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As he slowly drifted into consciousness, the first coherent thought Fiddleford could form was one of discomfort. His temples throbbed with a headache, and he felt like he had eaten a bucket of nails. He took a deep breath— or, he would have, if his nose wasn't completely blocked up with mucus. Instead he inhaled through his mouth, the cool air of the room feeling borderline painful in his dry mouth.
He swallowed back the disgusting taste in his throat, opened his eyes— and immediately regretted it. The daylight bouncing off of the fresh fallen snow outside acted like a beacon, a light shining directly into his retinas making his head pound in agony. He quickly squeezed his eyes shut once more, and groaned.
Of course. He thought. Of course I'm sick.
He should have expected this. With the news of an upcoming blizzard that would keep them trapped inside for nearly a week, he had spent a good portion of the previous day outside chopping firewood. And maybe he had forgotten to wear his gloves and scarf, and he possibly stayed outside much longer than he should have, ignoring the cold leeching under his skin. He had felt useful.
Stanley had been inside giving a tour, and Fiddleford decided to prepare for the storm. He liked being helpful, and since he couldn't sneak down to the basement to work on the portal, chopping and stacking firewood was the best option. He definitely pushed himself a tad more than was necessary, and now it had come back to bite him.
Fiddleford rolled over, cracking his eye open to squint at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 9:43. His stomach dropped. He overslept. The first tour of the day was at 10:30, and there was a lot that needed to be prepared before that could happen.
Fiddleford sucked in a breath through his teeth and forced himself upright, ignoring how much his head throbbed in protest. He grabbed his glasses off of the bedside table and shoved them onto his face, blinking until the room came into focus.
He threw the blanket off of himself, and felt an immediate chill seep into his bones. The cabin was drafty at the best of times, but with the winter storm and his fevered body, it felt like the inside of a freezer.
Fiddleford stumbled his way to his closet, grabbing the thickest flannel shirt he owned, and a pair of wool socks. He could get through this, he just had to fight off the cold. Fiddleford threw the clothes on hastily, and stumbled his way down the attic stairs.
He paused halfway down, lightheaded, and— he heard humming. From where he was standing on the stairs, he could see a small section of the kitchen.
Stanley stood with his back turned to the door, humming one of his little made up tunes while he prepared food. Fiddleford's nose was too blocked up to tell, but he knew it must smell delicious.
Fiddleford couldn't help the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Stanley had a million small quirks that he loved, but his tendency to sing or hum while he was doing something monotonous was one of Fiddleford's favorites.
He slowly made his way down the rest of the stairs, trying to be as quiet as he could. He took a small pause before he walked into the kitchen, wanting to listen to Stan for just a moment longer. Finally, Fiddleford cleared his throat, and walked into the kitchen. Stan spared a glance at Fiddleford, a smile lighting up his face as he saw him.
"Morning Fidds! Saw ya decided to sleep in for once, so I thought id make us some breakfast." Stan said as Fiddleford lowered himself into a kitchen chair with slightly shaky hands. Stan grabbed the two plates of pancakes, and set them on either end of the table, sitting in his own chair as he did. Fiddleford quietly cleared his throat once more, and spoke.
"Yeah, m' sorry for snoozin' a little too long there, Stanley." He immediately regretted talking, as his scratchy voice and nasally tone betrayed the illness he was trying so hard to hide. Fiddleford quietly hoped that Stan wouldn't notice, but he was never that lucky. Stans brow furrowed with barely masked concern, and he looked at Fiddleford with a far more scrutinizing gaze than he did previously.
"Hey, uh, Fidds? You feeling okay? You don't look so hot." He said, setting his fork down and leaning forward into the table, like he was trying to get a better look at Fiddleford's face.
"Oh, sure. Don't ya' go worryin' about me, its just the sniffles." Fiddleford said nonchalantly, picking at the food in front of him. He hated how hoarse his voice sounded. Really, he was Fine. He'd managed to fight through worse illnesses than a little head cold in his youth, this would be a breeze.
"Nah, ya look pale." Stan said, shaking his head, his brow still furrowed. "…maybe uh, maybe you should go lay back down?"
Fiddleford scoffed— (well, it was more of a weak cough really) and folded his arms.
"Stanley, I am fine. I'm more than capable of goin' through the motions with a runny nose."
Stan leaned back in his chair, staring incredulously at Fiddleford. After a moment, he shifted his gaze out the window at the falling snow, a light smile forming on his face.
