#and i thought it would be kinda fun and flirty if fidds made an attempt on ford’s life upon reuniting with him <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[squatch-and-stretch]

Reunion V1

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 829 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

A scrapped draft of Stanley and Stanford’s reunion with Fiddleford in the multiverse.

The first chapter of the actual fic available here!

“Ge’down!” a voice shouts, and the sound of a human other than him or his brother is so shocking that he can’t even try to recognize it.

It stuns him so badly that he doesn’t even register the command, not until Stanley is grabbing him by the back of the coat and pulling him down. On instinct, he rolls onto his back to face the threat, and his eyes land on the massive slithering beast just in time to see something— some sort of squat tube with loose wires and four sharp metal legs— latch onto it. It doesn’t flinch even as those legs dig in and hold on tight, its head twisting a full 180 degrees so its blind, gaping maw can shoot out towards them. Faintly, inexplicably, he hears a sharp series of beeps and then—

Stanley shouts out a curse, grabbing Ford by the shoulder and turning him back towards the cave floor, one arm thrown over the back of his head, hand covering his ear. Ford means to shake him off, but before he can—

BOOM.

Even with Stanley’s hand covering one ear and the other buried in his brother’s armpit— gross, he notes distantly— the sound is nearly deafening. Stanley pulls away with another series of curses, this time under his breath, too soft for Ford to catch.

“C’mon, this way, don’ wanna see what that did to the structure of that there cave!” the voice shouts, or, at least, they say something along those lines. It’s still hard to parse, both physically with his ringing ears and mentally with his mind racing with no known destination.

Stanley doesn’t seem to hear it at all, still kneeling on the cave floor. He lifts a hand to his ear and Ford watches as it comes away wet. As soon as Stanley himself seems to notice, he quickly wipes it on his jacket, letting the fluid blend into his stained burgundy jacket.

It’s up to Ford to grab him this time, pulling him to his feet and towards the entrance of the cave. There's a person— or person-shaped being, perhaps, Ford can’t take anything here for granted— silhouetted against the strange light of this unfamiliar dimension as it filters into the cave. They’re tall and wearing a long, tattered coat, and that’s all Ford can make out at this distance. As cautious as he is of the stranger, he can’t deny the logic of their words.

Once Stanley seems to get the point, he pulls away to stand on his own, wobbling slightly. He shakes his head and shoves his hand into his pocket, doubtlessly retrieving the pair of brass knuckles he has stored away there.

As they approach the stranger, a few more features come into relief; light brown hair pulled back into a messy bun, green-tinted goggles with one cracked lens, a scrap of brown cloth wrapped around their neck and brought up over their nose. The long coat, Ford realizes, is a tattered and stained lab coat.

With a jolt, Ford recognizes the hair color, the lanky build, the anxious hunch…

“Son of a gun,” the not-stranger groans, pulling his scarf down to reveal a familiar soft jawline and tight frown.

“Fiddleford,” Ford breathes, hardly believing his eyes. He wants to run up to his partner, pull him into a hug and celebrate the fact that he’s alive, it worked, Ford made it in time, but even Ford can read the way Fiddleford’s tense posture only tightens at the sight of him.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says in response, “What in tarnation are you doin’ here? And who…”

Fiddleford’s eyes land on Stanley, brows furrowing for just a moment before his eyes widen.

“Stanley,” he concludes. “Hell of a way to mend bridges with your estranged twin brother.”

“I wouldn’t really say those bridges have been mended,” Ford mumbles, and surprisingly, Stanley doesn’t respond.

He hasn’t said anything, actually, in quite some time. He’s still staring at Fiddleford, posture defensive, eyes wary but distant, somehow. Some sort of cloudy liquid has gathered in the low notch of his ear, a few drops making their way down his jaw. As if noticing at the same time as Ford, Stan huffs and tilts his head, lifting a shoulder to wipe the liquid away. His breath hitches as if the movement pains him.

For all his staring, Stanley doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, completely distracted by his strange behavior. Stanley doesn’t respond, still watching Fiddleford warily.

“What do you want?” Stanley says, far more loudly than necessary, glaring at Fiddleford.

Fiddleford, for his part, just stares at Stanley in the same way he used to look over Ford’s less-than-legible notes and equations.

“Shoot,” Fiddleford mumbles, lifting a hand to his own ear. “Done ruptured his eardrum, I reckon.”

“I’m fine,” Stanley grumbles, moving to mirror the motion before just letting his arm drop.