Work Text:
I.
“Stanley, this is Fiddleford McGucket, my former assistant.”
“Oh, we've met,” Fiddleford said with a soft, shy kind of smile. “Though I do suppose this is our first formal introduction.”
“Especially since the oaf's been pretending to be me the past three decades,” Ford said. Fiddleford gave him a half smile, half shrug – whatever that was supposed to mean. Ford had to admit, he had been rather irritated with Fiddleford for being so slow on the uptake – the whole “Stanley lied” spiel became trite after the third recounting.
Ford crossed his arms, looked at Stanley... and frowned.
He was staring straight at Fiddleford – eyes gone wide behind his glasses, lips parted as if unspoken words were dancing on his tongue – looking a complete fool. Ford watched his eyes drift over Fiddleford's freshly trimmed beard, the folds of his tidy shirt. Fiddleford gave something of a nervous chuckle and tucked a tuft of hair behind his ear.
Ford frowned at his brother. “Stanley?”
Stanley blinked as if coming out of a daze. “What? He just--” He glanced down at Fiddleford and their eyes locked. “You look different,” he said softly and – if Ford didn't know any better – almost gently.
“Not bad different, I hope,” Fiddleford said, suddenly fretful. “I didn't have much to work with, I thought I looked okay.”
Stanley's brow furrowed, he opened his mouth to speak--
“You look fine, Fiddleford,” Ford said. He clapped him on the back with a massive hand, sending his spectacles sliding down his long nose. “Now let's get going, shall we? Don't want to miss the diner's lunch special. They haven't gotten rid of the lunch specials, have they?”
“I wouldn't know, honestly,” Fiddleford admitted.
“No matter. Stanley, hold the fort while we're gone. And keep the kids out of the basement, I don't want them messing around in there.”
“You don't need to tell me that, I don't want them down there either.”
Before Ford could steer him away by the shoulder, Fiddleford looked up at Stanley with earnest eyes. “It was nice to meet you,” he said. “Officially, I mean.”
Stanley only nodded, his mouth a tense line.
They turned to leave, Ford's hand still grasping Fiddleford's narrow shoulder, guiding him toward Stanley's car. Ford felt a pair of eyes on his back and he spared a glance over his shoulder. As he thought, Stanley hadn't moved. He was staring after them, his eyebrows still knitted together in that unflattering look of bewilderment. Ford shot him a look, a silent “shoo.”
And Stanley did retreat into the Mystery Shack, but only after his eyes flicked down to the six-fingered hand on Fiddleford's rigid shoulder, after the two of them reached the car and finally split apart.
II.
Ford muttered to himself as he padded down the stairs in his socks, nose buried in the journal he had just confiscated from Dipper. The kid was much smarter than he had originally gathered – there were new notes written in the empty pages in the back of the journal, edits of Ford's original work. He had to say, he was impressed.
Ford paused by the back door to struggle into his muddy boots, his eyes endlessly deciphering Dipper's hasty handwriting. He slipped his toes into the second boot and felt for the doorknob – turned, pushed, and stomped his heel into the shoe.
“It wasn't your fault.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, Stanley, but--”
“I mean it, if that jerk had just listened to what you had to say--”
Ford finally tore his attention away from the journal to find two pairs of stricken eyes staring right at him. Fiddleford and Stanley were out on the porch sitting still as statues on the couch, their thighs just a breath away from touching. A shadow passed over Stanley's face. Fiddleford sunk back into the cushion, his anxious expression half-disappearing behind Stanley's broad shoulder.
Ford snapped the journal shut with a flick of his wrist. “Fiddleford,” he said, surprised. “How long have you been here?” He shot a sharper look at Stanley. “You didn't tell me he was here.”
He thought he heard a relieved sigh as Fiddleford sat up a little straighter, his hands clasped conversationally in his lap. “Actually, we only just got back. I asked Stanley pick me up from Tate's – I know you've been busy.”
