#Fidds offers to help soup up the cars

[thelastspeecher]

Junior in Olympian Falls AU (or Lee, as he's known in it) is still a car mechanic like he usually is. He has a great-grandfather who was a son of Hephaestus, a father who was a son of Nike (the divine charioteer), and a mother who is the daughter of Apollo (the person who drives the sun across the sky). It's what he was meant for.

But thanks to his parents, he's also crazy competitive. So he doesn't just repair cars. He also races them.

Mostly illegally.

His redneck McGucket relatives are so proud of him.

[apathetic-revenant]

by the skin of your teeth, part eleven

AO3

hey guys! this is a long one. pack a snack. 

once again, no content warnings for this one except people dealing with the shit that’s already happened. 

coupla notes: 

1.) I feel sure I stole the idea of Fiddleford’s wife being named Madeline from someone, but I’m darned if I know who. so if I have committed accidental character name piracy against you, you have my sincerest apologies. 

2.) I definitely stole the reference to incomplete penetrance in genetics from this post. kudos and thanks to @a-million-chromatic-dreams for knowing a lot more about genetics than I do (and to @eregyrn-falls for helping me find that again.)

3.) (I know I said it’d be a couple of notes. I lied.) this is not the end! there’s gonna be one more chapter. not a terribly long one, I don’t think, so hopefully it won’t take this long to update again. but I told you guys I’d tell you when it was over and it’s not over just yet.

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They took Ford home in the morning, under a strict prescription of bedrest and a lot of fluids. He had to lean on Stan most of the way out, but flatly refused any offer of a wheelchair.

“I'm fine,” he insisted doggedly. “Just...a little unsteady.”

“You thought you were dying yesterday,” Fiddleford put in helpfully.

Ford gave him a look that could have withered flowers. Stan had to jam a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

The trip back was considerably more sedate than the drive to the hospital had been, in large part because Fiddleford insisted on driving this time. Stan shrugged and got in the passenger seat. “I don't know what you're complaining about. I got us there quick.”

“We very nearly went off the side of a hill,” Fiddleford said, gripping the keys tighter than necessary at the memory. “Three times.”

“Yeah, but we didn't, did we?”

“Also,” Fiddleford continued, ignoring this, “I'm wearing my glasses.”

Stan grunted vaguely. “Ain't got glasses.”

He'd worn them intermittently over the past ten years; there were times when the need to see real well outweighed his dislike of looking like a nerd-oh, call it what it was, looking like Ford. Plus, they could make for a great disguise. Put a big pair of glasses on and it was amazing how people struggled to recognize you without them. But he'd lost his last good pair quite a while ago, and it was hard to make an appointment with an eye doctor when you were homeless and on the run.

“Maybe not, but you need them, don't you?” Fiddleford said. “I've seen you squinting at things.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I don't want to die in a horrible car crash,” Fiddleford said calmly.

Stan shrugged and looked out the window. “You worry too much. I've been driving all over the country for the past ten years. My car's still in one piece and so am I.”

“That's not the same thing as not being in a horrible car crash,” Fiddleford pointed out.

Stan didn't feel the need to answer that one.

Despite his protestations, Ford promptly dozed off almost as soon as they got him into the car, and they made it back to his house with no more incident than having to stop for rabbits a few times. Stan roused Ford and helped him into the house, where he promptly staggered off towards the basement.

“Um, excuse me,” Stan said, as Ford headed for the the stairs. “Where do you think you're going?”

“The portal,” Ford said, as if this should have been obvious. “We have to take it apart.”

“Not right now this minute, we don't!” Stan said. He turned to Fiddleford. “We don't, do we?”

Fiddleford shrugged uneasily. “It's been down there all this time...I don't like it, but I don't see why a few more days should make any difference. As long as it's shut off. You did shut it off, didn't you?”

“Of course I shut it off,” Ford snapped, fumbling with the stairway door. “But as long as it's down there, it's a potential threat. If someone were to activate it...”

“Who's gonna activate it?” Stan gently-more or less-put himself between Ford and the door. “Look, Stanford, I get it, you wanna get rid of the thing, but you don't have to do it right now. Not anymore. Right now you're supposed to be in bed, remember?”

Ford faltered somewhat. “I...I have to...”

“Look at it this way,” Fiddleford said. “That's gonna be delicate work, dismantling that thing. If you try to do that now, while you're still sick, you're a lot more liable to make mistakes. It'd be safer to wait until you're doin' better.”

Ford slumped. His face gave away his exhaustion, but there was still a spark of desperate, driven panic in his eyes.

“Look,” Stan said. “I promise you, no one's gonna do anything to that portal while you're getting better, okay? I don't know who would, but if anyone tried, they'd have to go through me.”

And then, before he could stop himself, he added, “You can trust me.”

Ford opened his mouth and closed it again. Stan wished he hadn't said that; he could see the struggle written all over Ford's face, the force of deepset paranoia still not shaken. Trust no one. Trust no one.

But then, to his surprise, Ford nodded once and turned away from the door.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright...but as soon as...as soon as I can...”

“Yep,” Stan said, guiding his brother back towards the study with relief. “As soon as you can. But not any sooner.”

Once situated back in the study with the space heater and a lot of blankets, Ford's resolve wore out pretty quickly. Stan turned the lights down and left him sleeping soundly. Maybe it was just his imagination, but he thought that Ford was already starting to look better, despite his still-swollen eye and horrible pallor. Of course, cleaning up all the blood had probably helped a fair amount.

Fiddleford muttered something about cleaning up and shuffled off towards the workshop, leaving Stan, for the second time in as many days, standing alone and adrift in his brother's cold, dark house.

