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A headache was starting up behind his eyes. Blame it on too much caffeine and too little hours of sleep, or the flickering lights beneath Stanford’s cabin. Or even the mad scientist himself, what with his incessant muttering into thin air when he thought that McGucket couldn"t hear, the frankly horrifying shrines to lord knows what, the increasingly dark circles under his eyes.
Not to mention the times he"s had to pull his friend off of a window ledge, or out of the street. Stanford always claimed to have no memory of the incidents, and McGucket wasn"t inclined to believe him, but he wasn"t exactly keen on pushing the matter either.
Needless to say, the source of the aching in his skull could"ve been numerous things, but the result was the same. McGucket sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing up his safety goggles for some relief from the eye strain. The steady hum of machinery felt like a drill bit placed directly in his ear canal. He was miserable and exhausted, but he"d be damned if he didn"t get this piece at least close to completed before retiring upstairs.
It wasn"t like he would be getting much sleep anyway. McGucket always found himself lying awake, waiting to hear the heavy footfalls of Stanford’s boots creaking up the staircase. Only when he heard him collapse onto the bed in the next room could McGucket fall asleep.
He searched the workbench for a particular tool, some tiny device that he needed to secure the panel, but couldn"t find it. Shifting slightly in his stool, he threw out one of his arms behind him with a grabbing motion, “Stanford, could you pass me the, uh….that little doohickey there, the–”
Warm metal and calloused fingers brushed his palm before he could think of the right word.
“The dogleg reamer,” Stanford filled in, voice flat and gruff as always, if worse for wear from lack of sleep.
McGucket turned all the way in his seat, catching Stanford’s eye with a raised brow, “How"d you know it was that"un I was lookin’ for?”
Stanford’s brow knit briefly and he opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again. His hand dropped from McGucket’s, and he drummed his fingers on his thighs. A dusty pink bloomed across his cheeks and he adjusted his glasses, “I suppose we"ve just been….working together for long enough. Started to understand your ‘second language’ again.”
“It ain"t a ‘second language’, Stanford,” McGucket laughed, feeling his own face flush scarlet.
“It might as well be. Took me six months to understand that you needed oil for your cyborg model, remember?”
“Yeah, Ford, I….,” McGucket’s laughter trailed off as the room spun on its axis, the pounding in his head intensifying, “I remember. I….remember. I–”
“Fidds?”
“Wha’d"ya call me?”
“Fidds, are you feeling alright?”
In a few blinks, Stanford’s face ages thirty years. He has frown lines and gray hair with white streaking through his temples, and his brow is creased with worry. His hands are heavy on McGucket’s shoulders, and suddenly the cold metal walls are warm and wood-paneled. Head swimming, McGucket looks up into Stanford’s eyes and offers a weary smile.
“Peachy! Just lost my uh,….,” he scratches at his beard, trying to remember what it was that had been bugging him, “Y"know, it"s the darnedest thing! I cain"t recall!”
Stanford"s expression softens and he smiles sadly at him before standing to his full height (McGucket can"t shake the feeling that his old friend hadn"t been that much taller than him before) . He holds out his arm for McGucket to take and drawls, “Come on, Fidds. There"s nothing a nice, hot cup of interdimensional coffee can"t fix. You"ll have to excuse the mugs, Mabel"s kindly personalized one for everyone in the family.”
“Well ain"t that sweet of her,” McGucket pats Stanford’s forearm and pulls himself up into a chair at the kitchen table, “I don"t rightly mind a good ol’ bedazzlin’, myself.”
Stanford laughs, and it"s a rich, gravelly sound that makes something in McGucket’s chest flutter, but it"s still strained in an odd way, “Just wait until you actually see them.”
He returns to the table with two colorful and rather sparkly mugs, setting one down in front of McGucket. When he takes the mug, he expects to see ‘Dipper’ spelled out in rhinestones or a shriner’s cap made out of spare fabric, but what he finds makes his breath catch in his throat. Swimming beneath the handle of the mug is a crudely drawn Gobblewonker, with lightning bolts around its head. Near it is a banjo, with “real” strings made out of fishing line superglued to the ceramic. By the tail is the old computer the young twins had returned to him, and filling the empty space are fairly complicated equations in Dipper"s handwriting. Finally, in Mabel"s glitter-pen script, is the name ‘Fiddleford McGucket’. He can see the ghost of a painted-over ‘Old Man’, and he beams at the thoughtful correction.
“Would"ya look’et that,” McGucket muses, taking a sip of the coffee that makes his mouth all tingly but tastes perfect without any need for sugar or cream. It"s one of the better things Stanford brought back. “I reckon this makes me, uh….a part of the family, heh?”
In the silence that stretches on, McGucket sets the mug back down and picks at the bandages around his wrist. He wants to disappear inside the floppy hat on his head. He wishes he could hold his tongue better, but it has a mind of its own– or rather, a lack of one. Maybe he"s overstayed his welcome. He doesn"t even remember why he came to the Mystery Shack to begin with. But then a large, gentle hand curls around his and pulls it away from the wrapped gauze, and McGucket’s eyes follow the point of contact up to Stanford’s face. In a scene that feels achingly familiar but just out of reach, Ford clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, a dusty rose spreading across his face and settling in the tips of his ears. He holds McGucket’s hand properly and runs his thumb back and forth over finely scarred skin.
“Of course you are, Fiddleford. You always will be,” Stanford assures him, low and serious and heavy with emotion. His chair scrapes against the scuffed floor as he stands, letting go of McGucket’s hand only to move to his side and press their mugs together. The math blends seamlessly across the two coffee cups, twisting around a golden handprint on Stanford’s mug.
“She even made sure ours matched,” he appraises, threading their fingers together as he pulls a chair around, “Though Dipper"s trigonometry could use some work.”
“Ahh, he"ll get there,” McGucket bumps his shoulder to Stanford"s, suppressing a wince as the joint protests, “He"s got a mighty fine tutor t"help ‘im along.”
Stanford chuckles and adjusts those cracked glasses again, his eyes sparkling when he meets McGucket’s gaze, “I"ve….I"ve missed you, Fidds. I hope you can forgive me for leaving. For what I….did to you.”
“Silly old man,” McGucket laughs, placing his palm on Stanford’s cheek and giving his face a pat, “I forgave ya when you went and gave that triangle the what-for.”
With a humored huff, Stanford leans in close, engulfing McGucket in the scent of cedar and smoke. He hesitates for a moment, but makes his decision and presses a tender kiss to McGucket’s cheek. Butterflies take flight in his chest and Stanford"s light stubble sends goosebumps coursing down his arms. His heart is racing, and he thinks it"ll throw itself out of his mouth when Stanford whispers, “Thank you.”
Vaguely, McGucket wonders how long he"s been in love with Stanford. He wonders if he"ll ever remember. However, then he takes another drink from his personalized mug and comes to the decision that the past doesn"t matter all that much. They have each other now. And they can figure out what comes next together.