. Doesn’t matter now.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I said it doesn’t matter.” Stanley cut in quickly, tone clipped and with a hint of coldness.

Fiddleford bit down the rest of his words. There was nothing else to say. He nodded instead, the silence between them thick and clumsy. He’d apologized, but somehow the air felt even heavier than before. Maybe that was just his anxiety talking.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll take your word for it.” He stood up and started untying his apron.

The café would be closing soon. He should stay and finish cleaning, let Stanley clock out early. The man deserved a break—just a little one—and—

“Hello Fidds! And greetings to you too, Mr. Mystery Twin!”

So much for the second of peace.

Fiddleford sighed and started tying his apron back on.

“Bill, right now I am not in the mood for your games.” He then realized what the presence of Bill meant and he scanned the café instinctively. “Wait—where’s Ford? Is he with you?” He asked with slight panic, looking for Stanley who was already setting foot to the back of the café.

“Nope! Just me!” Bill chirped as he plopped into the exact seat Stanley had vacated seconds ago. “So, Fidds, how about whipping something up for your favorite customer?”

“Is that how you ask for things?” Fiddleford asked flatly, already frowning, to which Bill rolled his eyes.

“Just get me a drink, Fidds.”

He kicked his feet up on the table and Stanley shot him a quick glare.

“This ain’t a bar, Cipher,” Stanley snapped. “And get your damn feet off the table—I just cleaned that!” Bill just sighed, rolling his eyes again.

“Ugh, you’ve got the same temper as your brother,” Bill grumbled, which made Stanley's eyebrow twitch.

“Speaking of Ford,” Fiddleford said as he turned to grab a cup, “why isn’t he with you?”

“He decided to stay at the dorms and study late,” Bill mumbled.

“Oh? Really?” Fiddleford asked with a teasing lilt. “And how come you’re not there pestering him? Pretty sure he’s missing his little lapdog.” He slid a frappe across the counter toward Bill with a smirk, who frowned in return.

“We had a fight,” Bill said plainly.

“You two? Now that’s new,” Fiddleford said, sarcasm tied to every word “What’d you do this time?”

“I asked about Mr. Mystery over here,” Bill replied, jerking his thumb toward Stanley, who was cleaning a table, pretending not to hear until that comment landed directly to him.

He turned, frowning as he moved closer, slow and deliberate.

“I told you not to mention me to him.”

Bill didn’t flinch, his grin didn't even falter, not even when Stanley grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“What did you say to him?” Stanley asked, voice low, already bristling.

Fiddleford sighed, rubbing at his temple.

“Relax, Lee,” Bill said, dragging out the nickname like it was some inside joke. “I didn’t tell him anything. Just got a little curious, did some snooping, and found this.”

He fished a folded photo from his jacket pocket and held it up—an old picture of two boys, younger versions of Ford and someone else—of him.

Ford still kept pictures of him, or at least one, it seems.

Stanley’s grip loosened as his eyes landed on the image.

“He didn’t exactly appreciate me digging through his things,” Bill added with a smirk. “So he kicked me out of the dorm. Real dramatic stuff.”

He tucked the photo away again, like it was nothing.

Fiddleford stayed quiet, watching both of them.

Bill leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table.

“Now tell me, Mr. Mystery—what did you do to make Fordsy that mad? I mean, he won’t even say your name. That’s got to be good and I live for the drama!” Bill said with that grin Stanley wanted to remove from his face.

Instead, he let go of Bill’s shirt and stepped back. Without another word, he turned and walked out of the café.

“Bill, what the hell is wrong with you?!” Fiddleford snapped, already moving from behind the counter.

“I just asked a question!” Bill said, unfazed.

“You’re an idiot,” Fiddleford muttered, grabbing his jacket. The door was already swinging shut behind Stanley.

He’d let Stanley walk off alone in the rain once.

But he wasn’t going to be a fool once more, he wasn't going to let it happen, not anymore.

Chapter Text

The café door slammed shut behind him. Fiddleford didn’t even think, he just ran.

“Stanley!” he called out into the street, eyes darting through the light drizzle that had started while they were inside. He spotted him, storming off down the sidewalk, jacket barely able to withstand the cold of such night, and his posture rigid with anger.

“Stanley, wait!” Fiddleford called again, catching up despite the rain soaking him up.

Stanley stopped just long enough to spin around, his eyes wild with something between rage and pain.

“What?!”

Fiddleford hesitated, panting.

“You can't just leave like that!” Fiddleford yelled and Stanley didn’t even blink.

“I can and I will. I quit!” The man shouted back

“What—?”

“You heard me! I quit—I can’t stand to be in this town one more second!” he snapped, voice cracking as thunder rumbled far off in the distance and Fiddleford’s breath caught.

Stanley turned away again, walking faster now.

Fiddleford stumbled after him, the rain starting to pick up.

“Where are you even going?!”

“Somewhere else!”

“That’s not an answer, Stanley!” Fiddleford said exasperated, walking faster while trying not to slip.

“I don’t owe you one!” Stanley shouted, not turning around. “I’m done!”

“You don’t even have money for gas!”

“I’ll rob someone,” Stanley said flatly, not missing a beat. Fiddleford stopped dead in his tracks for a second before continuing walking.

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“You’re being ridiculous!”

The rain was now streaking down his face, soaking into both their clothes. Fiddleford rushed forward, grabbing Stanley’s arm.

“Stop—just stop.” He pleaded and Stanley wrenched his arm away.

“Why? So you can try and fix me? Treat me like some charity case who just needs a little kindness and a hot meal?”

“That’s not what I—”

“I’m not your goddamn project, Fiddleford!”

“I know that!” Fiddleford shouted over the downpour. “You think I don’t know that?! I don't know what you’ve been through, but I know you’re hurting—and you can’t just run from everything that scares you!”

Stanley turned slowly, rain dripping off his nose and brow.

“You really think I’m scared?” he asked, voice low.

“I think you’re terrified,” Fiddleford said, softer now. “And I think if you leave tonight, you’ll regret it.”

Stanley looked at Fiddleford, but it only lasted a second before he turned his gaze away.

“I regret a lot of stuff, what's one more to the list?”

The wind howled between them, the rain nearly sideways now and Fiddleford's sanity was hanging by a thread, so he didn't even consider the next words that came out, almost as loud as thunder.

“But—WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!” Fiddleford suddenly shouted, voice raw, nearly cracking under the weight of his own helplessness.

“Like what?!” Stanley asked, clearly enraged.

“So goddamn stubborn! You think you can do everything by yourself! And maybe you can but—” Fiddleford stepped forward, close enough now that he could see the rain slicked down Stanley’s lashes, could see the way his jaw tensed beneath it all. “Just let me help you, Stanley,” he pleaded once again.

But Stanley flinched back like the words themselves burned.

“You can’t help me,” he said, voice low, bitter. “No one can.” and Fiddleford’s heart cracked clean down the center.

The rain was relentless, soaking him to the bone, but it didn’t matter.

“Please,” he said again, this time gentler. “Don’t go out in the rain right now. It’s too cold. You’ll get sick—pneumonia at this rate and—”

“I could die for all that I care,” Stanley whispered but Fiddleford caught it, and that was it. That broke him.
Fiddleford stood there, frozen, the words echoing in his head like the rain. His hands trembled at his sides. Part of him wanted to sink into the pavement and never get up.

But the bigger part—the stupid part—wasn’t done fighting.

