Archive of Our Own ^beta

The night settled in like a hush, creeping in through the thin glass panes, curling under the door, slipping soundlessly beneath the heavy weight of quilts. The air had cooled, the last remnants of warmth from the day fading into the stillness of the room. Somewhere in the distance, cicadas sang their slow, rhythmic song, their voices merging with the quiet inhale and exhale of the baby sleeping just a few feet away.

Fiddleford barely heard any of it. His eyes traced the words on the page before him, but his mind wandered elsewhere, slipping into the cracks between thoughts, between memories.

“ Giovanni’s room ”

A book he’d purchased at a Bell’s bookstore a short drive away.
It’d been tucked away underneath the stacks of recent issues of Popular Science, BYTE magazine and the newest Homebrew Computer Club Newsletter.

But Fiddleford had started reading it a few days previously, getting the courage to even do so before falling asleep (although he would still put it under his pillow when he did finally end up sleeping— not that it was easy, what with all the traffic outside the bedroom window).

There was a shift in the air, quickly followed by the creaking of the hinges on the door.

Fiddleford startled.
It was a small thing, just the faintest jolt in his shoulders, a sharp intake of breath he couldn’t quite swallow down. The book in his hands wobbled, the pages trembling slightly under his fingertips before he steadied them.

Emma-May stood in the doorway, pale in the dim light from the pink clamshell-shaped lamp on the bedside table, her hands brushing over the fabric of her nightgown as she hesitated. The curls in her hair had been wound up into soft blue curlers, framed neatly beneath a lace-trimmed sleep cap.

She was slim, and tall.
Very pretty, with dark brown hair and tawny skin she always complained about, always trying to lighten up for some reason with all sorts of awful products Fiddleford knew nothing about.

“You’re still readin’, darlin’?” Her voice was soft, low, almost constantly in a whisper.

Fiddleford exhaled slowly, shifting against the pillows. “Guess I am.”

Emma-May smiled at that—one of those slow, sleepy smiles like he’d done something sweet just by existing. She crossed the room and slipped beneath the covers beside him.

She sighed as she settled in, stretching out in that deliberate way she always did, like she was waiting for him to notice.

“You always do that,” she murmured, watching him.

Fiddleford turned a page. “Do what?”

“Read before bed.” A pause. “You did it even back when we first got married.”

Something about the words made his throat tighten.

“Been a habit since I was a kid,” he said, keeping his voice light.

“Well, I think it’s real nice.”

Fiddleford only hummed, his eyes dragging over the words in front of him—though they blurred at the edges, meaning slipping between the lines. 

“I think Tate likes bein’ in here,” Emma-May said.

Fiddleford’s gaze flickered toward the crib. It hadn’t been the plan. They had painted a nursery for him, set everything up just right. But then the night came, and Fiddleford had lain awake staring at the ceiling, stomach twisting at the thought of Tate crying in the dark where they wouldn’t hear him.

“He don’t like wakin’ up alone,” Fiddleford murmured.

Emma-May let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Well, he don’t ever have to worry ‘bout that. I’d hear him cryin’ from all the way down the street.”

Fiddleford’s grip on the book tightened. “I just—” His jaw tensed. “I just figured it’d be easier. Havin’ him close.”

Emma-May reached out then, her fingers brushing against his arm in a featherlight touch. Fiddleford tried not to tense up, his fingernails digging into the cover of his book.

“You worry over him more than I do,” she said, voice full of something like affection. “You’re such a good father, Fiddsy.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Thank you, May.”

She shifted, curling closer.
“Ain’t you tired?”

Fiddleford hesitated, glancing at the clock. It was late, around 11 PM now.

“Not yet,” he murmured, shifting his weight.

She sighed again, deeper this time, and her fingers trailed up, threading lightly through his hair, nails scratching soft against his scalp.

He held still, unsure of how to react properly.

“Y’know,” She started, sighing. “Tate was real fussy today,”

Fiddleford’s brows furrowed, concern flooding through him.
“He was?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“I dunno, really. I think he’s— maybe he’s teething. Kept cryin’ when I put him down, but he settled real quick when I held him close… You were right to move the crib in here.” She said, her voice quiet.