The thought made his heart catch in his chest and he had to take a moment to steady himself. Don't be stupid, he told himself, you're fine. Everything's fine now. Bill's gone and Ford's going to get better and there's no threat here, not any more.

Had it really only been two days, though? It was bizarre to think about, after everything that had happened. It felt like it had been years since he'd gotten here, but no: it was only the day before yesterday that he'd been standing on the porch, waiting to see his brother again for the first time in over a decade.

He wondered just how close things had come to it being the last time.

This was no good. If he stood here doing nothing, he was just going to get tangled up in his own stupid thoughts again. There had to be some way he could occupy his time. He thought about taking a nap--he was certainly tired enough--but he didn't think he'd be able to sleep, not yet. Not when his head was still buzzing like this.

Without quite realizing it, he found himself wandering towards the kitchen.

He caught himself in the doorway and stared into the room. There was still a sink full of undone dishes, and clean ones, long since dry, waiting to be put away. And there was still a spatter of blood on the floor, now dried a dull brown.

Stan walked over slowly and put a hand on the edge of the sink.

Wellllllwellwellwellwell, look who we have here!

No.

He braced himself against the sink and took a few deep breaths, willing his suddenly rapid heartbeat to calm down.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What was there to be afraid of? It was just a bunch of dirty dishes--just an empty kitchen--just him standing here, Ford asleep in the study, waiting--no.

A thought occurred to him. He shuffled out of the kitchen, back toward the mess of the living room. It was in even more disarray now than it had been two nights ago, but it didn't take him too long to find his duffel bag underneath the mess of papers Ford had been throwing around, and inside it, his Walkman.

Music had drowned out Bill once; maybe it could do it again.

Stan went back to the kitchen, tucked the cord for the headphones under his shirt to keep it out of the way, and turned the tape on.

He took another deep breath and then, humming quietly, turned the hot water on and began to clean.

Ford woke up to another brief thrill of panic, but it passed sooner this time. The room around him was warm and calm and soothing. He didn't know how long he'd slept; the world outside was still a persistent, timeless white, but it might have had a sense of afternoon about it.

He stirred under the heavy quilt, stretching some very stiff muscles, and wondered if he would feel that fear upon waking for the rest of his life. But then, not too long ago he hadn't thought the rest of his life would be very long at all.

Floorboards creaked outside, and Fiddleford poked his head in the door. “Oh--you're awake.”

He pushed the door open and came in, awkwardly burdened with a bowl, a glass, and several packages of cold medicine. “Here. I brought ya some stuff.”

“Oh.” Ford pulled himself into a sitting position and fumbled for his glasses while Fiddleford set the things down on the bedside table. The bowl had what looked like clear soup in it; the glass was full of orange juice. Ford blinked at it.

“Did I...have orange juice?” he asked.

“Nope,” Fiddleford said. “You didn't have hardly anything. That's why I went grocery shopping for you last night.”

“You didn't have to do that,” Ford muttered.

Fiddleford shrugged. “Someone had to, and evidence suggested it wasn't gonna be you.”

Ford couldn't come up with an appropriate rebuttal to this, so he sipped at the orange juice instead. Fiddleford opened the medicine boxes and tore off a couple of blister packs.

“Take these,” he said, putting them next to the soup bowl. “And try to get that soup down. I don't reckon you have any calories left in you at this point.”

He turned to leave.

“Fidds,” Ford said. “Wait a minute.”

Fiddleford paused at the door. “You need something else?”

“No--that is--I just--”

Ford swallowed hard, feeling the ache in his throat all too keenly.

“...I...didn't thank you,” he said at last.

“Ah,” Fiddleford said. “...Well, uh...you're-”

“I--I wouldn't be here without you,” Ford stumbled on. “I mean. You fixed that gun right in the nick of time.”

“I'm glad,” Fiddleford said.

Ford looked down at his lap and twisted his fingers around. “How's, um...so, um, the gun, is it-”

“Busted,” Fiddleford said. “Whole thing melted in on itself. Couldn't repair it now if I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Ford said. “...I'm sorry.”

Fiddleford folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “No, you're not.”

Ford hesitated over this for a long moment.

“You're right,” he said at last. “I can't honestly say that I'm sorry the gun is destroyed. But...I am sorry that your work was destroyed. If that makes sense.”

Fiddleford tilted his head to one side contemplatively. “Fair enough.”

Ford sighed.

Then he looked up suddenly. “Wait. What was that about even if you wanted to--”

“I'm not remaking it,” Fiddleford said.

Ford opened and shut his mouth a few times. “You...you're not?”

“No.” Fiddleford wrapped his arms even tighter around himself and stared at the far wall.“I...everything that I did to try to forget...what I saw, what I did...in the end it didn't matter. When it had me cornered, all it had to do was say a few things and it all started coming back...you were right that it never permanently removed memories. I don't...know that it ever worked the way I intended it to.”

“Oh,” Ford said. “So...you want to try to improve it, then--”

“No.”

“...no?”

Fiddleford took a while answering.

“When I say it didn't matter,” he said at last. “I don't just mean the gun didn't work the way it was meant to. I mean...it didn't matter. I thought I was getting better, I thought I was doing better, but it...just made no difference, when it came down to it. It only gave that thing more power over me. Something to use against me...you were right about that, too. It wasn't any good trying to hide from it, trying to run. Everything that I lost, that I was willing to lose, it didn't stop it at all. It was hurting you and I couldn't do anything and...”

“Fidds,” Ford broke in gently. “You did do something. I only have one broken finger, don't I? I could have had twelve.”