He stepped forward suddenly and grabbed Stanley by the front of his soaked jacket.

“Hey—! What the hell?! Let me go!” Stanley barked, trying to twist away.

“No!” Fiddleford shouted, tears blurring into the rain. “You are coming with me! I don’t want you dead!”

That stopped Stanley. Like a slap.
His entire body went still, arm half-lifted in protest, eyes wide.

“I don’t want you dead, Stanley” Fiddleford repeated, quieter this time. “I want you here.” ‘With me’ he thought' but didn't add “Safe.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and Stanley just stared at him, rain slipping down both their faces like silent punctuation. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. The fight had gone out of him, just for a moment.

And Fiddleford, still holding the front of his jacket in shaking fists, didn’t let go.

Stanley didn’t say a word as Fiddleford dragged him back toward the café, soaked clothes clinging to his body like guilt. He didn’t fight, not really, just let himself be pulled, grumbling under his breath but never pulling hard enough to break free. Fiddleford’s grip on his jacket was tight and shaking, and Stanley knew the only way to get him off now, would’ve been to push him hard enough that it might cause some damage.

And he didn’t want to do that. Not to him.

The café bell chimed as they entered, rain still slashing at the windows behind them.

“Well, that was quick.” Bill sat perched on one of the chairs, still perfectly dry, spinning the straw from his frappe between his fingers. “So… did you two get over whatever lover’s quarrel that was? Are you going to fill me in on the juicy details?”

Without a word, Fiddleford snatched the umbrella leaning beside the door and threw it at him. Bill ducked just in time and with a dramatic shriek.

“Out!” Fiddleford barked, pointing toward the door “And don’t come back tonight.”

Bill looked caught off guard for a second, then he recovered and in one swift motion he picked up the umbrella and gave a low whistle.

“Yeesh. Fine. No need to get your panties in a twist.” he said, looking over his shoulder as he left, and the door slammed shut behind him, courtesy of an angered Fiddleford.

The silence afterward was thick. Only the patter of rain and the distant hum of the espresso machine remained.

“Sit,” Fiddleford said sharply while gesturing towards one of the seats, already moving to the back.

Stanley hovered awkwardly near the counter, dripping onto the tile but did just as told. When Fiddleford returned, he had a small cloth towel in hand.

“Stay still,” he muttered, stepping close and throwing the towel up over Stanley’s head.

The sensation was immediate and jarring, soft cotton dragging over wet hair, a sharp contrast to the icy rain outside and even more so as Fiddleford’s hands moved quickly, not harsh, but purposeful. He scrubbed gently at Stanley’s scalp, pushing the towel down the sides of his face, around the nape of his neck, then back up again.

“There,” he huffed between movements, “some of us know how not to catch our death in the middle of a storm, you mule-headed, pride-poisoned—”

“Hey—!”

“No! No talking. I’m not done with you yet.”

Fiddleford threw the towel over Stanley’s head like a bonnet, then continued with slower, more deliberate motions, rubbing carefully at the strands now falling back into place.

“I know you wanna get by on your own. I get it. But you don’t have to—hell, you shouldn’t have to. You need people, Stanley. Whether you like it or not. Whether you think you deserve it or not.”

He paused, breath catching in his chest.

“I’m not just gonna stand by and watch you destroy yourself just to prove a point. That’s not strength, Stan. That’s—” he exhaled shakily, “That’s just suicide in slow motion.”

Fiddleford finally lifted the towel from Stanley’s head.

And then he saw it.

Stanley’s eyes were downcast, shoulders stiff, fists clenched at his sides, but his cheeks were wet. Not from the rain.

Tears slipped down silently, one after another, as if he didn’t even notice them.

Fiddleford’s voice faltered. His own eyes went wide with guilt.

“Oh—Stan, I didn’t mean—God, I’m sorry, I was being too harsh, I—”

Stanley shook his head once, but said nothing.

“I just… I care about you,” Fiddleford whispered, voice barely audible now. “You—” He floundered for a word, anything solid enough to mean something and safe enough not to terrify either of them.

“You’re my friend,” he said finally. Quiet. Honest.

The café lights flickered slightly as the storm raged on outside. Inside, it was warm again. Small. Still. There was no cold biting their hands, but drops still fell to the floor.

Stanley sniffled and wiped at his face with the corner of the towel, eyes red but no longer wide with rage or fear, and Fiddleford just stood there with damp hair, still holding the towel, still close enough to feel the heat of Stanley’s skin.

Stanley didn’t speak right away. He just stared at nothing in particular, jaw tense, lips parted like the words might come if he waited long enough. The rain tapped against the café windows like impatient fingers, and somewhere behind them, the espresso machine clicked into silence.

“I just…” he started, then swallowed. “I just want some goddamn peace. Even if just for a minute.”

His voice was rough around the edges, not angry—tired.

“No matter where I go, there’s always something wrong. Always running short on luck and money, people asking too questions, pitying me or…” He trailed off, shaking his head, water flinging from the tips of his curls. “I don’t wanna leave. I like the job and I...” He glanced up, a little sheepish now. “You’re not bad company, Fidds.”

Fiddleford blinked once, he then cracked a small smile and hugged him.

He didn’t think about it, didn’t warn him, just stepped in and wrapped his arms around Stanley’s cold, tense frame, towel slipping to the floor.

Fiddleford held on anyway, while Stanley remained there, stiff at first, but didn’t pull away.

Fiddleford didn’t have any answers. Nothing he could say would make the ache go away. So he didn’t say anything. He just held Stanley tighter, hoping it’d be enough for now.

Then, after a quiet beat, Fiddleford mumbled.

“So… uh… do you wanna stay at my place? Perhaps have a warm bath so you don't catch a cold or—”

Stanley let out a shaky laugh—short, wet, almost disbelieving.

“Are you seriously trying that again?”

“Doesn’t hurt to.” Fiddleford muttered sheepishly and Stanley exhaled, a sound like surrender.

“Yeah. Yeah, whatever,” Stanley replied, rolling his eyes while at it.

“Is that a yes?” Fiddleford asked tentatively, almost scared of the reply.

“I mean, I'm not opposed to the idea of a warm bath,” Stanley replied as he stood up, picking up the towel and drying himself a bit more “I hope your car is near, don't want to catch a cold” he said with a smile that Fiddleford returned. Perhaps a bit too enthusiastic.

The rain kept falling, but inside, everything was calm.

Even if only for a moment, there was peace.

Chapter Text

The car ride was quiet. Too quiet.

Fiddleford gave Stanley a quick glance before he gripped the steering wheel tighter than usual, his knuckles pale against the leather while his hands were sweating.

To break the silence —or maybe just to do something— Fiddleford reached for the radio. He fidgeted with the nub, flipping through stations like it might save them from the stillness. Each click offered static, half-swallowed commercials, or screeching fragments of songs lost to the storm outside.

The rain still tapped steadily against the windshield, the wipers squeaking with every tired pass. Nothing stuck, and the café was long forgotten on the road.

“Stupid storm,” he muttered under his breath, turning the nub again.

Nothing.
Another turn. Static.

And another.

Fiddleford sighed and turned the radio off, there was no use to keep trying. He gave Stanley a quick glance, who stared out the window, eyes catching on the way the streetlights blurred through the water.

Stanley, meanwhile, was trying not to breathe too loud. He’d been in cars with strangers before —though Fiddleford wasn't a stranger— dealers, lowlifes, the kind of people who didn’t talk unless something went wrong, so the silence should be comforting.