“Right…” He muttered. “Just a good idea. Ain’t like a got a lot of those.”
She hushed him, laughing softly.

“You’re too humble, Fiddsy.” She smiled.
He only gave a weak grin back to her.

“Oh, well. G’night, love,” she whispered.

“Night.”

Emma-May nestled into the blankets, her breathing slowing as she drifted toward sleep.

Fiddleford turned his head slightly, staring up at the ceiling, watching the streetlights from the window drift across the dark wood. He wasn’t really ever able to rest anymore. Between worrying about the baby and the loud, rumbling cars passing by at a billion miles per hour whenever it got late, he just couldn’t sleep.

A dull throb had been creeping in all evening, slow and relentless, pressing between his shoulder blades and curling down the length of his spine.

The bedroom was cosy, comfortable for all intents and purposes, but it wasn’t the same as his old house, the reliability of his old room was gone, the safety net of silence torn apart the moment he moved to California. And now, in this bed, he was pressed against the wall while they tried to sleep, feeling crushed, uncomfortable and awkward, unable to move without waking the woman next to him.

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand absently over the knot forming just beneath his ribs, before giving up. He leaned over Emma-May to fumble for the drawer in the nightstand.

She stirred at the movement, but only slightly, her breath still slow and even against the pillow. The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast soft shadows across her face, catching on the loose strands of hair spiralling at her temple. She blinked sleepily, not quite opening her eyes, as he pulled the drawer open with a quiet scrape of wood against wood.

His fingers brushed past a collection of small, familiar objects—a few loose buttons, an old bookmark, the corner of a folded handkerchief—before closing around something unexpectedly smooth and papery. He frowned, drawing it out of the drawer. The cardboard edges of a cigarette pack met his touch, the weight of it unsettlingly familiar in his palm.

“Oh,” Emma-May mumbled, her voice thick with drowsiness. “Honey, don’t smoke with the baby in here.”

Fiddleford startled slightly, glancing down at the pack as if only just realizing he was holding it. A quiet laugh, tired and nervous, escaped him.

“I ain’t smoked in a year,” he murmured, turning it over between his fingers. The packaging was a little worn, the edges curling slightly from time spent forgotten in the drawer. “Don’t even know why I still got ‘em.”

Emma-May made a small, content noise and nuzzled deeper into her pillow.

“I’ll get rid of it in the mornin’,” he added, though he wasn’t sure if she was still awake enough to hear him.

He tapped the pack once against his knee, then tucked it into the front pocket of his pyjama shirt. The weight of it was insignificant, barely there at all, and yet it pressed against his ribs like something heavier, something lingering.

Emma-May, without opening her eyes, reached into the drawer and pulled out the small orange bottle of pain medication he’d been looking for, the motion so practised it might as well have been second nature. She unscrewed the cap with a quiet pop and shook two pills into her palm before pressing them gently into his hand.

“Here you go,” she murmured, voice soft.

He took them without argument, swallowing them dry, but she was already shifting, reaching toward the floor for the water bottle she kept beside the bed. She held it out to him, fingers curling loosely around the plastic, waiting for him to take it.

He did, murmuring a quiet thanks before drinking down a few slow sips. The water was room temperature but soothing, easing the rough edge at the back of his throat. He screwed the cap back on and set it on the nightstand, then exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders again as he settled back against the pillows.

Emma-May shifted and reached out, resting a hand lightly against his arm. “You’re always hunched over,” she mumbled, her words barely more than a breath. “Hurts your back.”

Fiddleford huffed out a soft chuckle, though it held no real amusement. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Suppose so.”

She nodded softly, her hair frizzing against the cotton pillowcase.

Fiddleford sighed.
He hated waking her with his small, insignificant movements.

Even if he hadn’t practically crushed her while reaching for the medicine, she’d have woken up.

