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The knock comes three weeks after Stanford goes through the portal.
Well, it’s more like a series of frantic knocks that doesn’t stop.
Stanley only hears them because the fan stopped working sometime in the night. He jolts in bed at the hammering and blinks at the ceiling of Ford’s room, his brain struggling to kick into gear. What time did he go to bed last night? 10? 11? He doesn’t even know. Groaning, he raises his head, squinting against the brightness of the sun and glares at the open door, willing the noise to cease. He didn’t want to climb the creaky stairs just to shut it in the faces of some salesman or religious freak.
Amazingly, it does stop.
He sighs and lays his head back down…
…only to hear a panicked, male voice yell out, “Stanford? Are you there?” and more knocking join in, sounding like the person was trying their best to break the door down.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Growling, he gets off the mattress and pulls on some pants, trying to not immediately be on edge. The cabin was surrounded by dense woods and the nearest neighbor was more than ten minutes down the road. What weirdo did his brother piss off enough to look for it?
“Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’!” he can’t help but shout as he descends the stairs, shivering from the cold air hits him. The knocking pauses and as he undos the various locks his sibling installed, he swears he can hear nervous breathing beyond it.
“I heard you, Christ, pal,” Stanley barks as he opens the door, hoping the harshness will make whoever it is fuck off. “Thanks for the wake-up call, really love havin’ a heart attack at 7 AM—”
“Stanford!”
He doesn’t have any time to react to the raw, frankly terrified voice because he’s practically knocked over by a solid weight hitting him. Arms wrap around his neck in a vice and he stumbles back.
“The fuck—”
“Jesus, Stanford, I’m so glad you’re okay! I kept waitin’ and waitin’ for a letter, for a call, f-for anything and when ya didn’t, I got so—augh, I was so worried!” The words, accented with a southern twang, are muffled from the man speaking into his neck. Stanley entertains the idea of pushing him off, then discards it when he realizes he’s not sure if he even could with how tightly he’d being embraced.
“Hey, uh, buddy, think you got the wrong guy—” he tries to cut in, but he’s squeezed before he can finish.
“So I raced down here like a bat outta hell! I was barely able to find the driveway, the snow was so high! Why haven’t you shoveled it? You never let me hear the end of it if it got bigger than the porch.” A gust of chilled air rushes through the open door and Stanley attempts to kick it closed but the other’s legs block him. “Sorry to come unannounced, you hate that, but God, Ford, I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re alright. Emma kept sayin’ you’d be fine and that I should just wait for a call, but I knew better. I-I know you probably don’t want to talk since our… since what happened, and-and that’s fine, I understand, I just needed to make sure everything was okay and that thing wasn’t messin’ with you no more—”
Abruptly, the man pulls away and Stanley gets the first good look at him just as he’s doing the same. He manages to see a wide, relieved smile for a few seconds before it falls to a confused frown. He tries not to feel a sting at the reaction.
“It’s, ah, alright. Glad you came by to check on me.” He doesn’t mean to slip into the lie again, it had filled him with shame and guilt after the convenience store ordeal. However, it just fell out. “But I’m great. Doin’ fine. You look tired, why dontcha head home—”
“You’re not Stanford.” It’s spoken quietly and strained.
“Huh? ‘Course I am!” Damn, he’d forgotten the glasses. “Might look a lil’ different in the morning, sure, but I’m—”
“No, you’re not him. Who—” The man stops and blinks rapidly, then steps back, recoiling his hands like they were burnt. “Who are you? Where’s Stanford?”
Stanley sighs and raises his hands. “Okay, okay, ya got me. I’m not sixer—”
“Where’s Stanford?” he repeats and woah, how the fuck did his whole demeanor change that quickly? His posture stiffens to where it seems like he’s about to fight Stan and he’s glaring at him like he’d stolen money and hightailed it out of town. “Where the hell is he? Why are you callin’ him ‘sixer’? No one calls him that except—” His expression flashes and he lunges forward, ignoring the yelp and grabbing Stan’s hoodie. “Are you one of his minions? One of the f-fucking monsters I saw? Are you-you… are you him?”
Stanley leans away. “Woah, let’s take a breather, huh? What the fuck are you talkin’ about? I have no clue who the hell is he is!”
“Don’t play games with me, Bill! I know it’s you!” The man pulls him closer and he feels how badly his hands are shaking, can hear how fast his breathing is. He’s shaking with anger and fear of something. “What did you do to him? What awful thing have you done to Stanford?”
Indignance climbs above the irritation and Stanley gets enough sense to shove the other away and snatch the baseball bat next to the door.
“Buddy, if you take another fuckin’ step, I’ll take your fuckin’ skull off your goddamn shoulders!” he snaps and raises it threateningly. “Take a chill pill and stop rantin’! I’m not Bill or whoever you think I am, alright? I’m Stanley Pines, Ford’s brother!”
There’s an look of blankness that’s quickly covered by anger. “You think I’m that gullible? Ford doesn’t have a brother, he would’ve told me! I know your tricks, I’m not lettin’ you get away with whatever you’re doin’! Get out of Stanford now!”
“Oh, for the love of—” Stanley glances around. He finds his wallet on the rickety table near the stairs and grabs it. He pulls out the picture, shoving it in the man’s face. “There! See? Me and him at the boxing ring when we were sixteen. Happy? I don’t care who the hell Bill is or his deal with Ford, but if you’re gonna keep comin’ at me, you’re gonna leave missin’ some teeth. My life’s already been hard enough as it is, poindexter.”
