Chapter Text
Ford raised his hand, but didn't touch the buzzer right away. Was it a good idea? He gripped the handle of his briefcase a little tighter. He wasn't convinced yet; he just knew he had to at least try, because, in a way, he owed it to him. He closed his eyes and sighed. He pressed the button, and a high-pitched voice, though calmer than before, answered from the device.
"Can I help you?"
The man swallowed. He wiggled his fingers and took a deep breath. He leaned closer to the device to speak.
"This is Stanford."
There was no immediate response.
"Who?"
He closed his eyes slowly and sighed. He knew it; his family had warned him it would be like this, but experiencing it firsthand was another matter. It hurt.
"Stanford Pines. From the Mystery Shack."
"Oh! A relative of the Pines children? Come in, come in!"
The gate opened automatically, a gigantic, old metal gate covered in moss and rust. Ford stepped inside, and the gate closed behind him. Ahead of him was a long driveway, overgrown with bushes and trees that had once been a beautiful sight, but now formed a dense, untidy forest. The most striking feature, however, was the enormous mansion that loomed at the end of the drive. Ford took another deep breath; he had every reason to be nervous, but he shook off the feeling and slowly walked toward his friend's new home.
After a few minutes, he reached the front door and knocked. Almost instantly, it opened, and he saw a sight that froze him to the spot.
His friend seemed to have returned to his normal height, his gray hair was growing back, he had bought new glasses, and, most incredibly, he had shaved his beard. It wasn't exactly the same, but suddenly, Ford was transported 30 years back in time. To a time when he was unknown in town, when his brother was his shame, when so many mistakes had yet to be made. It was Fiddleford standing before him, that Fiddleford.
"Welcome, Stanford Pines, to my humble abode."
Ford blinked a few times to snap out of it. He smiled, still perplexed.
"Very humble."
"Well, when you have the means... But that's beside the point. Please, come in. Make yourself at home."
The scientist nodded and let Fiddleford lead the way. He didn't even glance at the somewhat gloomy and completely dark decor of the place; his gaze was fixed on McGucket, or rather, not so much on him, but on the memories that his gaunt yet smiling face evoked. They arrived at what appeared to be a parlor, where everything was covered in dust except for some rustic armchairs beside a lit fireplace.
"What can I get you? Tea, coffee, milk, beer? There's a bit of everything here."
"No, nothing, thank you. Actually, Fiddleford, I came for-"
"Nothing? That's a shame. It's been a while since anyone's shared a good cup of coffee with me. Arabica beans, from Panama..."
Ford sighed.
"If you insist..."
"Perfect! Make yourself comfortable and I'll-"
"Fiddleford. I'd like to talk to you for a bit first. Please."
The taller of the two opened his eyes. The man in front of him looked worried. And tired, very tired. He suddenly realized that he himself was somewhat tired as well. He nodded and they sat down, facing each other, the fire crackling in the background and the darkness of the mansion behind them. Ford placed his briefcase beside him and tried to hide it with his coat. He looked at Fiddleford and felt that lump in his throat again.
"You've changed so much... and yet, not at all."
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, sorry. It's just... I don't know how to say this. After all, you and I were classmates at university. We even worked together for a while. Don't you remember any of that?"
Fiddleford looked at the ceiling and then at the man. His face was a mixture of hope and bitterness, and he looked so, so expectant. That man really did look desperate, in a quiet but sad way, for a sign. He scratched his neck, a little uncomfortably.
"I remember university, but... I'm sorry. I don't remember you."
"I see..."
Silence fell over the already quiet mansion. The fire slowly consumed the wood, and outside, the clouds obscured the faint morning sun. McGucket watched him, and that man really did look sad. Why? Well, he understood, but at the same time, he didn't. He was nothing more than a stranger, someone who had once been somebody, but now was nobody. He felt guilty; he wouldn't lie about it.
"I'm sorry."
"No... It's not your fault."
The man hunched over slightly. The briefcase, he thought, but... Was this the right time?
"Perhaps I don't remember you, Stanford, but if you help me, maybe I can scrape something from this brain of mine. I'm not promising much, but that's how I've managed to remember what I remember now. You wouldn't happen to have a photo or anything of yourself as a young man, would you?"