It was like trying to live in a spider’s web, every little muscle twitch alerting her instantly. It was awful, suffocating, and smothering and—

“Fidds?” Emma-May said, causing Fiddleford to jump and drop his book onto the blankets.

“Oh, Lord,” He muttered, scrambling to grab it.

“Sorry,” she smiled, her voice gentle.

There was a pause as he shook his head, flipping through his book to find where he’d left off. He could feel her eyes on him, waiting, weighing something in her head before she finally said it.

“What’s wrong, May?” Fiddleford let out, his voice cracking.

There was a long pause, and he thought she might’ve even fallen asleep.
But then she spoke.

“You don’t really hold me very much.”

Fiddleford blinked. “What?”

Emma-May let out a breath, shifting again, facing him fully now. “Not that I mean—” She stopped, flustered, and tried again. “I know you’re busy. You’re always busy, you got your work and you got Tate and you worry so much, darlin’.” A small laugh. “And I know you’re real tired all the time, I do. I don’t wanna be one of those wives that’s always demandin’ things, that’s always naggin’ and complainin’.”

Her voice softened.

“But I—” A pause, and then, quieter, “I do miss you, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford’s throat felt dry.

She wasn’t wrong. He didn’t ever hold her or touch her. He barely looked at her some days. He told himself it wasn’t intentional—he was just busy, like she said. Between his research, his work, Tate needing his attention, and the heavy weight of everything else pressing into his chest—he simply did not have the space for her.

And yet—

“You hold Tate so much,” Emma-May murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You always got him in your arms, and you rock him and kiss his little head and sing to him when he cries.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric of the quilt, holding onto it like it might anchor her.

“But you don’t hold me.”

Fiddleford finally glanced at her, just a flicker of his gaze before he looked away again. She wasn’t crying. Her voice hadn’t wavered once. It wasn’t an accusation. It was just talking.

He forced himself to clear his throat. “I—”

She was already shaking her head before he could say anything. “I’m not mad,” she said quickly. “I promise, I’m not mad. I just—” She exhaled, slow and even, as if she were pulling herself back together. “I just wish you’d hold me sometimes, is all.”

Fiddleford swallowed.

Emma-May offered him a small, apologetic smile, as if she was embarrassed for even saying it out loud.

“And I ain’t demandin’, neither,” she added, voice light, almost airy, like the words meant nothing. “I just—”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

Fiddleford hesitated for half a second before finally —finally— reaching out, just barely, resting his hand over hers where she still clutched the quilt. It felt like holding onto plastic, something meaningless and small.

Her nails weren’t painted, but they had some sort of product on them, making them shine in the low light. He watched as her fingers twitched slightly beneath his, almost as if she was expecting something else, something more.

He didn’t like when she did that.
It made his stomach twist uncomfortably, his insides curling together, away from where they should be.

Away from her.

She smiled again, a little softer this time, and she turned her palm upward, pressing her hand against his like it actually meant something.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice gentle and almost wind-like. “We should do this more often, you know. Maybe we could go out like we used to, to that nice place that Leora was sayin’ her husband took her to last time he was on leave.”

Fiddleford forced a small nod and smile, barely there.

A part of him felt bad about it, about ignoring her. He knew that’s what he was doing, too. He knew it had been on purpose, scared of being not enough so he’d just hide away when she was around; always making excuses that would have him leave the room.

Emma-May sighed, closing her eyes, and after a moment, the light clicked off before she shifted closer, letting her head rest against his shoulder. She was warm, her hair smelling faintly of lavender and the chemical of her curlers.

Fiddleford barely moved. He just sat there, staring down at the words on the page in front of him, not reading a single one. It was too dark now anyway, but his brain had gone fuzzy a while ago. He couldn’t sleep, though. The window would rattle as cars sped by, and his heart’s rhythm went off slightly as adrenaline filled his veins.

But his eyelids felt like weights, heavy and burning when he closed them, the near euphoria of sleep so close to claiming him it was almost comical. The house was still, wrapped in a heavy quiet that only came in the dead of night, where even the air felt thick with it.