But it wasn't.

His hand reached for the end of his jacket pulling lightly at the loose threads. This should’ve been easy. A ride with a friend. A warm place to stay.

But he was still chewing on the inside of his cheek like something was about to go wrong, because it always did, didn’t it? He’d ruined good things before, and this...this felt like it could be one of those good things.

And that was the problem.

Fiddleford glanced at him, just once —or at least that's what Stanley had caught— and met his gaze, but neither of them said anything.

Stanley raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting, for what? he didn’t even know. Fiddleford opened his mouth like he was about to say something.

Then promptly shut it and stared hard at the road again. Tight grip on the wheel. Jaw clenched like he was holding back a thousand thoughts.

Stanley exhaled softly through his nose, trying to steady his heart. He cleared his throat, ready to break the silence.

“Is...is Ms. McGucket home? I think I owe her an apology…” Stanley said, not tearing his gaze away from the window.

Fiddleford blinked, then shook his head.

“No, she’s stayin’ over at my sister’s place.”

“Oh. Okay.” Was all that Stanley said.

There was a small silence as the rain kept tapping. A light and small pause that felt like ages. Fiddleford couldn't help but blurt out the first thing that came to his mind.

“She is movin’.” He began his sentence and let a second pass before adding further context “My sister—not my mom. My mom still lives here. She’s just helpin’ my sister pack and settle in and— Well you know how it is, movin' and all that it's tiring and—” He caught Stanley’s puzzled look and cut himself off. “I should probably just shut up.”

Stanley let out a small chuckle, but didn't say much, focusing once again on the raindrops that ran down the window. His leg bounced slightly. He was trying not to panic, even though he kept reminding himself everything would be okay

‘Okay,’ Stanley told himself. ‘Relax. You’re just going to his house. For a warm bath. That’s it. Nothing weird. No deals, no fake names. Just a bath. You’re fine.’

‘Fiddleford is your friend. He’s nice and kind. He is not going to rob you blind in the middle of the night or harvest your organs or whatever the hell your brain thinks is going to happen—’

‘Wait—wallet.’

Stanley patted his jacket

‘Left pocket. Okay.’

His train of thoughts took a stop once the car rolled in the driveway of a home he recognized, and Stanley’s throat tightened at the sight of the porch light glowing warm through the downpour.

The house looked like it belonged in a different world entirely. One with casseroles and folded laundry, where the air always smelled like vanilla from candles being lit.

And he already knew his previous statement was true. He had been there, and the warmth of such an awfully familiar and cozy place clung to him.

“Here we are,” Fiddleford said, as if that wasn’t obvious.

Stanley just nodded stiffly as Fiddleford stepped out first, jogged up to the door, keys jangling. Stanley followed slower, jacket collar and hood pulled up to protect against the rain. His old shoes squelched with every step, trying to keep the rising panic from showing. Why was this scarier than dealing with cops?

At the door, Fiddleford cursed under his breath, fumbling with the keys, trying to find the right one. Stanley hovered behind, pretending not to notice how his hands trembled.

Finally, the lock gave with a soft ‘click’.

The door creaked open and that warmth rushed out to greet them. Stanley stepped inside, his body tensing instinctively, then slowly easing, breath catching in his throat.

Nothing bad. No threats.

Just… home.

Not his though, he had to remind himself.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the rain and stopping Stanley's thoughts from spiraling. He lingered near the entry, dripping quietly onto the floor, unsure what to do with his hands, or existence for that matter.

He cleared his throat, eyes avoiding everything that looked too lived in.

“Where’s the bathroom?” He asked and Fiddleford nodded down the hall.

“First door on the left. Towels are under the sink. Take your time.” Fiddleford replied as he removed his shoes.

“Thanks,” Stanley said as he trudged off. He was more than ready to take off the clothes that clung to his skin so uncomfortably.

He opened the door, and the bathroom light buzzed softly as he flicked the switch. Warm yellow filled the small space, bouncing off faded tiles and a mirror that looked a little too clean.

Stan locked the door behind him, then stared into the mirror.

His hair was a mess, more tangle than curl, and more curl than shape. There was a red mark blooming across his cheek from where he’d been wiping away rain with his sleeve, and to top it all off, his eye bags were more prominent from the terrible sleep he had yesterday.

He looked like a mess.

He ran a hand through his curls and water dripped down his neck. He leaned in, watching himself like he might find someone else underneath, but it was just him.

Just… that guy with too much baggage and too little luck.

He scoffed, taking pity on himself wasn't in his plans, but a warm bath was.

He removed his clothes and turned on the shower, letting the hot water hit him. At first it stung —burned even—but he didn’t care. He leaned into it. Let it soak into his skin, crawl through his muscles, and let the ache fade.

For a few perfect minutes, he forgot everything. The café. The storm. The look on Fiddleford’s face when he said ‘I don’t want you dead!’

Nope! That look was definitely not ingrained in his brain forever!

Eventually, reluctantly, he stepped out. He took a towel out, it was soft, unreasonably so, or perhaps his standards had lowered from using all those cheap stained towels from the motels.

Stanley dried his hair slowly, ruffling it into some kind of submission, then stood in front of the mirror again, and frowned.

Because he couldn’t wear those clothes again. Not the rain-soaked, sour-smelling, and guilt-stained outfit he’d walked in with.

His shirt was still damp and his jeans were freezing to the touch.

“Great,” he muttered.

He glanced around for anything usable. Nothing. Of course not.

He cursed under his breath, then rubbed his face with both hands and considered slamming his head against the tile.

It was fine. He’d ask for some clothes. He just had to ask. That wasn’t hard. He wasn’t twelve. He could—

“Stanley?” came Fiddleford’s voice through the door, muffled and hesitant. “Everything alright in there? You’ve been in there for like… forty minutes.”

Stanley flinched. Forty?! Was that even possible?

He scrambled for an answer, voice caught somewhere in his throat.

“Uh—I don't—”

“What was that?” Fiddleford called again, a little louder. “Didn’t catch that.”

Stanley inhaled sharply. Thought about slamming his head against the tile once again, or the door perhaps. It didn't matter, he just wanted to slam his head against something. He then considered death but chose the next-worst option: swallowing his pride.

“…Clothes,” he muttered.

A pause.

“What?”

Stanley bit down on a curse. Louder this time.

“I need clothes.”

Silence.
Then—

“O-Oh!” Fiddleford’s voice cracked. “Oh shoot, I—uh—hang on!” On the other side of the door, there was a loud shuffle, followed by the sound of someone bumping into furniture. Then a thud and an awfully long silence.

Stanley wrapped the towel tighter around his waist and stared at the door.

----

The hallway felt longer than it had ever been, the walls closer.

He’d brought Stanley home in the rain. Let him use the shower, and of course —of course— he hadn’t thought about clothes. About the fact that Stanley had nothing dry. That he was probably standing on the other side of that door with just a towel and nothing else and—
His face lit up like a stove burner.

‘Okay okay okay get a grip, McGucket.’

He backed away from the door like it had suddenly become a hazard. The air felt hot.

Stanley was in his bathroom. That was not something he needed to be thinking about. At all.

He yanked open the drawers of his clothing drawer. What even fits Stanley? His own shirts were definitely smaller, but, maybe something stretchy? Where are his baggy sweatpants? Oh god not the pair with the hole—

He cursed himself for taking all the good clothes to his dorm.