"No. I think I burned everything," he covered his face.
"Oh. And why did you do such a thing?"
The man peered at him through his fingers.
"Are you happy about your past?"
"No..."
"Well, we're two of a kind."
Fiddleford smiled, that smile of accomplices in shared pain.
"Well, if you don't have any photos, maybe tell me how we met. Perhaps I can remember something."
The briefcase echoed in his mind again, but Fiddleford remembered less than he expected. What if it caused him more harm than good in this state? A solid foundation of memories was better than nothing, so... Ford looked him in the eyes. He maintained that kind tone despite the years. Perhaps that was what he missed most about him, that ability to try to work things out, unlike himself, who was so easily overwhelmed by obstacles.
"Well. I think it was about 40 years ago...
I was nervous, very nervous. I remember my hands were sweating and my stomach was in knots. But I was happy, very happy. It was the first time I'd been so far from home, though that wasn't as strange as the feeling of living in a new place. All I knew was that I'd be sharing the bedroom with someone else, a young Southerner, or so I'd overheard. Trading Dad's serious voice, Mom's sarcasm, and... for a Southern accent, was odd. But that's life. I took a deep breath, double-checked the number for the sixth time, and knocked on the door.
A tall guy with blond hair, glasses, and a rather large nose opened the door. He had a very warm smile, too.
"I suppose you're the one I've been waiting for?"
"And I suppose you're the one I'll be sharing a room with."
He extended his hand, and we shook.
"Fiddleford McGucket," I raised an eyebrow.
"Is that a real name?"
"Huh?" It was.
"Nothing, sorry. Stanford Pines."
We hit it off quickly. We were both weird, nerdy, and avid consumers of Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons. He had a thing for technology. He had what in about ten years would be sold as a laptop, built entirely by himself, and quite functional. He spoke loudly, played the banjo, and sometimes I saw him spit into a mug next to his bed, but other than that, he was an extremely pleasant fellow. There was something about him that made a weirdo like me want to talk, and the best part was that I always got the impression the feeling was mutual. He'd tell me about ARPANET, and I'd talk about the standard particle model; neither of us understood the other, but boy, did we have a good time.
Fiddleford chuckled softly as he listened to Ford.
"How time flies... ARPANET, and now we have mobile cellular networks..."
"Phones?"
"That. Everything you're saying, I can see it. I remember it, except..."
"Me."
"Yes... I don't know why, but... It's like there's a fog in my memories. There's something, like a silhouette, but... No... I'm sorry."
Ford leaned in and gently touched his shoulder.
"No, really, don't apologize. You've been through a lot; it's normal that your mind isn't quite ready to remember yet."
McGucket looked him in the eye, and Ford suddenly realized the intensity of his gaze.
"We were college classmates and worked together... Was that our only relationship?"
Ford swallowed. Accurate, as always. Why was everything about him the same, except his memory? He let go and stepped back.
"We were also friends, very good friends, for many years..."
"I see. So, why didn't you introduce yourself like that?"
The scientist looked down at the ground.
"That's because... some things happened between us that... and I'm not ready yet for... that conversation..."
The other man frowned. Many questions raced through his mind, but he only spoke one.
"Are we no longer friends?"
Ford lowered his head completely, hiding his eyes from Fiddleford's cruelly innocent ones. The briefcase was no longer the priority; his own guilt was. And he thought he had made peace with his past.
"I'm sorry... I think I rushed into this..."
He gathered his things and made a move to stand, but Fiddleford took his arm, which surprised Ford. The taller man was extremely serious, not with anger, but with a quiet understanding.
"But do you regret it, Ford?"
"Not a day goes by that I don't..."
"Then apologize, and that's it."
He looked away and shook his head.
"I could beg for your forgiveness now, Fiddleford... but without your memories, it wouldn't be real. And I'd be running... again."
Fiddleford released him, but not completely; his hand remained firmly on his shirt, scrutinizing him with a complex expression.
"What did you do...?"
"I hurt you more than anyone ever has in your life, my friend."