Emma-May had finally drifted off, her breath slow and steady beside him, and in a way, it was comforting. It was something he’d grown used to in the time he’d been in California.

And moments like this were nice, he thought. This was his wife, and his baby was peacefully sleeping in the crib nearby, safe. He’d held her hand before she was taken to the delivery room, he had stared at his shoes in the waiting room for nearly 29 hours without even realising it, he did love her.

Didn’t he?

Wasn’t this what love was supposed to be like? Wasn’t this what his life was supposed to be like?

It was soft, like the way Emma-May’s paintings looked when she’d pour linseed oil over wet canvas, colours blending together in that blooming way they did; and the more Fiddleford thought about it, the more he began to start floating in that hazy space between consciousness and rest.

The tall grey fan at the end of the bed was always on full blast, loud like background static— nearly enough to cut out the rumbling of the 18-wheelers and F-50s racing by.

Through the window right by the bed, Fiddleford could see the stars when he lay back. With a sigh, he slid his book underneath his pillow, and carefully, slowly nestled into the blankets.

He began to fidget with his wedding ring, something he’d developed the moment it was placed on his finger back in June, last year.
It was a nice night.

The stars were out.

His whole body jolted as the house practically rattled, the phone ringing so loudly it’d probably cause a 7.9 magnitude earthquake. For a moment, Fiddleford thought it might actually be an earthquake, and he shot up in the bed, his heart slamming so hard against the front of his ribcage that he worried he’d die first from cardiac arrest rather than any rubble falling onto his head and flattening him out like a pancake.

Emma-May groaned beside him, stirring. “Who in the world—?” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

Fiddleford exhaled through his nose trying to calm down as he moved to get up. “Dunno,” he muttered.

Emma-May, sluggish and drowsy, made a vague attempt to push herself upright. “I’ll—”

“No, no, I got it,” Fiddleford said quickly.

She blinked at him, still dazed, as he shifted over her, crawling carefully to avoid jostling her too much. Before he pulled away, he hesitated for just a moment before pressing a brief, fleeting kiss to her cheek.

“Go back to sleep, Em,” he murmured.

Emma-May made a soft, pleased hum, her eyes already fluttering closed again.
“You’re such a good husband,” She whispered, groggy. “I love you…”

Fiddleford swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, rolling his shoulders as he hurried toward the door. He could still hear the phone ringing, shrill and insistent, echoing down the hallway. Tate was still asleep—thankfully—but the sound carried through the house, rattling against Fiddleford’s nerves like a loose thread pulling tighter and tighter.

He carefully walked through the living room, his hands clasped together so as to not touch anything. He needed to clean, to dust throughout the house.

He’d do that in the morning.

The floorboards creaked beneath his steps. As he neared the entryway, a faint buzzing met his ears—a fly—darting against the walls, drawn to the dim glow of the outside light spilling through the curtains. Fiddleford swatted at it half heartedly as he turned the corner.

“Gross,” he muttered.

The entryway was small, the white-washed furniture softened by the dark. The table beside the phone stood out, still its natural wood colour. They had only bought it recently—Emma-May had wanted it painted to match the rest of the house, but they hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

The hallway was dark, the only source of light the thin strip of yellow and blue bleeding in from both the streetlamp and the pool lights outside. Shadows stretched long against the wallpaper, distorting the framed family photos that lined the walls. There were wedding pictures, photographs of Emma-May’s family, snapshots of Tate in his first few months—his tiny hands curled into fists, his round, reddened face peeking out from under a soft blue blanket.

Fiddleford’s breath hitched as he glanced at them. His fingers twitched at his sides, that odd feeling in the pit of his stomach coming back again, digging in.

One of the frames was slightly crooked, barely a fraction of an inch off-centre, but enough that he felt it like a splinter beneath his skin. The instinct to reach out, to straighten it, was immediate, his hand hovering in the air before he clenched it into a fist, digging his nails into the flesh of his palms as he forced himself to focus.