Fiddleford sighed. “Yeah, but...there was a moment, a long moment, when I couldn't do anything. And...even earlier than that. When I came here, and I thought, for a minute, that things had gotten so bad that there were...other people being hurt...and I thought, my God, I could have stopped that. I know you, uh--I mean, I found out what was goin' on, but...that thought stuck with me. Somehow it all got more real then. It wasn't...it wasn't just a boogeyman, it wasn't something I could say was just haunting my dreams, it was...it was someone real getting hurt. Right in front of me.You know what I mean?”

“I suppose I do.”

“It's not that I don't want to forget it all again,” Fiddleford went on. “Lord knows I do. I--I want it so bad, if the gun wasn't broken, I don't think I could resist...so it's gonna stay broken, from now on. There's just--too much to lose.”

Ford smiled. “Good for you. I mean--it really is better this way, Fiddleford.”

“Don't lecture me.”

“Sorry.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Gradually the awkwardness eased into something softer.

“What are you going to do about your cul--society?” Ford asked eventually. “Wasn't the memory gun sort of, erm, important to them?”

“Oh, they'll cope,” Fiddleford said easily. “I think it was more of a hobby for most of 'em than anything. They liked feeling ominous. Poor Ivan might take a bit of talking down, but he'll come around. He ain't got much choice.”

“And you?” Ford asked. “How are you doing?”

“Awful,” Fiddleford said bluntly. “Every time I close my eyes I see it all over again, with that hammer...” He sighed and ruffled a hand through his disheveled mop of hair. “But...I think it's...it does feel better, now. To know that it's gone. You know, no matter how often I used that gun, I couldn't get rid of that feeling of--waiting. Of something dreadful coming.”

He smiled slightly. “Maybe I'll try some of those meditation exercises of yours. See if they work any better this time.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Ford said, perking up a little. “I could show you-”

“Ah-ah, not right now. Right now you need to finish that soup and rest.”

“I've been resting,” Ford grumbled.

“Rest more,” Fiddleford said, and turned to go.

“Wait,” Ford said. “Fidds?”

“Yeah?”

“You--you know you can stay here, right?” Ford said. “I mean--you know--not that you have to, or anything--but-if you didn't want to be alone...I know it's hard. So. I mean.”

Fiddleford paused, hand on his chin. “I might take you up on that. If I can find anywhere to sleep, that is.”

Ford coughed and went a little red. “You might have to move a few things around,” he admitted.

“Well...” Fiddleford smiled slightly. “I suppose it's not much worse than our dorm room, come to that.”

Ford smiled as well. “Just...do me a favor? I mean, not that you haven't done enough--sorry--”

“What is it, Stanford?”

Ford looked down at his hands. “Keep an eye on Stan for me, would you? I'm--I'm afraid he's going to try to slip away while I'm not watching and I...I don't want him to leave yet. Not like that, I mean.”

Fiddleford glanced out the window. More snow was beginning to fall. “Well, I don't think he's going anywhere too soon, but...sure. I will.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. Drink your soup.”

Ford rolled his eyes, but he drank his soup. He was surprised at how good it was; after who-knew-how-long skipping meals, the simple broth tasted like ambrosia itself, which was impressive considering he could barely taste anything at the moment.

Fiddleford left, apparently satisfied, and Ford leaned back against the pillow and watched the snow fall as he finished the soup.

The house was very quiet for the next few days. There were no more blizzards, but snow fell periodically in a stubborn, methodical kind of way. Ford mostly slept, waking occasionally to eat or take medicine or complain.

Fiddleford and Stan, by some mutual unspoken agreement, began to tidy the house. They threw nothing away, but they stacked up the books and cleared the paper from the floor, and washed a small mountain of laundry. Fiddleford organized the workshop; Stan took a bottle of bleach to the bathroom and scrubbed until all the accusatory rust-colored splotches were gone. He tried not to think very much while he was doing it.

Fiddleford slept in the arm chair, when he did sleep. Stan cleared off Ford's bed and slept there. The first night he was too tired to pay much more attention than was absolutely necessary, but the second night, he stubbed his toe on a cardboard box and, cursing, leaned down to get a better look at his assailant.

The top of the box was open slightly, and whatever was inside was brightly colored. Stan frowned, curiosity getting the better of him, and opened it all the way.

It was a stack of comics.

His comics.

In wonderment, Stan hauled the box up onto the bed and sat there, pulling out one issue after another. Batman and Superman and the Flash. Justice League. Green Lantern. Most of them weren't in very good shape-Stan had never been too gentle with his comics-but they had been stacked neatly and carefully in the box.

Ford hadn't thrown them out at all.

Stan had to put them all to one side for a little while so they didn't get wet while he sobbed into his hands. But later he fell asleep reading them.

On the afternoon of the third day, Ford shuffled into the bathroom, took a very long shower, and shaved thoroughly. Afterwards, he found Stan and Fiddleford in the kitchen, eating sandwiches.

He went over the counter, started making a sandwich for himself, and said, “Tomorrow I'm going to start taking the portal apart.”

His voice was still rough and his color bad, but he sounded determined. Stan and Fiddleford glanced at each other.

“Alright,” Fiddleford said at last. “But you let us do the heavy lifting, okay?”

“Fine,” Ford said. “But one way or another, it's coming down.”

It was a daunting task. As the three of them stood in the basement the next morning, looking up at the huge ring, Stan wondered how exactly they were going to dismantle the entire thing by themselves. Come to that, he wondered exactly how Ford and Fiddleford had gotten it up by themselves.

“This thing is safe to be around, right?” he said nervously. He remembered the noise the portal had made in Ford's mind, remembered falling into it. He knew it hadn't ever really happened, but it felt like it had, felt like a real memory in his head.

“Don't worry, Stanley,” Ford said, with more confidence than Stan was entirely sure he could back up. “The portal's deactivated. It would take a ridiculous series of coincidences to start it up now.”