“That I have been,” Ford said, and flicked the journal open again. His eyes scanned the page and he missed the glance that Fiddleford and Stanley exchanged. “I'm off to check up on our old stomping grounds. You're welcome to come, if you like.”
Though Ford hadn't necessarily meant it that way, it was understood as an invite for one. Stanley huffed and turned his head.
After a pause, Fiddleford said, “I'm afraid I'm not feelin' up to it today.”
Ford shrugged. “Suit yourself. I'm off, then. Stanley,” he said, turning to his brother with a wry but subtle – perhaps too subtle – grin, “whatever you do, resist the urge to show him any of that junk you're selling in my foyer. He's a guest, not a customer.”
But he began to suspect his humor had become a little too dry because Stanley scoffed in response. “Only if you promise to get lost in the woods for a few days.”
They traded frowns – one dark, the other tense – before Ford whirled around and headed off into the forest. Only when he was sure he was out of eyesight did he allow himself a moment of insecurity, of regret – but only for a moment.
III.
Ford rushed to wrangle his boots onto his feet. There was no time to waste today – just a few days ago he had finally gotten around to checking on his secret bunker and found it tampered with. If he was to catalog all the changes as well as check on the equipment and specimens all within the day, he needed to get a move on--
A sudden cough made him pause, balancing on one leg with his foot half inside a boot. He hadn't realized he wasn't alone. He glanced into the kitchen.
Sitting at the table, dressed in his usual unceremonious wife-beater and boxers, sat Stanley. His eyes drifted down the newspaper folded and propped in his hand while the mug of coffee by his elbow let off wisps of steam. His face sagged with drowsiness, his hair a gray, early-morning tangle. He was a welcome eyesore Ford had grown accustomed to these past several weeks.
The man sitting in the chair beside him, however, was not.
Fiddleford was pouring over a notebook, pen gripped loosely in his fingers as he scratched something down in his tall, quick handwriting. Eyes half-lidded, elbows on the table, shirt unbuttoned halfway down – he was the image of tranquility, a far sight different from the guarded Fiddleford that Ford had known lately.
Ford didn't need to wonder about the notebook – he knew Fiddleford had started the journal several weeks back to keep a record of all the miscellaneous memories that returned to him during the day. What Ford really wanted to know was how long Fiddleford had been in his damn house. Where had he come from? Stanley's car had been parked all morning and it was common knowledge that Tate McGucket couldn't drive, yet here they both were, lazing about as if it was the usual old Friday morning. Ford frowned at the unkempt state of them, almost annoyed they hadn't noticed him standing there.
Fiddleford, lost in his note-taking, bent over his journal. A tuft of white hair fell loose and draped over his brow like a partial curtain. Ford watched stock still as Stanley extended an arm, as lazy as if he was only reaching for his coffee, and brushed the hair from his eyes.
Ford blinked.
He meant to pull on his other boot and get on with his day but then Fiddleford smiled – a soft, affectionate little look that made something in Ford's gut squirm. He stared in loud silence as Fiddleford rested his free hand atop Stanley's on the table, as Stanley laced their fingers together and brought their intertwined hands to his mouth. One by one, Stanley kissed each of Fiddleford's knuckles.
“Quit it,” Fiddleford murmured, his voice as loud as a scream in Ford's ears. “You know I can't think when you do that.”
Stanley grinned lazily. “Oh yeah? What about when I do this?” He leaned over, newspaper as good as damned, and pressed a long kiss into Fiddleford's cheekbone. His mouth slowly traveled up the side of Fiddleford's face, drawing quiet, pleased giggles from Fiddleford's lips with each kiss.
Something in Ford's chest gave a nasty jolt. Blood rushed into his cheeks, into his ears, set him aflame. He dropped his foot, stomping down the rest of the way into the boot, and whirled about. He opened the back door with a tug that nearly yanked it off its hinges.
How could he have been so blind, why hadn't they told him – how had he not seen this?
Ford slammed the door behind him and the windows rattled. He was already gone when Stanley and Fiddleford glanced up in surprise at where he had stood not a second ago.