The phone kept ringing, insistent and annoying, echoing in his ears as his hands trembled, rushing to stop the noise.

Fiddleford sighed through his nose and quickly reached for the receiver.
The ringing stopped.

He lifted it to his ear, the automatic response leaving his mouth before he could even think. “McGucket residence. Fiddleford speakin’,” he yawned.

“Hey, Fidds.”

The voice was slurred, barely above a whisper, but the sound of it made his stomach drop. His breath stalled in his throat, fingers tightening around the phone cord.

The house around him seemed to close in, the warmth of the August night replaced with a sudden, unbearable pressure. Like something had slipped through the walls, something cold, something from another time.

The buzzing of the fly, the distant creaking of the house, the sound of his own breath—all of it disappeared.

He swallowed against the nausea rising in his gut.

“…Stanley?”

“Mhm.” The sound was followed by a clattering noise—maybe a boot scuffing against gravel, maybe a bottle knocked over against the curb. “Oh, y’still know my voice… that’s nice.”

Fiddleford swallowed hard, trying to push past the tightness in his chest, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted itself into something knotted and painful.
“Oh, my God. Wh—Why are you callin’? You okay? Do you need somethin’?” Fiddleford let out, instinctual, worried.

“No.” Stanley said softly. “No, I don’t need anything.”

He swallowed.
“Are you sure? H-How are you?” Fiddleford asked, shifting his weight.

“Oh, I’m great.” Stan laughed. “I broke the phone booth, I think.”

“Are you drunk?”

A snort, sharp and humourless.
“Yeah.” A pause. “Yeah, no shit.”

Something rustled on the other end—fabric shifting, maybe, or the scrape of a hand against stubble. Someone called out in the background, their voice blurred and distant, barely distinguishable over the low hum of conversation from inside what was probably a bar. 

Fiddleford exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“Where are you?”

“Some place in bumfuck, Arizona. I-I’m uh, I saw the highway thing. The sign. Uh, I could get to San Diego in like, couple hours. Or you know. Tijuana.”

“... Why are you callin’ me?”

Stanley inhaled sharply, a sound that hitched slightly at the end, like he was trying to keep himself together but failing miserably. Fiddleford recognised the sound.

“I don’t know.” Stan admitted, voice crackling over the line. “Jus’... I needed t’hear your voice, I guess. Oh… Fidds, I miss you.”

Fiddleford’s fingers curled against the receiver, his pulse a dull, pounding rhythm in his ears. “Stanley,” he shook his head, pulling the cigarette pack from his front pocket and flicking it open.

“I tried,” Stanley went on, voice thick and unsteady. “I really, really tried, but—you’re just there, all the time. In my head. In every damn thing I do.” A wet laugh, shaking apart at the edges. “And it’s—hell, it’s stupid, I know it is, but I keep—I keep thinkin’ about that stupid motel, y’know? That one place outside your town? Your old town, I mean, I guess—that one motel, the one with the ugly-ass carpet and the busted AC?”

Fiddleford swallowed again, throat dry, and said nothing as he grabbed a cigarette, packing it against the surface of the table.

“You remember that, don’t you?” Stan pressed on, desperate now, voice cracking. “We stayed up all night drinkin’ that cheap whiskey, and you—God, you kept tryin’ to explain somethin’ about circuits or somethin’, and I had no clue what the fuck you were talkin’ about, but I just—I kept listenin’ ‘cause I loved hearin’ you talk—”

“Stanley.” Fiddleford’s voice came out sharper than intended, and it made Stan pause. He lit the cigarette using the lighter on the table, placed there by Emma-May for the scented candles she loved. 

“Yeah?” His voice was softer than it should’ve been for a moment like this.

He took an inhale of nicotine.
“You shouldn’t have called.”

A shaky breath on the other end, then a weak, humourless chuckle. “Yeah,” Stan murmured. “Figured you’d say that.”

A car rumbled past in the distance. Something metallic clattered against the concrete again.
Stanley sniffled, voice thick with something that wasn’t just alcohol.