The photo is snatched out of his hand and Stan resists the urge to take it back, afraid to lose one of the few things he has of his brother.
Silence falls between them as the man stares at the picture. The wind from outside has long since blown into the cabin and Stan gives up on shutting it, dealing with shivering. Maybe the cold would make the guy leave with how skinny he looks.
He’s tall, though shorter than Stanley. Not by much, maybe up to his chin. And lanky as fuck. He’s got glasses with a crack running through one lens, freckles over his nose and cheeks, and a bandaid on the edge of his jaw. The green sweater he wore didn’t seem to have done much against the snow and the worn jeans and boots had seen better days. What made Stan frown was his head. His hair was a sandy brown and long, but unkempt as hell. On one side, it stuck up like he’d rolled out of bed before arriving and the other had what looked like chunks ripped out of it. A bandage was wrapped around his forehead and he saw a nasty red mark, almost a burn, on his left temple peeking out from under it. All of that combined with the intense greeting and switch in attitude made Stanley wonder how the fuck his brother had known the guy.
“T-This…this picture, you…” The man swallows and holds it out with a trembling hand. He stares at Stan, his eyes far-away. “You’re the spittin’ image of him. I…he said he had a brother, o-one day while we were workin’ on the schematics. That he hadn’t seen ya in a long time. Stanford told me that. He told me. I–I knew that, I know that. I do. Shoot. Shit. It happened again, it—aw, geez, m’sorry. I’m so sorry, I… I must’ve forgot, I…”
Stan frowns at the words and tenses at the wobbly, obviously upset tone. He outright panics as the man sniffs and his eyes develop a shine as he stares at him.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, uh—” He tries to smile, waits for the other to fill in the gap. He gets nothing. That’s fine. He’ll improvise. “S’alright, seriously. People get us confused tons of times—got. Uh, got us confused. Both have devilishly good looks. Um. No need to apologize. Sorry to disappoint you when you were expectin’ Ford.”
The man’s brows pull together. “No, no, I’m not…” He wipes his face and sticks out a hand. “My name’s Fiddleford, Fiddleford McGucket. Nice to meet you. Sorry for yellin’ at ya. And for tryin’ to break your door. I-I can repair it if it’s damaged. I’m, uh, pretty good with tools.” He smiles, small and strained.
Stanley blinks at him and snorts. “Hell of a name. And introduction. You can call me Stan.” He takes his hand and shakes it, noticing it’s covered in a thick bandage. Some tension melts out of Fiddleford’s frame and he tangles his hands together after pulling away.
A strong breeze makes both of them shiver and Stan, fed up with it, tugs him off the porch and inside.
“Christ, we’re gonna turn into a couple’a popsicles. C’mon, I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”
“That sounds good.” Fiddleford looks around the entryway with an unreadable expression. “Didn’t get a chance to get some before I left. Or, ah, food.”
“I’m sure I’ll find something to fix that. And while I do that,” Stan walks into the kitchen and turns on the fire stove, popping his head out to fix a look at the other, “you’re gonna tell me what the hell you were goin’ on about Ford and why you were so freaked out. Okay?”
Fiddleford’s jaw tightens. “I can do that.”
“Great. Love to hear it.”
___
It sucked to hear it, in all honesty. Like, really fucking sucked.
Stanley had grown silent towards the end of Fiddleford’s retelling, opting to drink his long-gone cold coffee rather than speak. Mostly because he was sure it would end in swearing and that wouldn’t do anything but make him feel better. The rest was that he didn’t even know what to say or what to think. His mind was a jumbled mess more than usual, reeling from what he heard with only a few thoughts screamed out above the static.
He got money and used it all to build a fucking shack in the middle of a random town.
He had money and didn’t call me or so much as send a fucking letter telling me he was okay and to come see him.
And when he did, it was only because he’d been driven crazy by his own ego and desires and didn’t have anyone on his side.
Yet there was more than that, though it was hard to find past the furious feelings.
He had been alone for months.
He had been possessed over and over again, unable to escape some demon.
He’d been hurt and scared, not trusting anything he saw.
He hadn’t had anyone to turn to for help, and probably didn’t think he could turn to Stanley for help.
Loud and clear was one thought, which was more like a fact than anything else if you asked him.
My brother is gone because of me and I don’t know how to fix it.
Fiddleford, to his credit, took Stanford ending up in the portal well considering his reaction earlier. He looked shocked and worried, sure, but Stan thought he would flip the table and start strangling him. One hand had lifted to fidget with the bandage on his head and the man winced when he brushed over the burn.
Stan had almost asked about it no less than five times, but held the words back. He was curious, but it seemed it would be a mood-killer and the morning had already taken a turn to be depressing as shit.
“Did…did he say anything? Before he got sucked in?”
“Aside from saying I ruined his and my own life?” He can’t help but snark, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. Fiddleford frowns but doesn’t reply. Stan sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “No, he didn’t. All he said was how important the journals were and how I needed to protect them.”
Fiddleford puts his hands on the table and rubs them over each other. “Well…I’m sorry you got dragged into this situation. And that your reunion didn’t go as planned.”
“Eh. Shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. Never works anyway.”
“Not a great way to see the world.”
Stan glances at him flatly. “In my experience, it’s the only way, pal. Hope gets you beaten to a pulp and locked in the trunk of some asshole’s car with nothin’ but a spork.”
“Still.” The other’s face was sad and he nearly snaps at him to stop looking at him like that because it looks too much like pity.