Stan nodded, but he kept his distance from the thing as much as possible.

At first, the process mostly seemed to involve a lot of pulling plugs and disconnecting wires. Stan helped where he could--mostly by lifting heavy things--and loitered on the sidelines when he couldn't, keeping an eye on Ford. The more the work progressed, the more heavy things there were for him to lift, as they started taking apart larger components, and more than once he had to step in before Ford tried to pick up something that was clearly beyond him at the moment. He tried to do the same for Fiddleford as well, but the scrawny engineer turned out to be surprisingly strong.

“I grew up on a farm,” he said, by way of explanation.

Stan woke tired and aching the next day, but he didn't think anything of it. He'd spent the day before doing a lot more heavy work than he was used to, after all. It was hardly surprising. And if he couldn't seem to get warm, that wasn't strange either, considering how cold it was in Ford's house.

It didn't occur to him that anything was wrong at all until Ford had to wake him up for the third time.

“Stan, are you alright?”

Stan blinked, seeing his brother's concerned face swim into partial focus. He'd dozed off in a corner, using a toolbox as a pillow. It was hardly a comfortable position, but he was exhausted enough to not care.

“Yeah, 'm fine,” he muttered, sitting up and wincing at the crick in his neck. “Just tired. Guess I'm even more out of shape than I thought...”

He coughed.

Ford was still looking worried. “Are--are you sure? Only-”

“'Course I'm sure,” Stan said, and promptly started coughing again. This time it went on for a while.

When he finally caught his breath he looked up to see that Ford had gone white. “Stan, you're--you're not well,” he gabbled. “What's--what's wrong? What is it? Do you have a fever? Here, let me see--”

“Get off,” Stan said, swatting Ford's hand away as he tried to feel Stan's forehead. “I'm alright.”

“You're sick!” It was almost a wail. Stan stared. He didn't understand why Ford was acting like this.

“What's the problem?” Fiddleford had come over to investigate.

“Stan's sick,” Ford said, digging a hand through his hair frantically.

“I told you, I'm fine.” To prove it, Stan stood up, trying to ignore how dizzy this made him. “I was just takin' a quick nap and next thing I know Ford's over here freaking out-”

Fiddleford squinted at him. “You do look kinda flushed,” he said. “But it doesn't exactly seem like an emergency.”

“What if it's serious?” Ford demanded. “Who knows what you could have picked up, Stan, living the way you do--”

“Hey now,” Stan growled, starting to get riled. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“We have to take this seriously!” Ford insisted, wringing his hands. “Stan, if--what if you--I can't lose you again!”

The basement rang with the sudden silence.

“Ford,” Stan said, reeling. “You're not--you're not gonna lose me, okay?”

“He probably just picked up whatever you had,” Fiddleford pointed out.

This just made Ford more distraught. “So it's my fault!”

“No, that's not--” Fiddleford pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I meant was, you're gettin' over it just fine, and that was what with--well, a whole lotta things not exactly conducive to a swift recovery. So Stan's gonna be fine too. Okay?”

Ford was still shaking, but gradually and with great effort he relaxed a little.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Good,” Fiddleford said encouragingly. “Let's take a break, yeah? I could do with one anyway.”

They adjourned upstairs. Ford kept glancing at Stan as if afraid he was going to drop dead on the spot. It quickly got irritating, but Stan tried to let it go. Ford looked so worried, and it was disconcerting.

He sat in the kitchen staring at a spot on the wall that seemed oddly interesting while the nerds conferred in whispers just outside the door. To his amusement most of the whispering sounded like Ford being gently but firmly calmed down.

Eventually they came back into the kitchen and Fiddleford announced that they were going into town after lunch. “Gonna get the heating turned back on,” he said. “I'd say it's about time, wouldn't you?”

“Definitely,” Stan said vehemently.

“Also we're nearly out of cold medication,” Fiddleford went on. “I didn't know one man could take so much in so short a time. To be honest, I was a little worried about him but he seems to have survived.”

“I'm standing right here,” Ford pointed out from over by the stove, where he was dumping canned soup into a pot with a mutinous expression.

“Anyway,” Fiddleford went on without missing a beat, “if you wouldn't mind staying here and watching the house while we go do that--”

Stan could tell an excuse to make him stay behind and not wear himself out when he heard one, but he couldn't really be bothered to argue, especially if it would make Ford feel better. So he just shrugged and said, “Yeah, alright.”

Once the two of them had left, he settled down into the armchair, intending to read some more of the comics he had found. This plan did not take especially well.

He had been dozing for a while when he was woken by a knock at the door.

It took a while for the noise to register, during which it got increasingly loud and insistent. At last he got up and stumbled toward the door, wondering who could possibly be visiting Ford's house, here on this dead-end road in the middle of nowhere. He was pretty sure Ford didn't have any friends in the area besides Fiddleford--somehow, despite how long he'd lived there. Maybe Ford and Fiddleford had just locked themselves out. That was the most likely explanation.

Or...it could be something worse. A prickle ran up the back of his neck. What if it was the cops coming by to ask questions about Ford's weird set-up, or someone from the college demanding to know what he was doing with the grant money? Or someone from Fiddleford's weird cult?

By the time he got to the door, Stan was wide awake and his heart was pounding frantically. He tried to remember all the exits to the house, but he wasn't sure it mattered. He couldn't get very far on foot in this weather and in this condition.

“Open up!” someone called, pounding on the door as he approached and breaking into his thoughts. “I know you're in there!”

Stan squinted through the peephole. There was a woman standing on the porch, tallish with long blonde hair, wrapped in a winter coat and scarf but still shivering. She didn't look especially official.