"Y'know, I don't think we're gonna be getting many tourists today, with this snowstorm and all," Stan looked back at Fiddleford before he continued, "maybe we should just close up shop for the day."
"What do ya mean 'close up shop fer the day'?! Ya haven't closed the Shack once since ya started runnin' the dang thing!"
"Exactly! We could use a little break, you know, kick back and stuff." Stan said, his smile growing. "Besides, I cant have ya getting paying customers sick— at least, not until we can find a way to make money outta it"
Fiddleford looked at Stan, hesitating. To be honest, Stan… had a point. Business had been slow since it had gotten colder, and there wasn't bound to be much foot traffic because of the storm. Plus, Stan had been a candle burning at both ends for nearly a year. If anyone deserved a break, it was him.
Fiddleford rubbed at his eyes, leaning back in his chair. God, his head was killing him.
"…Alright, as long as you take a break today too, that's fine by me." Fiddleford said after too long of a pause.
Stan's smile turned into a full blown grin. He picked up his fork and started to cut his pancake into bite sized pieces.
"Don't you worry Fidds, ill get plenty of relaxing done. Lean back, watch some trash TV, all that jazz." He shoved a large bite of pancake into his mouth and looked up at Fiddleford, smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. Fiddleford would do anything to keep that smile there.
Fiddleford picked up his own fork, and picked at the pancake in front of him. It looked delicious, and he was hungry, but he didn't have much of an appetite. Maybe he should go lay back down. Seemingly noticing his hesitation, Stan spoke up.
"Hey, if ya don't think ya can eat right now, ya don't have to. I promise, ya wont hurt my feelings." he said with a chuckle.
Fiddleford nodded, the movement feeling heavy. He set the fork down with a sigh.
"M' sorry Stanley. I think I will go lay back down, like ya said. My head's killin' me."
"Nah, don't sweat it Fidds. Go take a nap. Besides, more pancakes for me." Stan said, sliding Fiddleford's plate towards himself with a wink.
Fiddleford smiled and rolled his eyes, scooting his chair back and making his way out of the kitchen.
"See ya later Fidds!" Stan called to him as he made his way up the stairs.
As Fiddleford's heavy head hit his pillow and he began to doze off, he thought about Stan, and smiled.
-~^~v~^~-
Fiddleford woke up what could have been minutes, or maybe hours later to the sound of his bedroom door opening, and a light knock. He opened his eye a crack, and saw Stan peeking his head in. Fiddleford let out a short hum of acknowledgement, and Stan stepped into the room, holding something. He spoke up, his normally gruff voice soft and quiet.
"Hey, Fidds. I looked to see if we had any cold medicine, but we were out, so I had to go to the store really quick to get it." He set the bottle on Fiddleford's bedside table, and then hesitated, his hand hovering. After a moment of pause, he picked it back up, and poured a dose into the little plastic cup on the lid.
"uh, here." He said, holding out the medicine cup.
Fiddleford slowly propped himself up on his elbows, still half asleep, and grabbed the tiny medicine cup, pouring it down his throat. It tasted awful, and he choked as it hit the back of his throat. He grimaced, and handed the medicine cup back to Stanley.
"ya went to the store? In this weather?" he said, his voice sounding hoarse and frayed. His head was still throbbing, so he lowered himself back down. Stan huffed.
"yeah, ya needed the medicine." Stan said softly. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued hastily "uh- plus, y'know, we needed some groceries, a-and the weather's only gonna get worse."
Fiddleford's eyelids were starting to feel heavy. He pried his eyes open once more to look up at Stanley.
"well, thank you. Just… be careful. Drivin' in th' snow's dangerous.." he trailed off, his head feeling fuzzy, and started to drift off into sleep once more.
In his last few moments of wakefulness, he heard Stan's soft muffled voice, and felt his blanket get pulled closer to his chin.
-~^~v~^~-
By the time Fiddleford woke up again, it was dark outside. His headache had lessened, and he could think clearly once again. He knew he should probably get up, but the bundle of blankets around him felt too cozy to ignore, so he stayed there, and let his mind wander. His eyes drifted to the bottle of cold medicine sitting on his bedside table, and he felt a warm feeling envelop his chest.
It was nice being looked after. Being cared for. And it was especially nice that Stanley was the one doing it. Fiddleford knew, deep down, that Stanley didn't feel the same way about him. How could he? But it was very nice that he cared.
