Work Text:
“Shit!”
Alarmed, Fiddleford swiveled round in his seat at the noise, spotting Ford on the other side of their dorm - cradling his wrist.
“You alright?” He shuffled a bit with his chair, before abandoning it to walk over instead. Ford was twisting the skin over his wrist back and forth, muttering under his breath.
“Yes. Sort of. Not entirely. How often do you get shooting pains through your forearm?”
He squinted, “Never.”
“Ah.” Ford turned back to twist at his wrist, before being tapped on the shoulder gently.
“Leave that darn thing alone for one moment. It ain't gonna get any better with you wrangling it like some snake.”
There was a disgruntled huff, but Ford let go and laid his arm on the desk. “So now what.”
“Y’leave it be.”
“...I'm not going to do that.”
Fiddleford shook his head, craning down to peer at Ford. “Mr City Boy thinks he's better than his body.” He tried to meet his eyes, but they darted away.
“If you don't let that thing rest, you’ll be sat complaining to me about wrist pain for the rest of your sorry life. Do us both a favor and. Leave. It. Alone.” The last few points were enunciated with firm taps to the desk, Ford’s eyes following each one.
“What made you such an expert, then?” It was deflection, Fiddleford knew it and Ford knew it too. He’d let him try and weasel out of this, if only for a moment.
“Farm hand aches. I've seen and been through enough of ‘em.”
Mumbling, Ford spoke into his shoulder, “Well, I was a boxer.”
“Now don't go threatening me.” Fiddleford tutted, and then grinned as Ford fumbled for a retort.
“That wasn't- you always tangle my words.” He’d at least stopped writing for the moment, Fiddleford would take that as a temporary win.
“Just leave off it, alright? I better not see that pen in your hand for the rest of the evening.”
Pouting, Ford nodded curtly and dismissed him back to his work. Fiddleford was left unconvinced, but unwilling to stop an unstoppable force.
The scrape of pen on paper told him enough.
***
Another late night, Fiddleford was folded over his work, half heartedly flicking page against page to see if it would make his brain cells click. Maybe his vision was doubling, but a blurry set of four, or eight, cups of coffee were stacked in front of him. A hand appeared in his line of sight, shakily placing another one in front of him.
“Ford, that cannot be, in any sense, natural.”
“The shake, the hand, or the quantity of coffee?”
“All of- hey, no. The shake. Mostly the shake, ain't this your dominant hand?”
“I’m ambidextrous F, that isn't an issue for me.”
He moved to shuffle back to his desk, but Fiddleford pulled him by the shirt sleeve - careful not to tug on his wrist. He didn't say anything at first, struggling not to run over the same lines he’d fed Ford in their college years.
“It's just the coffee.”
“Then why were you cradling your wrist all afternoon? I saw you swap your pen from hand to hand - don't you lie.”
Hesitant to answer, Ford shifted - and Fiddleford lost the tentative grip he had on his sleeve. “It’s just a little pain. Pain makes progress. It's how you know things are working.”
“That’s a whole load of lies, Stanford.” He motioned for his hand. “Gimme your arm.”
He huffed, but Ford allowed Fiddleford to examine him. Firmly, he ran his fingers up and down the skin of his wrist - blue eyes watching for any kind of wince or reaction.
Ford was good at masking pain, Fiddleford knew that, but he also hoped he knew Ford well enough to spot his tells. A gentle press of his thumb against the bone of his wrist, and Ford just barely flinched his arm. When Fiddleford carefully cuffed his sleeve, he watched the same happen with a similar motion at his elbow.
“Oh Stanford, this is real nasty. Why'd you keep working through it?”
Yanking his arm away, Ford took a step back from Fiddleford's desk. “It's not your job to take care of me. This is fine. It's been fine this whole time.”
His tone was bitter and rancid - something old attached to his words and Fiddleford didn't like what he was dragging back up.