“It’s fine. I got bigger problems. Like that fuckin’ hunk of metal downstairs.”
“Yes. The portal.”
Fiddleford’s face turns pale at the mere mention and Stan has to again fight the urge to ask. He hadn’t been specific on why he had left Ford’s side in his plan, nor why he had been gone for such a while. He had only said he’d gone through the portal for a brief moment and saw things that made him believe the creation was a mistake, that he couldn’t support his partner anymore.
He swallows and rubs his forehead. “H-How was it after he went through? Did it have any issues, make any odd sounds? Was it smoking, sparking?”
“Uh.” Stan thinks back. “The only thing that happened was all the lights going off. The lever we bumped into wouldn’t make it turn back on no matter how many times i messed with it. Ford didn’t say much about it, so I don’t know if there’s anything even wrong with it.”
Fiddleford is quiet, not touching his coffee or even shifting in his chair. He stares at the table, hard and intense while Stan feels his leg bounce relentlessly underneath it.
“Would you, um, be okay takin’ a look?” He watches his shoulders stiffen. “See if there’s anything broken or missing? Kinda been on my own here and it’s been slow-goin’.”
He tries to make it seem like a joke, a casual favor when inside he’s trying to hold it together after stumbling upon someone who might actually be able to help. He waits for an answer. Then waits some more and when the minutes go by without so much as a twitch, Stan feels panic build within him. He couldn’t lose the only source of information so quickly. He’d had no clue what he was doing, not a molecule of understanding as to how the portal worked, he didn’t even know how to even turn it on.
“Listen, Fidds, can I call you Fidds? Too late, m’doin’ it anyway. I know you probably never wanted to even look at the thing again, and trust me, I-I get it, I do. It took my brother away from me. But I—” He almost laughs, but it’s too rough and bitter to truly be the sound. “The journal Ford left, it’s just a bunch’a pages with nonsense, I could look at them for years and not get what he was talkin’ about. I don’t know what I’m doin’ down there and you are the only person who would know. It’s a huge ask and I…I barely have enough money to get coffee at the store and I can’t give any kind of payment, but I can’t—I need him back, I need to tell him I didn’t mean any of it, that I’m sorry and I—”
His eyes sting and his throat tightens to where he nearly can’t breathe, and Stan groans, covering his face with both hands. He can hear Filbrick’s cold, uncaring scolding of him looking pathetic and acting like an emotional girl, but for once, he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s so tired of not being able to do anything right. He got kicked out of almost every state in the country because he didn’t have any skills that weren’t conning or tricking people. He wasn’t smart enough to help Ford when it was his own fault he was trapped in the portal. And now, his brother was going to die alone in some hell dimension because he had the worst, most useless sibling in the history of siblings.
Something touches his arm and he raises his head to find Fiddleford looking at him with a pained but determined expression.
“I-I’ll help you get him back.”
“Are you—really?”
“Yes. I’ll be honest and say that I’ll most likely need some time to get used to it, but...I’ll work with you to get the portal in workin’ condition.”
Stan stares at him before getting out of his seat. Fiddleford opens his mouth only to let out a yelp as he’s grabbed and lifted in the air.
“Oh, thank fuck," Stan exclaims into his chest, squeezing the other man, so relieved he could collapse. “Jesus. Fuck. Oh my God. Thank you, thank you. Shit, I’ll pay you back, somehow. Whatever you want. You need a car? I got a car that’s in good shape, you can have her when Ford’s back, I don’t give a shit—”
“S-Stanley!” Fiddleford squeaks and tugs his arms out of his grip. He laughs a little, cheeks pink, and pats him on the shoulder. “You don’t need to give me your car, ah, that’s okay. You’re gonna need it, anyway. We’re going to have to get materials for the portal. I’ll just take a bed if, um, you’ve got one to spare.”
Stan lowers him, holding his waist so he doesn’t fall into the chair. Christ, he’s so thin. “You can crash here as long as you want, but I thought…don’t you have a wife or somethin’? Emma-Sue? Won’t she miss ya?”
Fiddleford’s hands land on his wrists and don’t move as his expression turns uncomfortable. “Emma-May. And, uh, she’s my ex-wife now.” He frowns, fingers picking at the sleeve of Stan’s old hoodie. “Got sick of me leavin’ so much to work with Stanford. She gave me the papers after I returned home from our fight. Our house was a gift from her parents, so she took it. S’fine, I wasn’t gonna fight for it, the least I could do, but ‘cause of that, I’ve been stayin’ in my car. And the library. And…um, the town museum. S’quiet and…warm.”
He glances away and Stan can see the embarrassment, knows exactly how he’s feeling. He’s not sure how to let him know how much he understands, how much he sympathizes. He wasn’t raised much in the way of showing empathy, aside from when his ma paid attention long enough to teach him. Filbrick Pines certainly hadn’t been the man for the job nor would he have let Stanley leave without a slap to the head for asking. He’d had to learn it on his own, both with Stanford and the decades after.
“Hey, I get it.” Fiddleford looks at him and he smiles, raising his hand to grip his shoulder how he would to his brother when they were younger. “Spare bedroom’s yours. And anythin’ in it.”
The muscles under his hand are tense. “You sure? I don’t wanna impose or—”
“I’m not gonna have you freeze your ass off when I got this shack, man. Too big for just me. And, you know, I could use the company.” He refuses to acknowledge how his face heats up in the last part. “The only people I see these days are customers who are either dumb as a rock or rude as hell. Just talkin’ to ‘em gives me a headache. It’ll be good to have someone around who isn’t some whacko.”