Stupid stupid stupid.

Eventually, and through his panicked state, he cobbled together a decently folded stack, oversized sweatpants, an old T-shirt with a nerdy slogan, and socks.

He cursed his taste in clothes. Why did all his comfy shirts had to be...like this!

‘there are only 10 kind of people in the world, does who understand binary and those who don't’ could be read on the shirt.

He tried to swallow down his shame and hoped Stanley caught the joke on the t-shirt or at least didn't ask about it.

He nearly tripped over his own feet getting back to the hallway.

“I’m gonna leave the clothes outside the door!” he called out, voice trembling despite himself.

He set the clothes gently on the floor, took two steps back and stared at the door.

His ears were burning. He could picture it too well: Stanley, towel slung low, water dripping from his shoulders, rubbing at his hair with one hand while wondering what the hell was taking so long with the clothes. And Fiddleford—dear Lord above, Fiddleford stop imagining that.

He nearly slapped himself and turned sharply on his heel, power-walking into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water he didn't even want.

His hands trembled slightly as he gripped the glass.

‘Just a friend,’ he told himself. ‘You’re just helping a friend.’

Right.

----

Stanley opened the door a crack once the footsteps retreated, finding a small stack of clothes folded in front of him. A worn T-shirt, some sweatpants with a band logo he didn’t recognize, and a pair of socks that didn’t match. He grabbed them quickly and retreated to the bathroom.

Inside, he held the shirt up, reading the faded text: ‘there are only 10 kind of people in the world, does who understand binary and those who don't’

He snorted. “Goddamn nerd.”

Still, he put it on.

And somehow, it felt warmer than anything he’d worn in weeks.

Eventually the bathroom door opened again, and Stanley stepped out, towel still draped around his neck and damp curls slightly tousled. He was dressed now, in Fiddleford’s old clothes nonetheless.

The sweatpants were a little tight, and the faded graphic T-shirt hung slightly off his shoulder.

Fiddleford looked up from the counter, and promptly forgot how breathing worked.

‘Oh no. No. Not fair. This is not allowed.’

He swallowed hard. There was absolutely no reason for his brain to short-circuit over the sight of some damp guy in his clothes. Except this wasn't just some guy, it was Stanley.

Stanley, with his tired eyes and loose curls, looking like he’d just stepped out of some devastating and insufferable indie film.

Fiddleford choked slightly on his own tongue.

“Your clothes,” he blurted without thinking.

Stanley gave him a look.

“What about them? You picked them.”

“I meant—the other ones. The wet ones,” Fiddleford said, a quick save, waving vaguely toward the bathroom like it explained anything at all. “I should throw them in the washer.”

“Oh. Right” Stanley went back to the bathroom and collected the damp bundle of his old clothes from the floor. His hand briefly dipped into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

He held onto it tightly, stuffing it into the waistband of the sweatpants.

“I’ll take care of those,” Fiddleford mumbled, grabbing the clothes and heading toward the laundry machine in the room next to the kitchen.

Once there, he threw the clothes in without really thinking about it, then took a second to lean on the machine and breathe.

‘God. You’re acting like a mess. Pull it together. He’s just—he’s just a guy! In your clothes...in your house...’

He really needs to put a stop to this line of thoughts. Seriously.

He walked back into the kitchen, voice deliberately casual.

“You hungry? I can heat up some leftovers. My mom’s got this habit of cooking for a whole country, even when she’s the only one home.” He said with a fond smile, already pulling a container out of the fridge.

Stanley leaned against the doorway, watching him.

“I think that’s nice,” he said quietly. Fiddleford paused, looking back at him.
“I don’t know your mom much,” Stanley added, “but I figure… it must be force of habit. Cooking that much I mean.”

There was a weird gentleness in his tone. A strange weight behind the words.

“She wasn’t great at cooking,” Stanley continued. “My mom, not your mom— your mom's cooking is great!” He corrected himself nervously to which Fiddleford let a low chuckle out “My mom's cooking however...well, everything was either bland or soggy, but she tried. There was always food on the table so I didn't have much to fuss over.”

His eyes were far away now, unfocused.

“But still, I miss how her food tasted.” The way he said it, like it was sacred. Like he missed it more than he could admit. Fiddleford didn’t move. He didn’t speak either. Just listened.

Fiddleford swallowed the lump in his throat.

‘Say something. Anything.’

“You two haven’t spoken in a while, I take it?” Fiddleford asked

“Years, actually”

And there it was again, that weight in Stanley’s voice. Fiddleford turned from the counter slowly.

“…May I ask why?”

Stanley hesitated. Then in a weak voice.

“It’s a dumb story and also too long...”

“I’ve got time,” Fiddleford said gently.

Stanley looked down at the floor, his arms tightening around himself slightly.

“I got kicked out.”

Fiddleford’s entire body locked up.

“Kicked out?” He tried to keep his voice calm, even. “Your mom did that?”

Stanley shook his head quickly, brows frowning in offense.

“No, no, she wouldn’t...” he said, still frowning, but it quickly faded away. “Though she didn’t stop my Pops either, so… I guess she did it in her own way.” his voice, along his gaze, lowered with each word.

Fiddleford felt his breath catch in his throat.

‘Why would any parent do that?’

But then—

‘wait. Ford doesn’t talk about Stanley. What if—what if Stanley’s not just a black sheep, what if he actually...did something wrong?’

His thoughts spiraled.

‘Shit, did I just bring a criminal into my house? He did say something about the police before...But no—Stanley had never once felt threatening. Except for that time he pinned Bill against the wall and threatened him...Okay, maybe he was a bit threatening...’

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Stanley said, as if trying to preempt the judgment he was already seeing on Fiddleford's face. “I just—I was in the wrong place, wrong time. It was an accident.”

Fiddleford’s heart pounded.

‘What kind of accident?! Please not murder. Or arson. Or drugs. Or—’

“I didn’t even touch it!”

Fiddleford’s eyes widened.

‘TOUCH WHAT? WHAT DID HE DO?’

“It wasn't my intention to break Ford’s project,” Stanley finally said.

‘…Oh.’

“…You got kicked out,” Fiddleford repeated slowly, frowning “because you broke a project?”

“I ruined his life.” Stanley said firmly, as if it was a statement known by all humanity.

“Was it… like, a science project?”
Stanley nodded, running a hand through his damp curls.

“Yeah, but it wasn't just some silly science project or presentation. There were universities visiting. Ford’s dream university —West Tech Coast— they were there. Looking for candidates. Can you believe that? At Glass Shard Beach of all places?”

Fiddleford blinked, trying to process the information. Ford had mentioned that university briefly once. Said something about potentially studying there in the future for any secondary career if he got the chance.

“And… you ruined it? How?”

“I stumbled against the table where Ford's project was. I swear it was still moving when I left, but apparently…I did ruin it, and the moment I ruined his project...” Stanley began, voice raw. “I also ruined Ford’s only shot to be recognized, to get out, to be something.” The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

Fiddleford didn’t know what to say. Because yeah, that sucked. Yeah, it was a terrible thing, but also, it was an accident.

Their parents… they shouldn’t have—

“I’m sorry,” Stanley said suddenly, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. I just—I get it if you’re not particularly fond of me anymore.”

Fiddleford’s heart plummeted.

“No,” he said, too fast. Then steadied himself. “No, I’m not mad. Why would I even be mad?”