“To take care of you?” Fiddleford repeated, dumbstruck. “So instead, my job is just to keep working?” There was no reply from the other man, and he was too fragile to have the sense to back down. “Is that it? Just like you, I should pride myself on working to the damn brittle bone?”
He’d stood up now, chair screeching on the wood as he faced Ford.
“Yes! I get things done. Something, you could learn from.” Ford jabbed a finger at his chest. He was looking for a fight, something to keep him awake. If they fought, he was taller and stronger. Ford could kill him if he wanted.
He still didn't stop himself from yelling, voice scratchy from the lack of sleep, the six- no, seven. No. The coffee.
“You think working too hard makes you better than everyone else-”
“It does!”
“Guess what, you God-given genius. It don't.”
He grit his teeth, anxiety and adrenaline and caffeine making them chatter. Fiddleford watched Ford’s eyes widen in offense, a petty retort about grammar choked back in his throat.
“You're still the same skin and bone. And you're gonna ache like it too.”
Incensed, Ford finally stormed off - slamming the door shut behind him. Footsteps were heard down to the basement, and the loud clatter of a lock.
Fiddleford took a sip from the cold cup of coffee, bitter flavour congealing at the back of his throat.
***
The evening light crept through windows, signaling the end of Ford’s day at Fiddleford's new manor. He’d been enthusiastically invited over after he and Stan arrived back home to recuperate. Months of vibrant chatting, extended calls over the new McGucket-patent-phone, and a few shorter expeditions, had changed their conversations from stiff and stilted to something more comfortable and familiar.
Fiddleford sat in their silence like a worn chair, watching as Ford paced around the living room. His fingers on his chin, deep in thought, Fiddleford could almost squint and see the grey wash out of his hair. He tried to keep his eyes wide open, watching and taking it all in instead. Getting lost in memory was easier, but endlessly terrifying. Living in the gentle moment suited him just fine.
With a practiced and perfected flourish, Ford pulled out a small journal and jotted down a note. Fiddleford’s focused stare snagged on the slight tug on his lip, as he put pen to paper. He shook his wrist a little, before finishing the sentence.
“Gosh, you really didn't change much at all did you.”
Ford snapped back into the moment, “What's that Fidds?”
He patted the empty space on the sofa, fixing up a cushion. “Sit down here and let me take a look at your wrist, hon’.”
Hesitant, but obliging, Ford sat down next to him. He offered his wrist with a turn of his arm, laying it firmly on his thigh. Fiddleford didn't pull it closer, letting him keep a distance that was comfortable.
His wrist was marked with a faint white scar, he’d spotted a similar pattern on his left. Under his breath, Ford half-heartedly muttered something about chains and he hummed in understanding, hand drifting closer.
“Do you mind if I…” The other man nodded sharply, hand flexing against his knee as Fiddleford’s fingers brushed over the knuckles.
He mapped out the same marks, scarring, and scratches he’d seen years before. Gently, he moved Ford’s hand to look at his palm. There were some deeper set wounds right in the centre. They were brutally and roughly healed over. Considering their colour, they looked to be fairly old, but he’d never seen them before. The implication made his gut twist, but he bit down on his questioning. Now wasn't the time, he was just here to examine.
“Your hands are just as remarkable as they were before, Ford.”
Ford scoffed warmly, “I thought you were going to scold me for taking bad care of them.”
“Then I'd be a mighty big hypocrite wouldn't I. Mine aren't faring much better.” For emphasis, Fiddleford twisted his wrist to lay it next to Ford’s. It was marred with similar flecks, scratches, and deeper set scarring.
“See? And that's not even the one that's been in a cast for God knows how many years.”
He worried his lip, watching as Ford gave his hand the same examining look - but he was searching for something. Some concrete evidence of a wound, thumb massaging over his joints in the hopes he could find a physical ailment to help heal. Fiddleford appreciated the gesture for what it was, rather late than never.
“What's the doctor's orders?” He offered instead.