“What do you want?” he shouted through the door.

There was a brief pause. The woman looked a bit confused at first, but then her expression hardened back into determined anger. “I want my husband back, you jerk!”

This threw Stan so much that he opened the door just to say, “What?”

“I haven't seen him in months and I know you're responsible, Stanford Pines!” the woman snapped. “What are you doing up here? Where is he?”

“Whoa, hang on,” Stan said, putting his hands up as the woman advanced on him. “I think you've got the wrong--”

“I haven't got the wrong anything!” the woman yelled. “You called Fiddleford up here for your damn project and I was patient, oh yes, I was fair, never mind that we had a newborn, I didn't mind him coming up here to help you out if he wanted to! But it's been weeks since I even got a phone call from him and that isn't like him at all! What did you get him into, Stanford?”

“Lady, please--” Stan tried.

“Don't you 'lady' me!” A finger jabbed straight into his face. “I know what you're like, Stanford! I know the kind of projects you do! And I know you can talk Fiddleford into doing anything because he's too nice to say no! If you got him in trouble, I swear to God-”

“I'm not Stanford,” Stan finally managed to get out desperately.

“Not--? Do you take me for a fool, Pines? I've known you since college! You can't just take your glasses off and think I won't recognize you!”

“I'm his twin brother,” Stan said.

The woman paused, and for a moment Stan thought she might believe him. Then he realized she was just building up steam. “His twin brother? That is the worst excuse I have ever heard in my life! I always knew you were a terrible liar, but that is something else--”

“No, really! Look!” Stan held up his hands, fingers spread. “Look! Ten, see?”

The woman halted mid-lambast and stared at Stan's hands. “O-oh...”

Then she grabbed one of Stan's hands and examined it critically. “But that's amazing. Identical twins but only one expresses the polydactylism gene? How fascinating--”

“Um,” Stan said.

She flushed and dropped his hand quickly. “Sorry! Sorry, I just--I get distracted. I'm a biologist, you see. Um. Oh dear, and I shouted at you rather a lot, didn't I...”

“It's alright,” Stan said. “I just didn't want you to waste such a good rant on the wrong guy.”

The woman gave him a small, embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I'm not usually like this, I swear, but--well, things have been, um, trying lately. I don't suppose you know where my husband is? Only the last I knew he was working with Stanford, and I went to the address he gave me but there was no one there--”

“Uh,” Stan said again. “You mean Fiddleford?”

“That's right, yes.” She looked up hopefully. “Fiddleford McGucket?”

“Yeah, he's--he's safe. He--um, it's kind of a long story, but he and Ford are in town right now. They should be back before too long.”

“He's okay?”

“Yeah,” Stan said, feeling a big guilty. Safe was not a lie, but he wasn't sure if describing Fiddleford as okay right now was entirely true.

“Alright then. Alright.” The woman let out a long breath. “So why the hell hasn't he called?!”

Stan winced and drew back.

“Sorry, sorry. Not your fault.” Fiddleford's wife rubbed her brow with one hand, then looked up. “At least--it's not your fault, is it?”

“Um. I don't think so? I only got here a week ago.”

“Probably not then.” She slumped a little. “Do you-is it alright if I wait here, then? For them to come back?”

“Oh--oh yeah, yeah!” Stan drew back, gesturing inside. “Sorry--”

“No problem. I'm Madeline, by the way. Madeleine McGucket.” She held out a hand. Stan shook it.

“Stanley,” he said. “Stan, usually.”

Madeline raised an eyebrow. “Stanford and Stanley?”

Stan made a face. “Our dad wasn't real creative.”

“Hmmm.” Madeline stepped inside, and Stan shut the door behind her. “Wow. It's not much warmer in here, is it?”

“That's mostly what they went to town for--to get the heat turned back on. I think Ford got behind on his payments.”

“I see,” Madeline muttered as Stan led her into the kitchen. She sat at the table, biting her lip, while Stan made tea.

“Thank you so much,” she said as he handed her a steaming cup.

“Sure,” he said, taking a seat next to her.

“Stan, um, I don't suppose...I don't suppose you know what's going on? With my husband and--and with Stanford, I mean? Is Fiddleford in trouble?”

Stan thought about Ford saying I ignored him and he paid a terrible price for it; about Fiddleford's apartment covered in drawings of crossed-out eyes; about the way the dreamy look on his face as he talked about his family had turned to one of horror as he struggled to remember why he had abandoned them; about him holding Ford down while Bill kicked and spat in his face.

“You know what,” he said, “it's probably better if you wait and ask him and Ford about that.”

By the time Ford and Fiddleford got back, Stan and Madeline had gone through two more cups of tea and the topics of the weather, various movies, Fiddleford and Madeline's college days, their wedding, Fiddleford's dreams of making computers and Madeline's dreams of raising hybrid plants, and were in the middle of an extensive lecture on biology in which Madeline was making use of a bag of jellybeans to explain dominant and recessive genes and the concept of incomplete penetrance when they heard the car pull in.

“Hello?” Ford called as the door opened. Stan took the opportunity to steal some jellybeans. “Stan, is someone else here? We saw a car-”

They walked into the kitchen and stopped cold.

“Madeline!” Fiddleford exclaimed, and ran to embrace her. “I'm so glad to see you--”

Then he stopped and drew up. “But what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Madeline said. “In fact, I came all the way up here from Palo Alto to ask you that exact question. What are you doing here and what is going on and why haven't I heard from you for weeks?”

Fiddleford blanched. “Um. It's...complicated.”

“It was my fault,” Ford said.

Madeline turned toward him, looking downright deadly. “I don't doubt it was your fault, Stanford,” she said quietly. “What did you get my husband into?”