He took a step closer.

“I’m just...not sure what to say,” he admitted. “But you didn’t deserve that. Not from them.”

Stanley blinked at him, unsure how to take the words.

“Sure, you messed up,” Fiddleford added, more gently now. “But you were what, eighteen?”

“…Seventeen,” Stanley mumbled.
Fiddleford exhaled, pressing a hand over his face and muttering something that sounded a bit too close like a bit down curse.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The washing machine hummed quietly in the background. Rain tapped at the windows.

“What I’m trying to say,” Fiddleford continued, voice firm but trembling with worry, “is that you messed up, but you didn’t deserve that. You were a kid. You didn’t deserve to be kicked out and left to fend for yourself. Anything could’ve happened to you out there—hell, you could’ve died!”

Stanley snorted and tried to grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Almost did. Twice. But hey! nothing takes this beauty down.” He gave a mock flourish, gesturing to himself like he was presenting fine art, but Fiddleford didn’t smile. If anything, he looked more worried, brows drawn together and eyes filled with something far too gentle for Stanley to handle.

That wiped the grin off Stan’s face.

“Stop giving me that look,” he muttered, fidgeting with the towel now abandoned around his neck. “I’m fine. Alive and kicking.”

“Yes,” Fiddleford said quietly, “but for how long will you still be fine?”

That shut Stanley up. He looked away, jaw clenched, and didn’t say a word.

The microwave dinged in the kitchen, breaking the silence like a mercy bell. Fiddleford took it as his cue to move, muttering something about food and walking over to serve the leftovers before either of them drowned too deep in whatever this was.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the room only filled with the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic and the occasional sigh. The food was warm, familiar. Homey. It almost made things feel normal.

“Thanks,” Stanley said at last, not looking up from his plate. “For the food.”

Fiddleford shrugged a shoulder, mouth full. He swallowed before replying.

“No problem.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Stanley set his fork down and ran a hand through his hair.

“You were right.” he said, Fiddleford blinked, confused.

“About what?”

“About me. About running away from things.” Stanley stared at his half-eaten plate “I—I can’t help it. Feels like I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Anytime something good happens, there's a part of me saying it’s a trap, that it won’t last.”

He looked up at Fiddleford then, eyes raw but steady.

“So when you offered me the job at the café, I heard that stupid little voice again. Told me not to take it. Said it was too good to be true.” He laughed dryly. “And then we had dinner, and for a moment everything was perfect until I had to go and ruin it. Then Bill showed up tonight and it all felt like it was gonna crash down, so…I panicked.”

Fiddleford didn’t interrupt. He let the words come, however jagged they were.

“I just thought…” Stanley continued, “if it was gonna end, I wanted it to end on my terms. You know?” Fiddleford leaned back in his chair and gave him a sad, lopsided smile.

“That doesn’t sound very healthy in the long run.”

Stanley gave a bitter laugh and nodded.

“No. No, it’s not, but it’s how it is.” His voice lowered, rough and almost quiet enough to get lost under the hum of the fridge. “You learn to leave before everything hurts too bad.”

The silence returned, heavy again.

“Stanley… I’d never do anything to hurt you.” Fiddleford said in that soft voice that Stanley was beginning to hate. He looked up sharply, and for a second there was something angry in his eyes— No, not angry. Scared.

“Your kindness alone hurts enough.” Fiddleford recoiled, stunned. The words hit like a slap, but before he could even begin to react, Stanley sighed and looked away, clearly regretting it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he added quickly, softer now. “I mean—I appreciate it. I do. I’m just not used to it, that’s all.”

He offered Fiddleford a small, hesitant smile, crooked and warm and maybe a little apologetic.

Fiddleford managed to smile back.

“You’re finally going soft on me, huh?”

“Maybe,” Stanley replied, stabbing at the remaining food with a smirk. “But only because I like your mom’s cooking. Be a shame not to get another helping of this again.”

Fiddleford chuckled, relieved.

“Guess I’ll tell her to stock up then.”

The tension didn’t vanish completely, but at least, for now, he had something to hold onto.

Chapter Text

Stanley wasn’t sure when exactly he’d drifted off on the couch. One moment he and Fiddleford had been talking after dinner —Stan stretched out on one sofa, Fiddleford perched on the other— and the next thing he knew, morning light was filtering through the curtains.

What he was sure of, though, was that there hadn’t been a cat in the house yesterday. Where did it come from?

Wait— Fiddleford mentioned his mom had a cat once...right?

Fuck, he couldn't remember.

He also didn’t remember pulling a blanket over himself, which meant that was probably Fiddleford’s doing.

The cat meowed, loud and demanding and Stan blinked up at it, the two of them stared at each other like they were trying to figure out who had more right to the couch.

Then a loud clatter echoed from the kitchen, both man and cat jolted and the cat bolted off him, vanishing down the hall, probably into Fiddleford’s old room.

Moments later, Fiddleford appeared from the kitchen, muttering under his breath as he set a plate of food on the table. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair was sticking up at odd angles, looking like a complete disaster.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” he blurted, far too quickly. “I made some food for you.”

“Oh, thank—”

“I’m late for class and I’ve got a test,” Fiddleford cut in, tugging at his shirt like he could smooth it out through sheer willpower. “I gotta go, so—”

“Wait a second! How am I supposed to get to the café?!” Stan asked, sitting up.

“I’ll come pick you up, don’t worry!” Fiddleford called, already halfway out the door. “Bye!”

The door slammed shut before Stan could argue. He was left blinking at the silence of the house.

A moment later, the cat trotted back in, hopping onto the couch beside him like nothing had happened.

Stan sighed, running a hand over his face. Just what the hell had happened?

“Looks like it’s just you and me, buddy,” he muttered looking down at the cat.

----

'Oh God, I’m screwed.'

'Oh God.'

'Have mercy, please.'

Those were the only thoughts running —no, stampeding— through Fiddleford’s head as he whipped his poor, overworked car into the university parking lot. The tires squealed, the brakes screamed, and he didn’t even bother to check if he’d parked between the lines. At this point, if campus security wanted to ticket him, they could write it on his tombstone.

Why —why in the ever-lovin’ hell— had he thought keeping that miserable little dorm room was a good idea if he didn’t even use it? He didn’t even live there at this point, always in that stupid café or at his mama’s house. Which was sixty goddamn minutes away, where there was food, warmth, and actual bedsheets that didn't itch for no reason, but sixty minutes! And now, those sixty minutes was the difference between salvation and eternal academic damnation.

He tore across the courtyard, dodging a group of freshmen who looked at him like he was some kind of escaped convict. His breath came in wheezes; his brain was listing off prayers like a televangelist.

'Lord, if you let me make it to this test on time, I swear I’ll never complain again about—'

He tripped on the curb, barely caught himself.

'Nevermind I'll keep complaining'

Another flight of stairs, two steps at a time.

He rounded the corner and skidded down the hallway, nearly colliding with a vending machine.

'— but if you don't let me in, please at least smite Bill Cipher while I fail, I’d be mighty grateful.'

Because honestly? This was all Bill’s fault.

If that idiot hadn't dropped by yesterday, Stanley wouldn't have stayed at —not technically— his house and distracted him with that physique and stupid grin accompanied by his sad backstory.

God, he truly was like a insufferable indie movie protagonist.

Whatever. Back to topic.