“I just—I dunno,” he mumbled. “Didn’t know who else to call.” A beat. “Didn’t wanna be alone.”

Fiddleford shut his eyes, something aching deep in his chest, something twisting too tight to ignore. “Stop this, Lee, please.”

“No, no, I don’t care— I don’t fucking care. I dunno what I’m even doin’ anymore. Selling bullshit to buy beer and lottery tickets? I hate this. I hate being alone, I hate thinking about you in that house with—with her , like it doesn’t even matter, like I never—”

“Stop it.”

“I can’t go home anymore,” Stan said. “I can’t just drive up to Indiana anymore and go home.”

Fiddleford exhaled, adjusting his grip on the phone.
“Stanley, I can’t—I can’t do this. Not now, not any–anymore.”

The call fell silent.
Fiddleford could hear the crickets and cicadas outside, the faint breathing of the other man on the line being the only sound to let him know Stan was still there.

“You happy?”

Fiddleford’s breath caught.
”What?”

Stan cleared his throat, voice rough and unsteady.
“With her. With—with all of it. Are you happy?”

Fiddleford’s grip tightened on the receiver.

The clock in the hallway ticked softly. The house was still, save for the quiet creak of the floorboards shifting under his weight. 

“Yes.”

“No you’re not.”

“No, I am.” Fiddleford said, his voice carefully measured. “I-I got a good life here.”

Stanley let out a static addled snort.
“Sure you do.”

Fiddleford swallowed down the taste of cigarette smoke, shifting his weight. The wind outside was rattling against the window panes, howling and pleading to be let in.

The house felt small.

“You don’t know anythin’ about my life anymore, Stan,” he murmured, voice quiet but firm. “You don’t get to comment on what you think—”

“I know you.”

“Like hell you do.” Fiddleford snapped.

“I do.” Stan’s voice cut through the hush of the house, sudden and sharp. “I know the way you sound when you’re lyin’ t’me.”

Fiddleford’s breath caught in his throat, unable to let go of the smoke held there, his pulse jumping against his ribs. He leaned against the table, his back pressing into the smooth wood before he slid down, sitting on the floor with an exhale.

Somewhere behind Stan, a burst of muffled laughter echoed down the street.
When he spoke again, it was soft.

“You ain’t happy,” he said, his voice quiet. “You haven’t been happy since I…”
He stopped, but Fiddleford knew what he was going to say.

“Since you left me?” He asked, looking at the kitchen from where he sat.

Stan paused.
“Fidds…”

Fiddleford shook his head as if the other man could see him
“No. No, I— You did this, you did this to yourself, you did this to me .” He said. “We were happy , Lee. I-I told you that I loved you and then you just… you were gone. You didn’t even fuckin’ say goodbye. You were gone in the morning and I didn’t know. I waited for you, y’know? I made food for us, set up the table, and you never came. You never came back.”

Stanley was quiet on the other end.

“You know, on the mornin’ of my weddin’, what I was imagining?” Fiddleford began, leaning into the phone. “You, showin’ up like some fuckin’ knight in shining armour, save me from all that. I kept picturing it, over and over. An’ when the wedding ring was put on my finger I… I was nauseous. An’ I had to kiss her, Lee. Up ‘till then, you’d been the only one.” His eyesight began to blur, tears building and threatening to slip. “And I know it’s weak, an’ it’s pathetic— that a man shouldn’t be thinkin’ these kinds a’things about another on a day he’s supposed to get married; and I am ashamed of myself. I am. But… Lord, I-I was so sure. I was so positive that my life wasn’t gonna end up like this that I nearly expected you to be there in the morning when I woke up.”

“I’m sorry.”

Fiddleford sighed, leaning his head against the table.
“I would’ve left her for you, Stan, if you’d been there at the weddin’.”

“Fidds, I—”

“No. No, we had a life together, and you left it. You chose to leave, you chose to end that, and you didn’t even let me know. I waited. I waited, and when you weren’t there, I got worried, Lee.” Fiddleford’s voice cracked. “I thought you did something t’yourself, and I’d check the newspapers for your fuckin’ obituary .”