Fiddleford snorts, cracking a smile and damn, the lines and shadows of his face lightening just a bit. He looks younger and Stan wonders how long it took for it to fade as he worked on the portal.
Cute, comes the intrusive, utterly unwelcome thought and he shoves that down. Face definitely feeling warmer, he gives the other a grin and leans away, clearing both of their mugs.
“Whenever you feel ready, we can go down.” He sees Fiddleford touch his shoulder briefly before lowering his hand to fidget with his bandage.
“We can go now.”
Stan raises an eyebrow. “We don’t gotta go fast, dude. We got plenty of time.”
“I know, I just—” He breathes out through his nose and shakes his head. “If I don’t do it now, I’ll just keep finding reasons to wait and nothin’ will get done that way.”
“Alright.” Stan dumps the mugs in the sink. He’ll wash them later. “Do you want me to—” He stops, having not meant to ask out loud. “Um. You want to go alone or…? I can, you know, go with you if you want. Not that I’m sayin’ you’re scared or can’t handle it on your own, just that… ah…”
Jesus, what is wrong with him today? Where was that silver tongue he prided himself with?
Fiddleford’s mouth lifts. “If you don’t mind. I’d appreciate it. Can feel kinda trapped down there.”
“Let me get my boots.”
The walk down into the bunker is tense. Fiddleford’s shifting on his feet before Stan even finishes putting in the passcode and he outright jumps when the door hisses open. He sends him a anxious nod when the other looks at him and they head down the stairs. The elevator ride is silent aside from the metallic thumping and humming. Stan sees the engineer tapping his fingers against his thigh in some pattern.
When they get to the last floor, he gets out only to realize there’s no second pair of footsteps following. He turns back to the elevator and finds Fiddleford still inside of it, staring past him into the lab with a tight expression.
He opens his mouth, then pauses, thinking. After a moment, he walks over and stands in front of him.
Fiddleford flinches and taps again on his leg. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m bein’ ridiculous, I know, I just…” He trails off when Stan holds out his hand. He blinks at it before taking it, lightly at first, then tightly when he sees it’s serious.
“You with me, specs?”
He blows out a shaky breath. “Yeah.”
“Okay.”
They walk into the lab and past the shelves full of experiments, aged books, and dark circuit boards. Fiddleford’s grip increases the closer they get to the portal to the point it almost hurts but Stan doesn’t care. He was already uneasy being down here, he couldn’t imagine what it was like being there with him after getting stuck inside the thing. When they get to the door and he unlocks it, they stop and look out into the space. It’s deadly quiet. No natural noise or light has made it through the walls. It feels like a goddamn prison. How his brother spent hours inside was a mystery to him.
Stan is about to ask where the other man wants to start when Fiddleford straightens and tugs him forward. They cross the distance, the portal looming over them, taunting and lifeless. He resists the urge to flip it off as they pause at one side. His hand remains locked with Fiddleford’s as the engineer stares up at the machine.
“Did you want me to bring the journal? I can go get it—”
“No, I remember the structure well enough.” Fiddleford looks to the other side, then at the bottom, and finally the center. After a few minutes of studying, he turns and pulls Stan back to the door. As the it shuts, the tension in his shoulders fade and he exhales with a muttered, “Jesus Mary.”
Stanley raises his eyebrows as he goes to the small, built-in desk and sits, finally releasing his hand. “What’re you doing?”
“I’m going to run a diagnostic of the system.” Fiddleford taps an a dusty keyboard and amazingly, a monitor Stan didn’t even see comes to life above it. He types in a series of numbers and tiny boxes pop up, all labeled with words. “The portal doesn’t seem to be damaged appearance wise, but I’m goin’ to go through the program and make sure that’s the case for the codin’, too. It’ll also hopefully spot any issues that may explain why it won’t turn on.”
“Oh, shit. Look at you, Mr. Brainiac.”
“It’s nothin’ really.”
“Don’t be like that, man. The farthest I got was being able to push and pull the lever.” He grins and nudges his seat. “Christ, am I glad I didn’t take your head off with that bat.”
Fiddleford glances at him and smiles faintly, fingers gliding across the keyboard. “Well, it’ll take a few hours for it to complete and print out the results. From there, we’ll be on our own whether there’s a problem or not.” He takes a small circular device and clicks it, and long paragraphs of numbers and letters fill the screen. “Alright, that oughta do it.”
Stan watches his hands lower to his lap and fidget, wringing and pulling at the bandage wrapped around his palm. He lightly kicks the leg of the chair and holds out his own hand when Fiddleford turns around.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
The engineer smiles again, more genuinely, and takes it.
___
Stan doesn’t fall asleep for a while. It’s not from lack of trying, but the day’s events won’t leave him alone. His mind buzzes and a weight has settled in his chest between putting together a meager dinner of boxed mac and cheese, getting bedding for Fiddleford and changing out of his clothes. It’s a heavy weight and the back of his shoulder burns against the mattress. Turning over and throwing a blanket off does nothing, nor does closing his eyes and slowing his breathing.
Eventually, he gives up and decides to go out for a smoke. The weather had lessened somewhat but was still chilly, maybe the cold would make him tired. He gets out of bed and tiptoes downstairs, trying to be quiet now that he has someone else under the roof. The floor is creaky but he’s starting to learn where the softer spots are. Stanley’s pulling on his hoodie when he hears a noise from behind him. He freezes on instinct, expecting a knife or gun barrel to poke him in the back, then he relaxes. He wasn’t hiding out in some motel or sneaking in to some guy’s house to get his stuff back. He was in his brother’s house, which meant it was his house. He wasn’t in danger, probably just Fiddleford rolling over.
