Chapter Text
10:37 at night, Fiddleford pulled into the driveway. He made sure not to hit Emma’s car. He’d dented it once before, and while she said it was fine, he still felt guilty and wanted to ensure it wouldn’t happen again. Guilt was a common feeling around Emma, he’d found, and he felt guiltier knowing that he’d chosen to forget about some of it.
He’d promised to be there at five to seven, but even with that generous time frame he still managed to be late. And this too was his fault, as he took as much time as possible dilly-dallying and getting things he had put off done. As much as he loved Emma, he dreaded being around her. The sweeter she was, the sicker he felt. The most guilt he felt now was arriving far after Tate’s bedtime.
The dining room window glowed, a sign that Emma was still awake and waiting. He wondered what would happen if he stayed in the car just a bit longer- would she give up, or would she stay up waiting for him? He could lie about what took him so long- it wouldn’t be his fault if he had gotten stuck in traffic. What was his fault to him was wanting to be back in Oregon. He checked his watch- 11:43.
With the slam of the truck door, he imagined himself leaving the guilt in the car, as if it were an object. This worked for him, and he wasn’t going to question this technique now.
He walked up to the porch, and opened the door. “Merry Christmas!” He said. Emma walked through the door to the dining room. Fiddleford opened his arms to give her a hug. And they hugged for a good few seconds before Emma stepped back. “Tate’s asleep- what took ya?” Fiddleford put his bag down. “Oh y’know. Holidays traffic.” He looked over at the Christmas tree. “When’d y’all get that?” Fiddleford asked, annoyed that he was left out of a family tradition.
EMMA
Fiddleford frowned, and Emma brushed her hands on her skirt. “The tenth I think." He frowned at this “I shoulda waited,” she said. “I just wasn’t sure if you’d be here.” She sighed, then turned to go back into the kitchen, trying to think of how she could get them to go to bed sooner. (And no, not in a sex way. She was just really fucking tired.) “Want anything? Tate tried making- uh- eggnog popsicles.” She pointed to the counter. A cup of eggnog (non-alcoholic of course) with a spoon in it was sitting on the counter. She put it out earlier so that it would melt, because “Santa” probably (like most people) wouldn’t want to eat an eggnog popsicle. No matter how kind of a gesture it was. “He wanted it frozen,” Emma continued, “but I figured ‘Santa’ can’t drink it if it’s in the fridge.” She smiled, looking back to Fiddleford. He nodded, she could tell he wasn’t listening. “Hey,” Emma said, “Is this about the tree?” Fiddleford didn’t look to her. “I don’t know.” He said. She looked at her husband. “I’m awfully sorry, but you’re the one who’s late.” said Emma, trying to be as quiet as she could (Tate was asleep,of course) while also getting her point across. “I think I’m the one who should be upset, but I’m here, and I think you should try to be all here too.” She looked at him. He should help out too, she wasn’t the only parent. She thought of all those times the old woman next door Susan had helped out, telling Emma about her awful ex-husband. Susan had recalled that at first it was him being more distant, then he was sleeping with other women, forgetting his son, and becoming an axe murderer. Emma wasn’t too worried about the last part. She was pretty sure Susan had just forgotten her pills that day.
Fiddleford looked over to the opened bottle of wine that sat on the counter. “Susan came over for supper. She brought that,” said Emma as she motioned to the bottle. She thought of what Susan had said. “again, you weren’t there.”
FIDDLEFORD
Fiddleford tried to remember who Susan was, but he lost his train of thought when his wife started again, “I’m sorry Fidds. I know you’re busy and all, but gosh, I just wish you were here.” Fiddleford sat down at the kitchen table. “I AM here.” Fiddleford sighed. “Can I just check on Tate then head’ta bed?” Emma stared at him. “Oh no, Susan checked on him. In fact,” she raised her voice, walking all around the kitchen now, “our ELDERLY NEIGHBOR SUSAN has been more present just this December than you have since you took that job.”
“Oh.” He said. “I’m so sorry,” he flailed his arms about, mocking Emma. “It’s so sad that Tate has to have a father with a great job that pays well! An actual scienc-ey one! God I’m such a bad father!” Emma marched over to him, “WEATHER SCIENCE IS REAL SCIENCE GODDAMMIT.” She was shaking with anger now. She sighed and tried to collect herself. “I’m sorry. I miss you.” She said. “Me too,” Fiddleford replied. “I’m really tired,” she said to him, “we both are. We shouldn’t be fightin’. It’s Christmas.” Emma sat down across from him and reached out to hold his hand. Fiddleford put his hands on hers. they were just about the size as his. Emma held onto him. Fiddleford thought about how he had asked to measure Ford’s hands, and how Ford was still surprised at the gift of handmade gloves.
“Well, I guess you can put the presents by the tree.” Emma said, “Unless you have anything for me right now.” Fiddleford thought about whether she meant an apology or sex for like .02 seconds before he realized
T h e
P r e s e n t s .
“God dammit.” Fiddleford said, taking his hands away from hers, fiddling with his glasses. “I forgot.” Emma put her face in her hands. “You always do. I,” she took a deep breath, “it’s fine. You can mail them here later.” Fiddleford looked to the bottle of wine. He was considering having some earlier, but now he wasn’t so sure. There was now a chance he’d be driving back, because there were no gifts in his rusty old truck, and frankly, he was too tired from all that previously-mentioned-dilly-dallying to deal with this.