“Leave her.”

Fiddleford stopped.
“What?” He asked, wiping at his eyes with the palm of his hand.

Stan’s voice cracked on the words, breaking open in a way Fiddleford only heard the last time he saw him.
“Divorce her,” Stan pleaded, slurring slightly. “Please.”

“Stanley, don’t say that.”

“We can fix this,” Stan continued, his words rushed and tumbling over each other. “You an’ me. We can still—”

“Stan,” Fiddleford stopped him, his voice shaking. It felt like breathing was getting too difficult, too violent; like if he took in too deep a breath, it would break his ribs. “I have a baby.”

“We’ll raise him together.”

Fiddleford froze.

“I could be there in, like, six hours,” Stan let out, his voice barely above a whisper.

Fiddleford’s fingers went slack around the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming. His breath was shallow, his chest rising and falling too fast.

For a moment, he could picture it.
Stan being there, staying. They could have someplace together, they could have their lives. He wondered, for a moment, briefly, how good of a father Stan would be.

He was sure he’d be wonderful.

And he wanted it.
God help him, he wanted it.

The words sat heavy between them, thick and suffocating. The line crackled softly, filled with nothing but Stan’s breath and the distant hum of the world outside his phone booth. It was dangerous to want something like what they wanted, and they both knew it.

Fiddleford’s throat tightened, a lump forming, heavy and unmoving. The guilt crashed over him all at once, suffocating, and he had to claw for something—anything—that would pull him out before he drowned in it. His grip on the phone was iron-clad, fingers trembling, breath uneven as he stood from the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was sharp.

“Stanley, I ain’t that man no more.”

The silence that followed was thick, the kind that squeezed the air from a room. He could hear Stan inhale, a small, shaky sound that made Fiddleford’s chest ache.

“It—it was a mistake, what we did.” He continued. “And… I do regret it.”

Stan sucked in a breath, still silent.
When he did speak, it was soft, broken at the edges. “Baby...” he let out. “Please.”

Fiddleford closed his eyes, gripping the phone so tightly that his knuckles ached. His chest heaved, and for a moment, he thought he might fall apart right there, might let it all spill out into the quiet. He wanted to.

A part of him wanted to just say yes, to take it back and agree, to divorce Emma-May and raise Tate with Stanley and the idea of it made him feel so happy that it caused his hands to shake.

But he couldn’t.

“Don’t call me again.”
He couldn’t let Stan get another word in. He knew he’d be too weak, that he’d fall apart if Stan said anything— He forced his hand to lower, forced the receiver back into place with a dull, final click.

The house fell silent, ringing in his ears.

Fiddleford stared at the phone, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. The ringing in his ears got worse, louder, stronger, and then—his knees buckled.

He barely caught himself against the entryway table, hands gripping the edge so hard it shook beneath his touch. His breath was shallow, too fast, too sharp, and for a moment, he was nothing but shaking hands and burning lungs and the weight of a choice he could never undo.

It started as a low, strangled noise in the back of his throat, barely there, barely real. Then, before he could stop it, before he could shove it down, it ripped out of him—a broken, choked sob, his body curling in on itself. He pressed his forehead to the wood, tears slipping free, his breath shuddering as he tried to will it away, trying to force himself back into something solid, something whole.

He didn’t want Emma-May to hear him.

With a deep, unsteady inhale, he wrenched himself back. His hands moved before his mind caught up, rubbing harshly at his eyes, smothering the evidence, swallowing it down before it could consume him. He forced his breath to even, forced his hands to still, forced his face into something neutral, distant, unreadable.

His feet felt heavy as he moved down through the living room. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, and the dim glow of the bedside lamp cast everything in a dull, hazy light. Emma-May must’ve turned the light on when he left so that he wouldn’t trip on anything when he came back.

She barely stirred as he climbed into bed, only shifting slightly, eyes fluttering open just enough to glance at him.

“Who was it?” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, soft and small.

Fiddleford swallowed.
“Just a salesman.”