Stanley grabs his lighter off the counter and heads for the backdoor only to hear another noise. This time it’s louder and sounds almost like a whimper. He frowns and eyes the hallway, waits for more.
He could leave whatever it was alone and try to smoke his worries away outside.
…Or he could go and be a decent human being and see what was wrong,
A third noise, breathless and similar to a yell of fear makes the decision for him and Stan tosses the lighter aside.
He feels his way to the living room and carefully steps down, squinting to see the couch. He can see a form under the blankets, shifting and jerking while the man mumbles. His voice changes in pitch and Stanley can’t make out what he’s saying, but he knows that he’s scared.
Shit. What do I do? You’re not supposed to wake people when they’re like this, right? He kneels down, lifting his hands to hover awkwardly in the air. It makes them freak out more. Or wait…is that sleepwalking? Fuck.
Stan hesitates before pulling the blankets down. His heart twinges at the sight under it. Fiddleford’s face is pale and sweaty, tears running down his cheeks into his hair. His chest heaves up and down erratically like he’s been sprinting while his hands tremble like they’ve been dipped in ice water.
“F-Ford, no, don’t…please, no, get out of him… ” His voice is broken, gasping and the words are dripping with terror. “Get out… get out, get out, please… y-you’re hurting him…”
Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Stan wants to vomit hearing the pleas. He feels so unbelievably out of his depth with what’s happening.
“Fidds,” he calls softly, hoping it’ll just wake him up and end the nightmare.
It does not. If anything, it makes it worse as Fiddleford flinches at his name and turns on his side. His arms wrap around his stomach and he pushes his face into the pillow.
“N-No no no, Bill, don’t…” His face screws up like he’s in pain and more tears gather under his eyes. “U-Use me instead, let Ford go…I’ll–I’ll do what you…you want, I’ll… No. No, not her, please, not her.” A hand raises and clutches his hair, pulling hard. Stan almost snatches it to stop, but isn’t sure if that will actually help.
“Fidds, wake up, c’mon,” he tries again, lightly touching him on the leg.
Fiddleford jumps and presses himself to the back of the couch. “Not her, not him, please…” he continues to beg. His other hand reaches out and Stan recoils, frowning in confusion. It’s almost like he wanted to shake hands. “T-Take me instead, use me, h-hurt me, don’t hurt them, God, hurt me, hurt me…”
Stanley swallows bile at the words and takes his hand. As he expected, the man jolts at the contact and pulls his arm back, but Stan doesn’t letting go.
“No, stop…hurts…”
“Fiddleford, wake up,” he says, louder. “You’re havin’ a dream. Wake up, man.”
“N-no…a trick…”
“It’s not a trick, Fidds. It’s Stanley and I need you to wake up. Now.”
The other frowns and shakes his head, weakly pulling at his hand.
Stan stares at him, worrying his lip. Then he has an idea. A frankly stupid one, but, one that always worked with Ford. He licks a finger and shoves it inside the engineer’s ear.
Fiddleford’s whole body twitches and he lets out a sound of surprise. His eyes open and he shoots up on the couch, disgust curling his mouth.
“W-What the hell—” He rubs his ear on his shoulder. “Eugh, wha—”
“Hey, specs.”
He startles, head whipping around to face him. “S-Stan? What’re you doin’—”
“You were having a nightmare.”
“N-Nightmare?”
“Yeah, about, uh…” Stan realizes he’s still holding his hand. He doesn’t drop it. “Ford and Bill, I think. Somethin’ with them and Bill…hurting Ford? Or someone else?”
Fiddleford stares until he seems to register the words. “O-Oh.”
“Yeah, you were really scared, I wasn’t sure what to do, uh…”
He touches his cheeks and goes red as he feels the dampness. “I-I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“You didn’t wake me, I was already up, was goin’ to head outside to—”
“I was too loud, wasn’t I?” His voice falters and he wipes at his face roughly. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…to… You should go back to sleep, I’ll be quiet. I will.”
Stan’s brows pull together and he leans closer. “No, no, Fidds, I’m not sayin’—” He pauses and looks down at their hands, then at the other man. He can see his eyes shine, his shoulders shaking, and tenses. “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s—”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Fiddleford babbles, the words sliding into each other. He yanks at his hair and Stan resists the urge to take both his hands so he'll stop hurting himself. “God, I’m sorry, you need your sleep, ‘specially after what happened and I just–just ruined it ‘cause I couldn’t shut up, oh Christ—”
“No, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong, it’s okay!”
“I tried to sleep but I kept seein’ him and-and he took Ford and was hurting him and wouldn’t stop,” he gasps, breathing growing panicked and much too fast. “He was b-bleeding so much and I told Bill to possess me so it would stop, I just wanted it to stop, but he said he would track down Emma and Tate, that he would–he would hurt them, he said he would t-torture them right in front of me if I tried to interfere again, and I couldn’t let that happen, I couldn’t, I can’t have them get hurt because of me, because of m-me… ’cause of… me…I can’t, c-can’t—”
He cuts himself off, wheezing and Stanley lets out a curse because shit fuck damn this is not what he wanted to happen.
“Woah, woah, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he says, letting go finally and looking around like there’s some answer on what to do. Christ, he feels like the dumbest person ever. “Uh, s’okay, just breathe, just breathe, everything’ll be fine.”