If it weren’t for Bill —stupid, smug, clingy Bill— he would be able to actually use his cramped little dorm room. Which was unlivable because of Bill constantly hanging around, draping himself all over Ford like a cat in heat. It was gross. Absolutely gross.

It was a miracle Ford hadn’t suffocated from so much attention.

“Disgustin’,” Fiddleford muttered aloud, earning a confused look from a passing janitor.

He ignored it. He had bigger problems.

There —at the end of the hall— his classroom. The door was open. Wide open. His salvation, glowing like heaven’s gate. He could almost hear a choir singing.

Just one more stretch. Just keep breathing. Just one more—

The professor reached out, took the handle, gave Fiddleford a look and shut the door. 

The sound echoed through the hallway like a gunshot.

Fiddleford’s heart plummeted into his shoes.

“Fuck.” He said it once. Then again. Louder. “FUCK.”

He staggered the last few steps to the door and pressed his forehead against it, wheezing like a dying man.

“Lord,” he croaked, “if you’re listenin’—you got a cruel sense of humor.”

He slumped against the doorframe, already rehearsing the dramatic speech he’d give about how cruel fate was.

When suddenly, the door creaked open again.

Professor Gabriel stood there, glaring at him over the rim of his glasses like he’d been waiting his whole career for this moment.

“You’re late, Mr. McGucket,” he said in a tone sharp enough to cut glass. Then, after a pause, he added dryly, “Get in before I regret it.”

“Yes sir!” Fiddleford squeaked, scrambling inside before the professor could change his mind.

The classroom was already silent, students hunched over their desks, pencils poised like weapons. Fiddleford slipped into the only open seat, right next to Stanford.

Ford turned, eyebrows raised in quiet disapproval.

“Why are you late?” He whispered

“Uh…” Fiddleford’s brain went blank. He couldn’t exactly say 'because I stayed up half the night talking with your ridiculously attractive twin brother,' now could he?

“So?” Ford pressed, voice low.

“I—uh—stayed up late studying and overslept,” Fiddleford blurted at last.

Ford studied him for a beat longer, skepticism written all over his face, but the professor was already handing out the test papers, and Ford’s priorities shifted back to the exam.

“Mm,” he murmured, not quite believing, but letting it go.

Fiddleford exhaled, shoulders slumping. 

Saved.

At least for now.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford slumped back in his chair after the exam, staring at the ceiling like divine intervention might strike and magically swap all his wrong answers for the right ones. His pencil sat useless in his hand, the eraser chewed halfway down, and the sour taste of failure lingered on his tongue. He knew it. He hadn’t studied, and now the grade was going to show it.

Beside him, Ford was already arranging his papers in neat, precise stacks. Of course he was. The man could probably ace a test in his sleep. When he finally glanced at Fiddleford, it wasn’t with smugness, just that sharp, unreadable gaze of his that made Fiddleford squirm.

“You’re acting strange,” Ford said flatly.

Fiddleford flinched, snapping out of his haze.

“I ain’t actin’ strange.” He tried to sound casual, but the words tumbled out too quick, too defensive and Ford’s brow arched.

“You are. You’ve been distracted lately and now you’re moping about a test? You never mope or get all moody like that.”

Heat crept up Fiddleford’s neck. Great. Just what he needed. He rubbed at his temples, muttering,

“Can you not psychoanalyze me for five minutes?” He asked but Ford didn’t back off. He leaned in slightly, adjusting his glasses, voice lowering into that insistent tone he always used when he smelled a secret.

“Then just tell me what’s going on.”

Fiddleford’s throat tightened. He could lie, sure, but he was terrible at it. Ford would see right through him, and then what? Tell him the truth? That would go over real well.

His palms itched. His heartbeat picked up, and suddenly the silence between them stretched unbearably thin.

“…Fine,” he muttered at last, dropping his head into his hands. “I’ve got a crush, alright?”

The words hung there, heavy but… not untrue. He could work with that. It was safe enough, but Ford, of course, perked up instantly. His eyes lit up like someone had just handed him a puzzle box.

“Oh? Who?”

Fiddleford’s stomach dropped. Damn it. He should’ve known better than to dangle bait in front of Ford. He never let things go.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, waving a hand like he could swat the subject out of the air. “you probably won't like the answer.”

Ford smirked, lips twitching into that smug little curve that always meant trouble.

“He’s a business major, isn’t he? I expected better taste from you, Fiddleford.” Ford said and Fiddleford’s head snapped up, scandalized.

“What—no! He doesn’t even study here!” The denial shot out sharper than he intended, his accent thickening with the force of it.

Ford froze, blinking once. Then his smirk widened, like a cat that had just cornered its prey.

“So it’s a he.”

The floor dropped out from under Fiddleford. His brain scrambled for something—anything—to backpedal with, but all he could manage was a strangled, 

“Wait, no, that’s not—!”

“You said ‘he,’” Ford cut in smoothly, clearly savoring the moment.

Fiddleford felt his ears burn. He shoved his books into his bag with shaking hands, desperate for an escape before Ford dissected him any further. Stupid, stupid, stupid—why’d I say anything at all?

“Stanford,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “can we not do this here?” His eyes flicked toward the rest of the class, who were already leaving one by one, but any second now, someone would overhear, and he’d never live it down.

“Then where?”

Fiddleford barely waited for the last student to leave before grabbing Ford by the sleeve.

“What are you—Fiddleford—?”

“Bathroom. Now.”

“What?”

He practically shoved Ford down the hall and into the nearest restroom. The door shut behind them with a hollow echo. Ford gave him a withering glare.

“Is there a reason you just manhandled me across the hallway like a common criminal?” Ford asked but got no reply.

Silence stretched. The hum of a flickering fluorescent light filled the space. Finally, Ford crossed his arms and spoke once again.

“So. What is it? Why don't you want to tell me? Is it because he’s a guy? Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m dating one.” Ford said and Fiddleford winced inwardly.

Ford tilted his head, studying the twitch in Fiddleford's expression as he let out a weak:

“It's not that...”

“What is it then? Does your mother disapprove? Or…” His eyes widened, with sudden realization and Fiddleford knew just then, that Ford was about to jump into a conclusion so wild, he couldn't even imagine it. “Is he a criminal?!”

Yup, just as he had predicted. A wild conclusion.

“What?! No! …I think?”

“You think?!” Ford nearly slipped into a shriek. “What do you mean you think?!”

“Well he, uh…he briefly mentioned somethin’ about, y’know, some scams and—”

Okay, maybe the conclusion wasn't so wild aftee all.

“Scams?!” Ford was pale now, horrified. “You can’t be dating a criminal, Fidds! Moses, what if—wait.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “How old is he? Is he older than you? I bet he is! Fiddleford, you need to get out of there before—”

Fiddleford slapped a hand over Ford’s mouth before he could spiral further.

“Shut up already! It’s nothin’ like that!” Fiddleford yelled.

Ford’s eyes bulged behind his glasses, utterly affronted, until Fiddleford finally pulled his hand back. Immediately Ford bolted for the sink, scrubbing at his mouth with water like he’d been poisoned.

“Don’t do that again!” he snapped, spitting and rinsing.

“Oh, come on!” Fiddleford huffed. “You were more than ready to reach for the back of Bill’s throat the other day, and I’m pretty sure he’s got more germs than my hands.”

Ford shot him a glare over his shoulder, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. However the levity didn’t last. Ford straightened, folding his arms again.

“Alright. Enough deflection. Tell me the truth.”