Ford fidgeted almost manically. Stan couldn't blame him. “I...the project I brought him up here for...it...did not go as expected. There were complications...um...serious complications...”

“Such as?” Madeline demanded.

“A...source of information I thought was trustworthy turned out to not be so,” Ford said. “The project became dangerous, we had to shut it down...that's what we've been doing. I'm sorry, I've been keeping Fiddleford here working on it--”

“It wasn't all your fault,” Fiddleford said softly. “I've...made some mistakes, Maddie.”

Madeline's face softened slightly. “Mistakes?”

Fiddleford hesitated.

Stan stood up hurriedly, almost knocking the table over. “Hey, Ford, did you know I'm a genetic anomaly?”

“Really?” Ford said, with a remarkable amount of interest. “How very fascinating.”

“Yeah, how about we go somewhere...not here...and I'll tell you all about it.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, Stanley, I think I'll take you up on it.”

“Don't go too far,” Madeline called after them as they beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen. “I might very well still need to have words with you, Stanford.”

Ford looked like he had nearly swallowed his tongue. “Of course,” he muttered.

The conversation went on for a quite a while. Ford cleaned the living room manically, while Stan went back to dozing in the armchair. Occasionally they heard raised voices, usually along the lines of “He did WHAT?” or “You did WHAT?”

Finally the voices stopped. Ford glanced anxiously toward the door. A moment later, Madeline appeared in the doorway, with Fiddleford trailing behind her.

She strode across the room and slapped Ford hard across the face.

Ford winced and rubbed his jaw. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“You did,” Madeline said. “Honestly, Stanford Pines, of all the stupid, senseless, dangerous things a man could do--”

She stopped and took a deep breath and said,“But you're cleaning it up now, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Ford said earnestly.

Madeline sighed. “Well, you're a right idiot,” she said, sounding a little calmer, “but I knew that. Still, you oughta be damned grateful my husband got out of this mess intact.”

“I am!” Ford said. “Erm, and not just because you would revenge murder me otherwise.”

“Damn straight I would.” Madeline shook her head. “Just promise me one thing, Stanford. The next time a demon from another dimension comes around handing out advice, don't listen to it.”

Ford gaped. “How much did you tell her?” he demanded from Fiddleford.

“All of it.” Fiddleford shrugged at Ford's glare. “What? She's my wife.”

“That's right. And right now, your wife is taking you home.”

“What, all the way back to California? Now?” Ford said, and gulped when Madeline swung her head toward him. “I mean--”

“No, not back to California, just back to my apartment,” Fiddleford said, taking pity on him. “We're gonna...sort some things out.”

“Tate is with my mom, so I can stay for a few days,” Madeline said. “It's too late to travel now anyway. But whatever you need Fiddleford for on this project, you'd better get done before we leave, because he's coming back home with me.”

“Of course,” Ford said, looking relieved.

“Take care of yourself, Stan,” Madeline said. “That sounds like a nasty bit of flu you picked up. Drink a lot of fluids.”

“She seems to like you,” Ford muttered as the two of them left.

Stan shrugged. “I'm a likable guy. Also, I didn't cause her husband to almost die and then go insane.”

Ford couldn't come up with an answer for that one. Fortunately for him, a serviceable distraction came along in the form of the heat finally coming back on.

The flu hit Stan hard the next day. He woke up late in the morning coughing, got up long enough to take some pills, and promptly went back to bed and wrapped himself as tightly as he could in the blankets. Everything hurt. He felt like he'd been run over by a truck.

He napped for a while, got up, took another pill, drank some juice, went back to bed, and discovered in disgust that he couldn't nap any more but was too tired to do anything else. He watched the snow falling outside, not thinking of anything in particular except how much his chest hurt.

There was a soft knock on the door and Ford poked his head in.

“You need help with something?” Stan asked, sitting up with a groan.

“No, no! Please, lay back down.” Ford looked nervous. He was holding something behind his back. “I...decided to halt working on the portal for the afternoon.”

Stan frowned. “But you were so worried about it-”

“Yes, but Fiddleford's still at home, and you...”

“I'm alright. I can work if you need--”

“No, it's alright, really! I insist. Anyway, we've gotten a lot of work done already. I'm...not as concerned as I was, anymore. Most of the volatile components are safely contained, and anyone attempting to use it would have to do a considerably amount of work to reconstruct it first.”

“Hang on,” Stan said. “Volatile components--?”

Ford coughed. “The point is, that's not why I'm here.”

Stan squinted at him. “So why are you here?”

Ford glanced from side to side and deflated a little. “This is probably silly...”

“Spit it out, Poindexter.”

“Well...it's just...” Ford fidgeted. “You know how, when we were kids...I used to read to you sometimes? Like when you were sick?”

Stan raised his eyebrows. “You came here to read to me?”

“You know what, this was a bad idea. I'll just leave you to rest--”

“No, wait,” Stan said as Ford turned. “I didn't say no.”

Ford paused in the doorway. “You mean it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Stan said. “I mean--only cause I can't sleep and you don't have a TV. No other reason.”

“Of course.” Ford pulled the chair away from the desk and carried it over to the bed. “So, you said you had read The Lord of the Rings. Did you ever read The Hobbit?”

“Nope. What's that?”

“Ah.” Ford got an especially nerdy look on his face. “It's the prequel to The Lord of the Rings. It's for a younger audience--Tolkien originally conceived of it as a bedtime story for his son. I thought you might like it.”

“Right,” Stan said. “You think I need something for a younger audience.”

“What? No!” Ford looked up in alarm. “I-that's not it.”

“Sure.”