Fiddleford let his mind drift to how soft and caring Stan sounded earlier. He knew it was just because Stan was nice enough to not be loud while he slept, but his tone made Fiddleford feel warm. He'd kill to have Stan talk to him like that all the time. It was a side to Mr. Mystery that he hadn't seen, and he half wondered if it was just a product of his own broken mind. No matter the case, Fiddleford laid there in his bed, and his thoughts kept wandering back to Stanley.
As if right on cue, there was a light knock on the door, and it slowly creaked open, a thin sliver of light flooding the room. Fiddleford's heart leapt into his throat, and he pretended he was still asleep, keeping his eyes open just enough that he could see what was happening. Unlike earlier, Stan didn't call out. He quietly walked over to the desk in the corner, and set something down before turning on the small lamp.
The room was bathed in a soft warm light, and Stan walked over to the door and closed it to shut out the overly bright hall light. He walked back over to the desk, and paused. If Fiddleford didn't know any better, he'd say he looked nervous. He glanced over at Fiddleford a couple of times, before finally walking over to the bed. Fiddleford quickly squeezed his eyes shut, his heart going a million miles an hour. He didn't know why he was so nervous.
After a moment, he felt Stans hand gently touch his shoulder, shaking him a little. Then Stan spoke, in that same soft tone as before, barely above a whisper.
"Hey, Fidds? Wake up, I uh… Ya haven't eaten anything today, I brought ya somethin'." Stan rubbed his thumb across Fiddleford's shoulder, and then gently shook him again. "Fidds?"
Fiddleford cracked an eye open and looked up at Stan. Seeing that he was awake, Stan smiled softly.
"Hey, I uh, brought ya some soup, if you're hungry." Stan said, glancing over at the desk, where he had set two large steaming mugs.
Fiddleford swallowed dryly, and nodded. Stan walked over to the desk, and Fiddleford sat up and began to swing his legs over the side of the bed to follow. Seeing him move, Stan whipped his head around to look at him.
"Hey, just stay there, I'm already up, ill get it for you." He said, his voice never changing from that gentle tone that had buried itself into Fiddleford's head. He grabbed a mug and brought it over, handing it to Fiddleford, and then grabbed the second mug and the desk chair, and sat down next to the bed.
Fiddleford felt speechless and breathless, this all felt like something from a dream, and yet it was all perfectly real. He couldn't think of anything to say, so he took a bite of the soup. It tasted incredible, if a little salty, but it was perfect regardless. Stan stirred his mug of soup with his spoon, and took a bite. After a moment, he made a face.
"Uh, sorry if it isn't great. I'm not the best cook, and I was goin' based on my memory, so it might taste a bit funny." Stan said, not looking up from his mug.
"Its perfect, Stan." Fiddleford said finally. The warm soup had helped his throat a little, so he didn't sound as horrible as earlier.
Stan smiled softly, and took another bite of his soup. They both ate in silence for while. Fiddleford hadn't realized he was so hungry, and he finished the soup in a matter of minutes. Once he was done, he slowly sipped on the remaining broth, trying to think of the right thing to say.
"Stanley, thank you, but… I don't really think I'm worth all this fuss." He said after a good long minute.
Stan looked almost startled at the sudden comment, and then his face turned red, looking embarrassed. He looked at Fiddleford, and then stared down at his mug. Fiddleford watched him, nervously tapping his fingers on his mug.
"you're, uh— Well, the faster you get over being sick, the less likely it is that ill catch what ya have. I just uh… don't wanna get sick too." Stan muttered, still staring down at his mug.
"Well, you're not doin' a very good job if ya don't wanna get sick. Stayin' so close ta me and all." Fiddleford said, gesturing towards the chair Stan was currently sitting in. Stan's eyes widened, and he looked a little panicked.
"Oh, uh, I just thought ya might want some company. Sorry, I can get outta your hair, I don't wanna smother ya." Stan said, and he moved to stand up.
"NO! I- I mean… no. I uh, I like havin' ya close." Fiddleford said, mildly panicked. He really didn't want to say the wrong thing. After a moment, Stan sat back down, and glanced up at Fiddleford.
"Well, I like being close." Stan said, smiling.
They finished their soup in silence, but it wasn't a bad thing. As Fiddleford had come to realize, things were always better when Stan was nearby.