Fiddleford’s shoulders slumped. He knew when he’d been cornered. His voice softened.

“Look, he’s a troubled guy—”

“With the law?” Ford interrupted immediately.

“Dear Lord, let me speak.” Fiddleford yelled exasperated and Ford pursed his lips, gesturing for him to go on.

“He’s had…problems. Doesn’t have the best past. He was kicked out of his home.” Fiddleford said and Ford’s sharp gaze flickered, his mouth tightening. He looked away, biting his lip.

“He must have done something quite messed up for that to happen” Ford muttered but Fiddleford heard it.

“He was a teen when it happened, just a kid” Fiddleford added quietly.

That shut Ford up for good.

“He was just a kid, Ford. Struggling a whole lot, and I—” Fiddleford broke off, scrubbing at his face, trying to find words. “I care for him. I like him, and I want him to be safe, to be happy, but I can’t make that happen. I can’t fix it, and I don’t want him thinkin’ I pity him. I just—” His throat tightened, words breaking up as his chest grew heavy.

“Fiddleford.” Ford’s voice cut through gently this time, not sharp but steady. “You need to calm down. You’re a second away from a heart attack.”

“Sorry for all that.” Fiddleford let out a shaky laugh, swiping at his eyes.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ford said firmly. He hesitated, jaw tight, then forced the words out. “…It’s clear you care a lot about him, and I’m—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I’m sorry he had to go through that, we don't need to talk about this if you don't want to...”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Finally, Fiddleford sighed.

“We should probably head to the next class.”

Ford nodded, eyes downcast. 

“Yeah…” Ford nodded slowly, but he looked haunted now. Guilt was creeping in like a slow, suffocating fog.

His fingers twitched as they neared the door, finally opening it.

The walk back was quiet. Every step made Fiddleford’s chest tighter, torn between protecting Stanley’s truth and the gnawing fear that Ford was putting the pieces together. His fingers twitched against the strap of his bag as they neared the lecture hall.

Ford’s expression wasn’t much better. He looked like someone had just ran over his dog and the blood was still staining the road.

And that was when Bill appeared.

“Hey, Sixer!” Bill chirped, too bright, too loud. Ford winced at the nickname and turned away.

“Are you seriously going to ignore me?” Bill pouted, slinging an arm across Ford’s shoulders like he owned him.

“Bill, not now.” Ford’s frown and tone sharp enough to cut glass.

“Still mad?” Bill cooed.

“Bill, get lost,” Fiddleford snapped and Bill’s eyes narrowed, cold.

“You don’t have the right to talk to me like that.” He said

“And you don’t either,” Ford shot back. “What’s with you lately? You’ve been acting strange. Snooping around my things.”

“Aw, come on, Sixer,” Bill crooned, stepping closer, “don’t be mad. I was just curious about that little twin of yours, is that a crime?”

The air went cold.

Fiddleford went pale and Ford stopped dead in his tracks.

“…What did you just say?” Ford’s voice was deadly soft, each syllable honed to a blade.

Bill’s grin flickered. His gaze darted between them, realizing too late that he’d overstepped.

“I—uh—”

Ford’s tone dropped to glacial levels.

“How do you know about him?” Ford asked, getting closer to Bill.

Fiddleford’s stomach dropped like a stone. He stumbled back a step, panic clawing up his throat.

Bill faltered.

“I—I read it! In your journal! ” He exclaimed. “Yeah, your journal!”

“YOU DID WHAT?” Ford exploded, color rushing to his face, fury and humiliation tangling in equal measure. “You’ve been reading my journal?!”

And while Ford turned on Bill, ranting about boundaries, privacy, ethics, and ‘how dare you—’ Fiddleford seized his chance. He bolted away like a coward.

His heart hammered in his ribs as he tore down the hall. His palms were slick with sweat. His soul felt like it had just leapt clean out of his body.

He burst into the classroom and collapsed into the first chair he could find, clutching his bag to his chest like a shield.

“Please, please don’t kill me, Stanford,” he muttered, sliding his books out with frantic care. He even saved the seat beside him, desperate for some scrap of normalcy, maybe Ford would show up, sit down, and pretend nothing had happened. Maybe.

He couldn’t bring himself to look when the door finally creaked open.

Chapter Text

“Meow.”

Stanley glanced down. The cat was perched beside him, tail flicking.

Great. So he was alone in a—technically not—stranger’s house. He probably shouldn’t feel as comfortable as he did, but it was hard not to when the cat jumped into his lap, purring like a tiny engine.

“What a cute thing you are,” Stanley muttered, scratching its ears. The cat leaned into his hand, smug as royalty. Still, after a moment, Stan lifted it off. “Alright, beat it. I gotta eat.”

He turned back to the plate Fiddleford had left for him, but his stomach began twisting too much to care. What was he supposed to do to pass the time here?
…WAIT. What if Fiddleford’s mom came back? What was he supposed to say then?!

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Stan groaned as he started pacing the living room, ignoring the untouched breakfast.

'How the hell did I let this happen?!'

---

'How the hell did I let this happen?!'

Fiddleford thought the same thing as he trudged down the hall beside Ford, who was currently ranting at full volume about Bill.

“I can’t believe this!” Ford’s voice rang with righteous indignation. “How dare he read through my journal!”

Fiddleford nodded absently, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

'Good thing Bill didn’t rat me out. Ford would’ve killed me first, then him.'
He blinked as realization struck 'Oh, wait. That explains why he lied. The asshole wasn’t protecting me, he was protecting himself!'

“And then,” Ford snapped, throwing his hands up, “he had the audacity to call me ‘babe’ in the middle of the argument!”

Fiddleford barely suppressed a sigh. He was Olympically ignoring him, too caught up in his own mess.

“Fiddleford!” Ford yelled, getting the attention of some other students. Fiddleford nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Y-Yes?” He said and Ford’s glare could have stripped paint off walls.

“Are you even listening?” He asked

“Course I am!” Fiddleford said too quickly, panic flashing across his face.

“Then what did I just say?”

'Lord, just take me already.' He thought

“…That Bill’s horrible?” Fiddleford guessed. Desperate to deflect, he added, “Why are you still dating him, anyway?” Ford froze, eyes narrowing

“That’s none of your business.” He replied, now him being the one ignoring Fiddleford Olympically.

“But you guys are always fighting and then getting all handsy,” Fiddleford said, waving his hands in exasperation. “It doesn’t make sense!”

Ford’s cheeks went a little pink, but he shoved his glasses up briskly.

“Perhaps I’m intrigued by the thrill of it.” He supplied with.

“I still don’t get what you see in him.” Fiddleford replied

“It’s complicated,” Ford added, clipped but not unkind and Fiddleford snorted.

“It’s always like that with you.” He nudged Ford’s shoulder lightly, a teasing gesture that broke the tension.

To his relief, Ford actually huffed a laugh, the two of them sharing a fleeting, easy moment before the weight of everything could press in again.

---

Stan had tried sitting on the couch. He’d tried poking at the breakfast Fiddleford left him. He’d even tried making conversation with the cat.

None of it stuck.

The longer he sat there, the more the walls seemed to close in. He was a guest here. No, worse, an intruder.

If Fiddleford’s mom came home early, what excuse could he possibly give? He's been pondering for a while now on the possible answers.

Grinding his teeth, he pushed himself up and wandered down the hall to Fiddleford's room. Maybe he could stay there and stop feeling as if he was taking up the space no one was occupying.