“No, really. I thought you might like it because...well...” Ford rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Because it's about someone who...goes on an adventure even though he doesn't exactly want to, and he misses his comfortable home, but he rises to the occasion and...he's very brave and clever and outwits all his enemies. Also he saves the day by stealing something at the right moment.”

“Huh,” Stan said. “Y'know, that does sound like something I might like.”

“Also he wins a lot of treasure.”

“That definitely sounds like something I would like.”

Ford smiled slightly, settled into the chair, and opened the book.

“Comfortable?” he said. Stan nodded. “Alright. Ahem. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit...”

The next few days went by quietly. Fiddleford came over less and less, more often holding long phone conversations with Ford. They were, Stan took it, almost done with dismantling the portal, and Fiddleford and Madeline were leaving soon.

So when he was woken one afternoon by the phone ringing, he stumbled towards it and picked up the receiver without thinking, expecting it to be Fiddleford again. After all, he couldn't think of anyone else who want to call Ford. He was only half-awake anyway, which was officially his excuse for picking up a phone and giving away his location without thinking. It would come back to bite him very quickly.

“Yeah?” he said, stifling a yawn.

There was a pause on the other end. Stan frowned at the receiver. “Yeah? What is it?”

“...Stanley?” the voice on the other end said.

It was not Fiddleford.

It was Shermie.

Stan's mind went completely blank except for the thought oh shit circling around and around like an airplane trying to land.

“Um,” he said helplessly. “No?”

“What do you mean, no?” Shermie spluttered. “That is you, isn't it?!”

oh shit oh shit oh shit “Um, um, um,” Stan said. “Um, listen, you know what, I have to--”

“STANLEY PINES IF YOU HANG UP THIS PHONE NOW YOU WON'T LIVE TO REGRET IT.”

Stan winced and dug a finger around in his ear. “Alright, alright! I'm not goin' anywhere...”

“Good,” Shermie said, and took a deep breath. “Where the HELL have you BEEN? What were you THINKING just taking off like that? Do you KNOW how worried I've been?”

“I did leave a note,” Stan said meekly.

“A note! Yes! One goddamn note on the fridge in the middle of the night! One note does not fix anything, Stanley! It's been five years, I was starting to think you were dead! Why did you leave?”

Stan stood there alone in the waiting silence and didn't know what to say.

“Are you still there?” Shermie said eventually. “You'd better still be there.”

“Yeah--yeah, I'm still here,” Stan said. “Look, Shermie, it's not that I didn't appreciate what you were willing to do for me and all, it's just...I couldn't just stay there and be a burden on you.”

Shermie made a strangled kind of noise. “You...Stan, you wouldn't have been a burden on anyone. We easily had enough money to put you up.”

“So I should've just, what? Stayed there and sucked up your money without doing anything to make it up?”

“No,” Shermie said, sounding agonized. “You...you wouldn't have been...we were trying to help you, Stan.”

Stan sighed. “Shermie, you know I ruin everything I touch. I didn't want to do that to you-”

“You do no such thing!” Shermie cried. “You're my brother! I just wanted you to be safe and happy--”

Stan laughed, and instantly regretted it. It made an already difficult conversation even more awkward.

There was silence for a moment.

“Look,” Shermie said eventually. “We'll talk about that later, just...tell me what's going on with you right now. You're at Ford's? Does that mean you guys made up?”

“Uh,” Stan said. “Yeah, I guess we did.”

“That's great!” Shermie sounded genuinely thrilled. “What finally made it happen?”

“Um...well, Ford called me up here--”

“Ford called you?” Shermie said. “I didn't see that coming...sorry, sorry, go on.”

“He needed my help,” Stan explained. “And then, um...we kind of fought for a while, but...we made up eventually.”

“Ford needed help? With what?”

“Uhhhhhh,” Stan said. “He...got in a spot of trouble. It's all good now though,” he added hurriedly.

“...Right,” Shermie said. “Well, I'm glad to hear that...I suppose. How long are you going to be there?”

Stan paused.

“I...don't know,” he said, realizing that in fact, he didn't.

“Well--that's okay. I'm just glad to know that you're okay now.”

Stan mulled that one over. “I guess I am,” he said.

“Is Ford there? I need to yell at him too.”

“Uh, yeah, he's in his lab. I'll go get him.”

He put the phone down--gingerly, as though it might go off--and went to find one the walkie-talkie he'd been using to relay things between Ford and Fiddleford when he was on the phone. He could see why the two of them had gotten the things in the first place; it certainly cut down on a lot of time going up and down the stairs.

There was a pause after he first radioed for Ford. Stan could imagine Ford extricating himself from underneath some panel with a dramatic groan and fumbling about for the walkie-talkie underneath whatever it had gotten buried beneath this time.

“Stanley? What is it?”

“You have a phone call,” Stan said.

“What? From Fidds? Alright, put him on--”

“No.”

“What?” Ford's puzzled frown was almost audible. “Well, tell whoever it is to call back. I'm in the middle of--”

“It's Shermie. And I don't think you want me to tell him to wait.”

There was a choking sound on the other end, and Stan almost felt guilty for drawing the news out like that. But if he had to have a rude surprise, so did Ford.

“Shermie's calling? Why? What does he want?” Ford sounded almost frantic.

“Um, I'm not actually sure. Just to check up on you, I guess.”

There was another pause, of a rather different tone. “I'll be right up,” Ford said.

Stan grinned to himself, tossed the walkie-talkie back onto the table, and went back to the phone. “He's coming,” he told Shermie.

“Good,” Shermie said firmly. Then, “Are you alright, Stan? You sound even worse than usual.”

Stan was about to wave that one aside, but unfortunately a wave of coughing hit him first.

“I'm a bit sick,” he had to admit when it finally subsided. “No big deal.”

“That sounded like a pretty big deal,” Shermie said, concerned.