Fiddleford ignores him and begins to hyperventilate, his expression one of utter fear.
Panic chokes Stan and he sits on the couch, grabbing the engineer’s shoulders. He turns him so they’re facing each other. “Fidds, you gotta calm down, you’re gonna pass out if you don’t breathe.” He takes a huge, exaggerated inhale of air and lets it out. “Don’t think about Bill or any, uh, of that stuff, just focus on me, alright?”
Fiddleford attempts to copy him but it doesn’t work and he ends up coughing, his exhales concerningly hoarse. “T-Try-Trying,” he stammers, the word ending in a whine. “Can’t…can’t forget what I s-saw… too much…too bright, awful, awful, the apocalypse, the-the end of us, the end of life and order and time, no one’s safe, no one’s safe, n-no one...”
C’mon, Pines. Use that thing between your shoulders for once. Think, think.
“Fidds, can I touch you?”
“W…What?”
“Can I touch you right now?”
Stanley waits until he gets a nod, then takes one of his hands and puts a hand on his chest, doing the same with his own hand. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay?”
“C-can’t—”
“Yes, you can. C’mon, listen to my voice. It’s loud and obnoxious enough. Breathe in—” he sucks air through his nose and holds it “—and breathe out. Easy-peesy. So simple your genius brain can do it without even thinkin’.”
Fiddleford seems ready to argue, but he struggles to get anything out, so he listens. He sounds awful, all stuttering, hitched breaths and half-sobs, and Stan distantly imagines him passing out, falling off the couch and cracking his head open because he’s too slow to save him.
“You got it, you’re doin’ great, man,” he tells him to distract himself from the horrible thought and forces a smile. “Good, good, just like that.”
The narrow chest under his palm gradually grows less frantic and the engineer’s breathing slows to a normal rate within a few minutes. When it does, Stan takes his hand away and leans back on the arm of the couch, closing his eyes and feeling like he was the one who had a panic attack.
“Stanley,” Fiddleford says quietly after a long moment.
He raises his head. “Yeah?”
“I…thank you.”
“It was nothin’. Just glad I was able to help, wasn’t sure on how to at first.”
He glances at him and nods, his gaze on the cushion in front of him. Stan waits for more, expecting an explanation or dismissal. What he gets instead is watching something shiny fall and land on the couch. He sputters as Fiddleford sniffs and wipes his face, covering it with a hand.
“W-Woah, hey, don’t cry! What’s wrong? You still seeing Bill? You hurt?” Stan’s chest aches at the muffled sobs. “Do you want me to go? I can if you want to be alone—oof!”
Fiddleford lunges at the last few words and wraps his arms around his neck, making Stan grunt and catch him to stop from falling.
“What—”
“Please don’t leave,” Fiddleford whispers and tightens his hold, practically in the other’s lap. “I can’t…b-be alone right now, feels…feels t-too exposed. So, can you…p-please?”
Well, shit. What can he say to that?
Stan puts his arms around his back, leaning into him. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”
“M’sorry, bein’ a right mess right now—”
“It’s okay, Fidds,” he interrupts, not wanting to hear any more apologies out of the man’s mouth tonight. “Really. S’okay.”
He doesn’t mean to do it, it just happens. Stan passes a hand over his back, feeling the knobs in his spine and Fiddleford just melts. He lets out a noise that cuts right to Stan’s heart and sags against him, hands clutching his shirt like he’ll disappear any moment. The action sends goosebumps down every every inch of the conman’s skin and he fights back a shiver. God, he was pathetic. He barely knew Fiddleford and yet here he was, holding him like they’d known each other their whole lives.
He’d forgotten how good it was to be hugged, a sentiment that was apparently shared by the engineer. Fiddleford’s entire body was folded in between Stan’s legs in a position that was probably not comfortable in the slightest. But his shaking had gone down and the crying had stopped shortly after he accepted the embrace, so that didn’t matter. He can’t help but trail his hand up higher to cup the back of Fiddleford’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair. It earns a shudder and pleased hum from the man, which Stan internally echoes. The warm weight against his chest was nice, nice enough to make him want to fall asleep.
When his eyes start to slip close, he glances at the clock over the man’s shoulder and grimaces. 1:30 AM. Jesus.
“Feelin’ better?” he murmurs and Fiddelford’s head bumps his chin in reply. “How about some hot chocolate? I’m sure Ford has some stuffed in the cabinets.”
“We had two cups a few weeks before we tested the portal,” the engineer mumbles. “To celebrate. Poured some whiskey in them and drank outside. We watched the stars.”
Stanley winces at the obvious regret and sadness in his tone and rubs his back again before pulling away. “You stay here and I’ll be right back, okay?”
Fiddleford nods and disentangles himself, hunching into the blankets.
As Stanley goes, he flips on the light, bathing the space in soft, warm orange. The inside of his head is akin to static as he gets out mugs and the mix, heating up water and pouring it. It’s all done mechanically as he recalls what was said, what he did. When was the last time he’d comforted someone, much less touched someone who didn’t want to shut the door in his face or break his jaw? Maybe a fling or a short-lived relationship some time on the road. He would say Ford, but those times of huddling under a sheet and speaking quietly to one another had passed long before he got kicked out. He didn’t know how to be a friend to anyone, hadn’t had any back in his hometown aside from his twin and hadn’t managed to keep any as he grew older. And he definitely didn’t know how to handle a guy who was as broken and lost as Fiddleford, despite wanting to. He wasn’t some licensed professional who knew about trauma and all that junk, he was just a salesman turned con who had spent the last few years in his car surrounded by his failures.