He found the door that had to be Fiddleford’s old room and nudged it open. The room was small and cluttered, lived-in yet forgotten in a way that made Stan’s chest ache. Stacks of books on the desk, a couple of framed photos on the wall, the bed with crumpled sheets.

Stan swallowed hard, suddenly feeling like he was trespassing somewhere sacred. Still, it was better than pacing the living room like a nervous wreck.

The bed sat unmade, blankets a tangled heap. It felt… safe, somehow, like Fiddleford had just gotten up and might come back any minute. Stan hovered a second, debating if taking a seat there would be too much.

He eased himself onto the edge of the mattress. The sheets were soft with a faint smell of lavender.

And a bit of Fiddleford.

It wrapped around him, soft and steady, and for a moment Stan’s throat tightened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this, comfort, warmth. Just a simple bed.

His eyes slipped shut.

'Just a second,' he thought to himself. 'Just lay down for a second, then get back up before he comes back'

He sank into the messy covers, breathing in the scent clinging to the sheets and then, all at once, everything ached. The exhaustion, the loneliness, the years of running on empty.

Stan let out a low sigh and before he knew it, sleep dragged him under.

---

After the small Bill incident —and long rant— Ford and Fiddleford headed to their next class.

They sat side by side, the professor’s voice droning on while Ford scribbled neat rows of notes. Fiddleford, meanwhile, couldn’t focus to save his life. His foot bounced under the desk, his pencil tapped, his thoughts kept circling back to Stan.

“Hey,” Ford muttered, not looking up.

“What?”

“You’re fidgeting. You always do that when you’re nervous.” Ford said and Fiddleford scowled.

“Y’know, you don’t have to narrate me like I’m your lab rat.”

“I’m not narrating. I’m observing.”

“Same thing!” Fiddleford hissed and the two of them glared for a beat before Fiddleford snorted. “Lord, it’s a miracle I put up with you.”

Ford hesitated, pen hovering above the page. Then, in a low voice, almost grudgingly:

“Thanks.” Ford said and Fiddleford blinked caught off guard.

“For what?” He asked, Ford’s jaw tightened, eyes still on his notes.

“…Thanks for being my friend. I’ve got enough with Bill being so dishonest all the time. At least I can trust you.”

The words hit harder than Fiddleford expected. Warmth spread in his chest, but right on its heels came guilt, sharp and cold.

He swallowed, forcing a crooked smile.

“’Course you can trust me.”

Ford finally glanced sideways, offering the smallest, rarest of smiles before bending back over his notes.
Fiddleford tapped his pencil against the desk, heart aching with the weight of the half-truths he was carrying.

How had he let this happen?

Chapter Text

Stanley Pines was a lonely man.

Or at least, that's what he thinks.

Though he hadn’t always been.

As a kid, he’d always had Ford by his side, and back then, that had been enough.

They’d built worlds together out of cardboard boxes and blankets, made sand castles by the beach and shared dreams big enough for two.

He’d had other friends, sure. Even a girlfriend once, for a while, but none of them ever really lasted.

Nothing ever did.

After the science fair, it had all fallen apart anyway. He’d ruined everything. Like he always did.

Why did he always ruin everything?

“Stanley, wake up.” The voice reached him through the haze of sleep, gentle but insistent. “Stanley, come on.”

He groaned softly, half-burying his face in the pillow. The bed was so damn comfortable, there was no way in hell he was listening to that lovely voice. The sheets were warm, and soft, faintly smelling of lavender and something familiar that tugged at his chest.

Then his foggy brain clicked.

Oh. Fiddleford.

He jerked upright, heart skipping, blinking blearily up at Fiddleford, who immediately stepped back with a small, startled smile.

“Sorry for waking you,” Fiddleford said, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s, uh… quite late, actually. Our shift’s about to start.”

“Late?” Stan’s voice came out rough. “What time is it?”

“Almost 7 p.m.”

Stan ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the drowsiness.

“Seven? Geez, I slept half the day away.” He said and Fiddleford chuckled softly.

“Guess you needed it.” Fiddleford said with a small smile.

Stan rubbed at his eyes, half-smiling.

“Yeah, well, you should’ve kicked me off the bed sooner.”

“I tried,” Fiddleford said, amused. “You looked too at peace to disturb.”

That made Stan pause, just for a second. He wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he didn’t.

Instead, he swung his legs off the bed and stretched, pretending not to notice Fiddleford glancing away with the faintest pink dusting his ears.

“We should probably get going,” Stan muttered, voice low.

“Yeah,” Fiddleford said quietly. “Let’s go.”

----

The café that night was calm. The hum of the espresso machine was steady, low jazz played from the speakers, and outside, the rain had slowed to a thin drizzle. People took their time ordering, lingering over pastries and warm drinks.

“Seems like we don’t have much work tonight,” Stanley said, wiping down the counter with slow, practiced motions.

“Seems so,” Fiddleford replied, crouching to restock the cookie display.

Stan just hummed thoughtfully. There wasn’t much else to say but after a moment, he glanced up.

“How’s Ford?”

Fiddleford froze, cookies still in his hands.

'Why does everyone always gotta corner me like this?' He thought

“He’s been better,” Fiddleford said, the words coming out thin.

“How so?”

“He’s just… stressed about a lot of stuff,” Fiddleford hedged, hoping that would be enough, but when he looked up, Stanley was staring at him, not accusing, not angry, just… searching. It made his stomach twist.

“He’s having a hard time, alright?” Fiddleford added quickly, moving to the brownie tray to avoid that gaze.

“What is it?”

Fiddleford wanted to sink straight through the floor. He couldn’t exactly tell Stan he was the problem, that Ford’s anger and confusion all circled back to the man standing in front of him.

“It’s just college stuff. Too much pressure.” He grabbed a brownie just to have something to do with his hands. “You know how he gets when he’s studying...”

Stan let out a small laugh, weary but fond.

“Yeah, I know. Tell him not to overdo it, alright? But… he’ll be fine. He always is.”

“I hope so,” Fiddleford murmured, almost too soft for Stan to hear.

----

Stanford Pines wasn’t a lonely man.

Or at least, that’s what he liked to think.

He wasn’t the same wimpy kid from high school who let himself get shoved into lockers; although, to be fair, that incident had repeated once or twice in college, but no, he wasn’t lonely anymore. He was past all that.

Mature, accomplished, entirely, definitively fine.

He had friends. Plenty of them.

He had Fiddleford, for instance; steady, patient, far too kind for his own good Fiddleford.

He had Bill, too, though lately that name felt like a sigh at the back of his throat.

And…

Ford’s mind stalled.

That was it, wasn’t it? Just those two.

He frowned at the realization, sitting alone at his desk under the flicker of his study lamp. The clock ticked past midnight, each second loud and sharp in the empty dorm.

That was definitely it.

And Stanford knew it.

The thought had been gnawing at him for weeks, but now it sank in fully, like a tooth breaking skin: he wasn’t lonely, no, but he wasn’t satisfied either.

He had people, yes, but did they see him? Bill saw what he wanted to see and Fiddleford tried to, but lately he’d been distant.

Skipping study sessions, dodging questions, always rushing somewhere.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. He had school work still laying in his desk, he had his research, his bright mind to keep him company. That had always been enough before.

So why did the silence feel so heavy tonight?

Why did he feel so left out, again?

Why did this always happen to him?