Stan sighed and searched about for something to make Shermie lay off before he got too worked up.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I'm being taken care of.”

Ford came into the kitchen at not quite a run, smoothing down his shirt as if out of some misplaced desire to look presentable, and took the phone away from a grateful Stan. “Sherman,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately I'm in the middle of some delicate work at the moment, so if you could call back--”

“Nice try, Stanford,” Shermie said. “Whatever your work is, you can put it on hold. You've got some questions to answer.”

“Um--”

“Like why haven't you been calling me like you said you would? Or answering the phone? Or your mail? Why have I had to start wondering if you were dead, Stanford?”

“...I...may have lost phone service for a while,” Ford muttered. “Also my mailbox.”

“You lost your mailbox?”

“It's a long story.”

Shermie sighed heavily. “You could have made some effort. I've been worried sick about you! What's been going on?”

“Ahh...” Ford said. “That's...it's...it's a long story.”

“And Stanley's at your house now? How did that happen? Why didn't you tell me you two made it up?”

“I've...been busy,” Ford said defensively. “It wasn't that long ago anyway.”

“Busy doing what, exactly?”

Ford said nothing.

“Right,” Shermie said. “I'm coming up there.”

“What?” Ford spluttered. “No, don't!--I mean, it's really not a good time, it's a mess up here--”

“I can see that I'm not going to get any answers from either of you two over the phone,” Shermie said firmly. “I need to corner you in person. And wring the truth out of you.”

Ford swallowed hard. “Um. Um--you know what, why don't we visit you instead?”

Shermie paused. “Well...you sure about that?”

“Yes,” Ford said. “I...I could stand to get away from here for a little while.”

“Alright then,” Shermie said begrudgingly. “But I'm holding you to it. If you don't show up, I will come up there, and I won't tell you about it either. I won't even knock. I'll just be in your house. See how you like that.”

“Noted,” Ford muttered.

He managed to arrange a tentative date before hastily saying good-bye and hanging up. Stan eyed him. “Did you just volunteer me to go visit Shermie?”

“It was either that or him coming here,” Ford said wearily. “I don't think we're getting out of this one, Stan.”

Stan sat down at the table and put his head in one hand. “What am I going to say to him? After all this time? What if he wants me to live with him again?”

Ford blinked owlishly. “Why would he want that?”

“I sure don't know,” Stan muttered. “But it's what he wanted last time. Tryin' to make sure I had a proper home and everything.”

“But--you're living here.”

Stan looked up in shock. Ford stared at him, looking not much less shocked.

“I...I mean,” Ford said. “You...well, if you want to--”

“Wh--Ford, I can't stay here forever,” Stan said, still thrown.

Ford sat down at the table, rather hard. “What do you mean?”

“Well...I...” Stan stammered, trying to figure out how to get across what should have been obvious. “I can't just--Ford, I can't just stay here and mooch off you. I, I mean-”

--all you ever do is lie and cheat and ride on your brother's coattails--

“I mean, you don't want me here,” he said.

“Yes I do,” Ford said. He was still staring, like Stan was the one not making any sense.

“No you don't,” Stan said. “Ford...you've got this, this house, this college money, you're doing all this impressive science shit, and I...I'm just a failed conman. Why would you want me around, being a leech?”

“Because I like having you around,” Ford said, and to Stan's amazement his brother's voice broke. “Don't you remember what that was like? The two of us, enjoying each other's company?”

Stan hesitated.

“Of course I do,” he said. “But...things are...different now. Aren't they?”

“I don't know,” Ford said. “Do they have to be?”

Stan shook his head. “You'd get tired of me,” he said. “You're just being generous now, but you'd get tired of me real quick-”

Ford sighed. “Look, Stan, if you really don't want to stay I understand, but I promise I won't get tired of you.”

“It's not that I don't want to stay,” Stan mumbled. “It's just...”

“It's just what?”

Stan knew the answer, but it was harder to get out than he had realized. It felt like something buried so deep inside that he had to unearth a great deal of himself to get it out.

At long last, not daring to look at his brother, he said, “I...haven't earned it yet.”

He heard Ford release a breath. “Is this because of what Dad said?”

Stan blinked. “What Dad said?”

“That whole stupid thing--about not coming home until you made enough money--”

Stan shrugged. “I don't know,” he said. “I mean, Dad was right, you know. I'd never done anything useful in my life, and I still haven't--”

“No he wasn't,” Ford said.

“What?”

“He wasn't. He wasn't right at all. Stan, listen to me-Dad was wrong. He never should have said that. I never should have let him say that. And...and you shouldn't have to spend the rest of your life under that. You shouldn't have to listen to Dad anymore.”

Stan could only stare at him.

“This is my house,” Ford said. “I decide who has the right to stay here. And I'm not letting you get thrown out again. If you really want I'm sure you can find a job somewhere around here, or--or I could probably get the grant board to let me hire you on as an official assistant, there's lots of things you could do--but you don't have to earn anything. Alright?”

“Well...” Stan began, still not entirely convinced.

“You saved my life,” Ford said desperately. “Stan, I wouldn't still be here if not for you. That's got to be worth something, right?”

“I suppose so,” Stan muttered.

“It doesn't have to be forever,” Ford said. “We can just...we can take it one day at a time. But please at least give it a shot?”

Stan wanted to say yes. He wanted to so bad he could taste it, but at the same time he couldn't believe it was true, couldn't believe that as soon as he said it the chance wouldn't be ripped away from him all over again.

But Ford was looking at him, and waiting, and somehow he couldn't bring himself to turn his brother down, either.

It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do in his life to say, “Alright. I'll stay.”

Ford's beaming face in response was worth the effort.