“I forgot ‘em completely, I mean. No presents at all,” he said. Silence. Emma, even tired Fiddleford could tell, was not surprised. She was clearly disappointed though.
“It’s not wrong if you quit.” She said. She looked into his eyes. Her bangs covered them usually, and because Fiddleford was taller than her, he hadn’t been able to see them until now, when they were at the same level sitting down at the table. They were brown, like Stanford’s. “I’m not quittin’, Emma,” He said sternly, “Why’d ye even ask that?”
Emma looked at the Christmas tree. “You don’t have time for us anymore,” said Emma. “I feel like you don’t care at all ‘bout us anymore. It’s like you’re more in love with that stupid portal junk. Than me.”
She said this in the classic Emma fashion of trying to lighten the mood, no matter what.
She smiled, and god did Fiddleford know she was trying to make him smile back. Just so goddamn kind, she was. Even if she snapped. It made him sick.
All of the little bits of guilt he left in the car had snuck out and caught up with him now like scurrying rats. “That nutcase Stanferd. What’d’s he even want with a portal anyways? He’s just taking you away from me, I swear to goodness.” Emma had said this to lighten the mood again, of course.
Of course,
Fiddleford was tired.
Emma was tired.
“He doesn’t even compare. I-“
Fiddleford said without thinking.
“What?” Said Emma-May, with a concerned smile that was quickly fading.
He swallowed. “He doesn’t compare to you.” Fiddleford’s face was no longer hot with anger, but instead flushed with fear. “I heard you,” Emma said. “Fiddleford,” she said. He stood up from the chair, facing the door to the mudroom. He could just walk out, he thought, what was stopping him? “Fiddleford- are you okay?” Emma asked. She said it with such a gentle tone that it made him sick. The guilt was scurrying back up his legs. “Is this a joke,” she said, “the presents. They’re in the car. Aren’t they?“ He looked back at her, and god knows he wished he didn’t. “Emma, I’m gonna head out now. I’m gonna,” he said, “I’m gonna head back to Stanford’s and I’m-“ Emma interrupted. “So it’s ‘Stanford’s’ now? Not an actual sciencey job that’s so much better than…” she breathed in. She stuttered angrily, trying to choke out another sentence, but she couldn’t. She was crying.
“Emma I’m so sorry.” Fiddleford said, gritting his teeth.
“I love you.” She said. It was like a bullet had shot him in the chest
“Emma I’m so goddamn sorry.” His voice was less angry now, but just as loud. He hoped he didn’t sound violent.
“Fiddleford.”
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I,” Emma started. They were both silent for a minute. Fiddleford looked to the foyer again. What good would he be doing staying here, anyway? He started walking to the door.
“So what, you’re leaving now? Hell, are you even building a portal?” She didn’t say this as an accusation, but as a question. It felt so genuine that Fiddleford felt his heart fall to his stomach. “Yes, we are, and I’m gonna make so much money and we can move and I’ll buy ya’ll so many Christmas presents-” Emma may sat down again, hand on her head. “I,” Fiddleford started. Emma looked up at him. “Can I go up and see Tate before,” Emma’s cheeks turned hot. “BEFORE WHAT?” She yelled. “Before you go back to that lab and do who knows what and never come back, was ANY of this real?” Fiddleford was furious now. The guilt had all turned to anger now.
“WHAT’RE’YA TRYNA IMPLY?” He shouted. Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Fiddleford was walking out the door. Of course this was real, he thought, he just had other commitments, and so did she. He was running into the car now. Furious. He drove all the way here. Who cares if he forgot about some presents- was that all she wanted from him? Ford never nagged him about- “FIDDLEFORD!” Emma screamed. He turned the car keys. He thought of her hands. Her too beautiful hands that he decided weren’t good enough.
“YOU SON OF A BITCH-“
her hands that he left for some freakish abomination.
“TATE AND I DON’T NEED YOU”
he was the freakish abomination.
He took his wedding band off, and threw it out the window at the patchy lawn. He didn’t have a good throw though, so it wasn’t as dramatic as you might be picturing. “So, I guess it meant nothing anyways?” shouted Emma. Fiddleford backed up, hitting the mailbox on accident. “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?” She screamed. This was a good question, he thought, but it didn’t stop the anger he felt towards her. He needed to get out. He had to get out. He was bad for her, bad for Tate, just bad.
Susan was there for them anyway.
The rest of the guilt he had left behind in the car flooded him. That old lady Susan was a much better father to Tate than he was. And she was a fucking senior citizen.
He hoped he’d just be a faint memory to Tate- the kid was only four after all. Maybe he wouldn’t remember his dad. Tate didn’t deserve such a sick, disgusting, freak as a father anyway.
He drove into a parking lot of a snow-cone place only open in the summer.
He parked. From the back seat, he grabbed paper and a pencil(something that he had bought, unlike the Christmas presents)
He drew up plans for a robot that would destroy Emma. He felt bad for doing this, but the silliness of it got him less worked up about the situation. (He tried to incorporate a rubber chicken into the design- it wasn’t all that different from Emma making jokes to lighten the mood-)
But when the design was done, he couldn’t help but think.
He had something so perfect in California.
And he threw it all away. He felt so gross, so wrong.
He slept, he woke up, and then he made the drive back to Oregon.
Nothing was very memorable about that drive, really.