God, what am I getting myself into?
His hands are buzzing like he sat on them for hours as he walks back to the living room. He hopes the mug doesn’t shake as he hands it to Fiddleford, but figures if it did, the man wouldn’t mention it.
“Might’ve made it too hot, sorry,” he says as he sits on the floor. He’s surprised when a body slides from the couch to perch next to him.
“I’m sure it’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re, uh, welcome.”
Fiddleford takes a sip and sighs, and leans into him the slightest bit.
Stanley attempts to not freak out about it because he can handle casual contact, he totally can, and gulps down the hot chocolate, burning his tongue.
He says it after a long silence of them nursing their drinks.
“You’re not like him.”
Stan tries to catch a mini marshmallow that floats away. “Who?”
“Stanford.”
He almost chokes. He coughs and looks at Fiddleford, who’s staring down at his mug with a solemn expression.
“You’re so…different. In every way.”
Stanley swallows and tries to not let the ever-present bittnerness show. “Sorry.”
“Sorry?” Fiddleford raises his head, a confused frown on his face. “What’re you sorry for?”
“Well, it’s…it’s bad, right? That I’m not like him.” Shit, stop with the short, clipped tone. Don’t get mad, you should be used to this.
“What? No, I didn’t say—”
“Look, it’s not ideal to be stuck with the dumber twin, I know, I get it, but we’re just gonna have to deal with it, alright? I can only do so much with gettin’ kicked out and not having gone to some nerdy college like you two—”
“No, Stanley.” The engineer cuts him off and puts a hand on his. His brows furrow. “I didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. I was makin’ an observation, one that’s been on my mind since I knocked on your door. And I said it as a compliment.”
Stan’s eyes must bug out of his head from how wide they go.
“C-Compliment?” he parrots and feels his cheeks warm. He blinks more than necessary and coughs, flashing a smile that he hopes is confident. “They teach ya how to do that back where you’re from? Might need a refresher.”
Fiddleford’s mouth twitches. “I know how to just fine, It seems like you never learned how to take one.”
“Well…not many people do it on purpose.”
“They should.”
Is his face on fire or is he imagining it? Why does he sound so honest, like he actually means it? Stanley downs the rest of his hot chocolate way too fast because he can’t think of what to say.
“I mean it, though. You’re not like Standord and it’s…nice. I shouldn’t say it, I know, but… it’s true.” Fiddleford’s voice turns subdued and he sets his drink aside, taking his hand away to rub his temple. He pulls his knees up, expression troubled. “Me ‘n Ford were close, real close, back in college. It was so much fun to have someone who just got me like he did. And when he called about my help later on, I got so excited to see him again, see what he had been up to. It was fine in the beginnin’, just the two of us workin’ together, throwin’ ideas at the wall and not carin’ if it didn’t stick. We were on the same wavelength about pretty much everythin’ and then he…” His hand moves to the back of his neck and he hunches down. “He went out in the woods to take some notes and came back rantin’ and ravin’ about meeting someone, someone who could help us breakthrough the mysteries of the town.
“I agreed to help ‘cause it didn’t seem like anythin’ was wrong. We still worked and talked every day, still shared ideas, we were happy. Then one day I walk into his office and find him sittin’ on the floor, with candles around him and a triangle drawn on the wood. I-I called his name and his eyes, when he opened ‘em…” Fiddleford shivers, drawing closer into himself. “Christ, they weren’t his. And the way he moved, it was so stiff and unnatural, like someone shoved a bunch’a wires under his skin. I freaked out, started thinkin’ he’d been hurt and when he snapped out of it, he told me it had just been Bill. He’d been overjoyed that the possession had worked. So unconcerned even when I pointed out his nose and ears were bleedin’. After that, everthin’ just…changed. Bill took up all his time, all his attention, and it-it was fine—I didn’t care about that, but then he became so distant and quiet and annoyed whenever I so much as asked is he ate that day or tapped him on the shoulder, the way he talked was different, all impatient and irritated, and I knew he wasn’t sleeping or even moving for hours, days at a time ‘cause of the damn demon inside his head and I just—”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair and tugging. “He wasn’t the same after Bill. I don’t think he meant to change so much, but he sure as hell didn’t fight it. And I don’t think he wanted me around the more he worked with Bill. I kept complainin’ and warnin’ him that it was dangerous, tellin’ him I was worried about him, but he didn’t much care. Probably got told I was standin’ in his way and whatever else the demon said was too good, too promising. It… really hurt to see how different he was, to see the friend I had wasn’t in there anymore. Or if he was, he was buried too deep to reach. After he left me locked out of the shack for a week and we tested the portal, I threw in the towel. I know it’s bad that I gave up on him, ‘specially when it wasn’t good for him to be alone, but what I saw… God, it wasn’t meant for a human eye and brain. It was too awful to describe and believe me, I tried.” Fiddleford laughs weakly. “Broke down shakin’ and cryin’ and Emma had to bring me pour water on me to snap me outta it.”
“All that to say, you’re not like him and I’m glad for it. I don’t think I woulda stayed if you were.” He flashes a bittersweet smile. “You’re a helluva a nice guy. And I don’t just think it, I know it. You’re workin’ to bring back a brother you didn’t talk to for 20 years, one you fought with right before he left. And you let me in, some crazy stranger who showed up on your doorstep and threatened you. Not many people would do that.”