“You know my PhD doesn't cover medical practices.”
“Sure, sure. Still, one of the twelve had to have something on all this.”
“You'd be surprised how little it all helped when dealing with… Life.” Ford’s eyes misted over like they often did nowadays. Fiddleford would gently bring him back each time, he’d do the same for him.
“I get that, believe me I really do… But, you do know what makes it somewhat easier though?” Ford cocked his head at that, eyes wide but clear, and a hand was placed over his own.
“A little comfort.”
“Oh.”
Warmth seeped through his knuckles, as he scraped his thumb along Ford's calloused palm. He took in the changes, he took in the familiar.
“Y’know. I could make you a new pair of gloves, if you'd like.” He chewed off some of his cracked lip, anxiety prickling the back of his neck as he said it.
“Oh!”
He cracked a smile, watching his face flush. “I need a little more than vowels, Ford.”
“No, no. The gesture is very kind, but I couldn't possibly ask you to overwork yourself like that-”
“I’ll work on it slow and steady.”
“That could take months!”
“Good thing we have the season then.”
Ford sputtered, trying to move an immovable object and failing would bruise his ego. However, the repeated motion of a thumb on his palm stopped him short of a reply.
“It’s no bad thing. We can both wait.” Fiddleford's voice had gone pillow-soft again and Ford matched it, but with a characteristic firmness.
“I’m sick of having to wait for everything. I’ve waited long enough for good things, it's hardly wrong to want to enjoy them now.”
They sat in the reality of it for a moment, the dusk now settling into the room. This was a good thing, these talks, they both felt it. Aching pain became a thrumming connection. Fiddleford smiled, anchoring back to the conversation.
“You sound like I’m going off to war, not huddling up with a knitting needle.”
“Melodrama runs in our blood, what can I say?”
Fiddleford let out a little cackle at that, and Ford’s pleased grin brightened before curving back into a concerned smile. Wrinkles had started to form around it.
“You’ve cared about my health worries for longer than you should have. I appreciate it now more than I can bear. If I fuss over you, just let me have that.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll shoulder the pain-staking fuss of having Stanford Pines care about me.”
Ford twitched a little at the wording, but Fiddleford continued, eyes catching his, “Having a beautiful man care about my bag of bones is far from the worst thing. I’d be honoured.”
There was a stretch of silence, where Ford tried to trample down the swell of heartfelt emotion, and tears, springing up in the corners of his eyes. He coughed, which turned into a hiccup, then a stamped out huff.
“Pretty sick of crying, aren't you?” Fiddleford joked, curling up closer on the sofa but not letting go of his hand.
“A little. Yes.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you did.” He knocked his head against Ford’s shoulder. “Correction, I’d be real happy if you did. Call it, ‘caring for me’ or something, if that helps you.”
“Mm. I suppose it does.” His voice wavered, breaking off into a creak as a few tears fell down.
“I love you.”
Ford mumbled, half to himself, half to the man next to him. It bled warmly into the evening. The sentiment was implicit in everything Ford did since their reunion. Fiddleford had spotted it, of course he did.
Everything had to be so careful now, so he was ready to never hear it aloud at all.
He’d been ready since the first night in the dorms, picking at the plaster wallpaper and mulling over the eyes of the brilliant man asleep on the other side.
He’d been ready since he placed that stack of papers on the sticky diner table, watching his face contort into disgust at the very concept.
He’d been ready since he’d heaved open the large mansion doors and let him into his home; his workshop, his life.
Waiting for an injury to heal is difficult. No brute force, machine or mental, can do it for you. For decades, Fiddleford considered their love to be the kind of chewing pain that would never leave him, but maybe he could get better at ignoring.
A love rusted and crumpled, but so undoubtedly theirs.
Ford’s fist was still in his hand, straining with tension. Carefully, he coaxed it open again, interlacing their fingers. Six to five, they fit perfectly.
“I love you too.”