Stan stares at his empty mug. “You miss him.”
Fiddleford inhales and lets it out, long and louder than anything. “Yeah. I do.”
He swallows, stomach doing a somersault at the words. “I-I’m not…I can’t replace him. You said it’s good that I’m not like him, but I…” He closes a hand into a fist, nails digging into his palm under the blanket. “You’re gonna find out eventually that it’s not. You can’t have any expectations of me, Fidds. I can’t do half of what he could. I couldn’t even get past page five in that fucking journal. I’m not good at math, I passed my science final only 'cause I got the answers off some nerd, barely graduated highschool. I won’t be able to help with the portal. The only thing I know how to do is scam people and fuck up. I’m… I’m just—”
Deadweight.
Something soft brushes his face and settles against his side.
He stiffens and glances to see sandy brown hair below his chin.
“‘M’not lookin’ for a replacement.” Fiddelford sighs, tugging the blanket higher. “You’re just Stanley and that’s enough for me.”
He’s sort of relieved the other man can’t see his face due to it feeling it he’s been looking into a fire, but with his luck, he can probably feel it. He tries to talk and all that comes out is a strained, “T-Thanks.”
He hears a chuckle. “See that wasn’t so hard.”
Stan blinks, then huffs. He rolls his eyes and lifts his arm to put it around the engineer’s shoulders, jostling him before pressing him closer. “Mm, funny. Did my brother enjoy your jokes?”
Another chuckle, louder from the action. “Sure did, don’t know if you will, though.”
“Hit me.”
“Hmm… Oh! What do you with sick chemists?”
“Dunno.”
“Helium.”
“Christ.”
“What do you do if they die?”
“No clue, specs.”
“Barium.”
Stan covers his face, feeling Fiddleford shake with laughter. “Jesus, that’s bad. I gotta teach you some actual jokes.”
“I got plenty more.”
“I don’t know if i can handle another knockout, man.”
“A statistician gave birth to twins, but only had one of them baptised. What did she do with the other baby?”
“What did she do?”
“She kept it as a control!”
“Oh, booo. Bad. Bad joke.”
“C’mon, that one was good!”
“To a nerdy professor, maybe.”
“How about this one; two blood cells met and fell in love. But it was all in vein.”
“Augh.”
“Or, this one; what did the thermometer say to the graduated cylinder?”
“Stop.”
“You may have graduated, but I have more degrees!”
Stanley shoves his face away, feeling a wide smile under his palm. “Terrible. Horrible joke.”
Fiddleford laughs, letting himself be moved. “That one killed at seminars.” He tugs his arm back down over him and holds his hand.
Stan’s skin burns with the contact, hot and pleasant. “Well, it’s killin’ me right now. Slowin’ down my heart and everything.”
“Sorry, sorry, I’ll stop. Can’t have you passin’ out on me.”
“Yeah, who would carry me.”
“I would!”
“With what arms? These noodles?”
For a second he thinks he pushed too far, said the wrong thing and wishes he could reach out and snatch the words out of the air.
But Fiddleford snorts and elbows him. “Hey, Ford wasn’t the only one buildin’ the portal! I had to solder and haul plenty’a steel beams. I got more meat on my bones than you think.”
“Alright, tough guy.”
It’s quiet after that. Stan doesn’t remember when his eyes closed but when he opens them, the body next to him is still. He shifts a bit and hears Fiddleford’s slow breathing pause before resuming. He turns and finds the blanket has fallen off both of them. Grabbing it, he carefully spreads back over, noticing the other’s had thrown his leg over his own. The sight has his chest kind of hurting, but in a good way.
His shoulders twinge as he moves and he grimaces. He tries to stretch and it causes Fiddleford’s head to dip as he falls forward. Swallowing a yelp, Stan goes to catch him, but the man stops himself and leans back. He doesn’t move an inch as the engineer yawns and pushes his face into Stan’s chest, one arm raising to rest on his side. His heart hammers during the movement and afterward, so loud he swears everyone in town can hear it.
When he’s sure Fiddleford is asleep, Stan slowly lowers his arm to wrap around his waist. He gently tugs him up and towards him until he’s draped more securely over him. He briefly thinks about how he’s being weird and way too touchy with some guy he met mere hours ago, and shoves it away. Fiddleford had been the one to starting being touchy and he was too tired and comfortable to care. Their backs would probably hurt like hell in the morning, but that was an issue for tomorrow. Right now, for once, Stanley didn’t feel dread and anxiety pooling in his stomach, he didn’t feel hopeless about the future, and he didn’t feel the chill of being alone.
He felt the warm weight of Fiddleford and the soft breaths he puffed on his neck. He felt his hand clutch his ribs like he was something worth holding onto. He heard the words said earlier in his ears.
M’not lookin’ for a replacement.
You’re just Stanley and that’s enough for me.
Stan rubs a hand down Fiddleford’s side, fingers catching on skin beneath his sweater. A hum comes from the man and he shifts, pressing closer like he’s trying to melt into him. Stan’s eyes burn for a split second and he lowers his head to bury his face in the engineer’s hair. He smells cedar and metal and faint vanilla and closes his eyes.
They’ll fix the portal. They will.
He’ll help Fiddleford, help him with what he went through and not destroy another friendship like before.
He’ll get Stanford back and tell him to get his head out of his ass and apologize to his partner and then he’s going to give him the world’s biggest noogie and hug him and never let go.
It’ll work out.
It has to.