#i've never written for fiddleford before but his southern yeehaw vibes speak directly to my southern yeehaw soul

[portalford]

Mind and Health (Every Bit of Myself)

AO3

“I can’t believe I finally get to test it!  I’m so glad you’re here for this, Fiddleford.”  Stanford pauses to scribble in that journal of his before he adds, “I mean, it’s not the main reason you’re here, but it is a bonus!”  He snaps the journal shut and beams.

Fiddleford decides not to try and untangle that and just asks a question of his own.  “You’ve never tested this thing?”

“Well, on animals, of course.”  Stanford starts walking again in that brisk way he has, where Fiddleford has to half-jog to keep up.  It’s ridiculous.  This house is so small; why is he rushing?  “They were successful!  Otherwise I wouldn’t bother trying it on myself.  Waste of time.”

Stanford pushes open a door and motions Fiddleford inside.  “Behold!”  He says, flinging an arm out.  “The electron carpet!”

It looks very much like the shag rug Fiddleford’s ma used to have.

Fiddleford doesn’t say that.  “Very nice,” he says instead.

Stanford lights up even more.  “Isn’t it?”  He’s got his hands out of his pockets and is twisting his fingers around — his version of uncertainty.  “I really can’t tell you how happy I am to finally be able to test this, Fiddleford, and even more so now that you’re here.”

And that’s Stanford saying he’s glad Fiddleford’s here, and not just because of his crazy rug.  “Well,” Fiddleford says, knowing better than to make a big deal out of it, “I’m here to help.  How do we do it?”

Stanford hustles over to the rug, pacing left and right in his excitement.  “It’s very simple!  We just walk around on the carpet to build up a static charge, and once there’s enough energy, we touch.  The charge will transfer our consciousnesses from one body to the other.”

Of course.  Silly of him to ask.  “What happens if we touch before the charge is strong enough?”

“Nothing, to the best of my knowledge.”  Stanford frowns.  “We could test that, if you like.”

Good Lord have mercy on him, because Stanford certainly won’t.  “No, I think I’d rather do it the right way.”  The right way.  To body swap.  This was some mad scientist stuff.

Course, Fiddleford’s always figured Stanford as a bit of the mad scientist type.  Figures he must have a streak of it himself, too, or else he wouldn’t like Stanford so much.

Stanford’s waving him over.  “Let’s go in a circle,” he says.  “That way we won’t accidentally bump into each other.”

And all right, Fiddleford’s a little nervous, but he’s got some excited butterflies along with his anxious butterflies.

Body swapping!  It’s unbelievable.  This is the sort of thing he maybe-sort of missed in California, that madcap brilliance and joy that Stanford brings to everything he does.

They start to move.  Stanford’s strung about as tight as Fiddleford feels, mumbling facts and figures under his breath.

Fiddleford starts to wonder when it’s going to happen, are we there yet? over and over like a kid on a car ride.

Stanford stops.  “Now,” he says.  He holds out his hand.  “Always a pleasure to work with you, Mr. McGucket.”

He’s playing, but in a serious sort of way, so Fiddleford matches his tone and says, “Likewise, Mr. Pines,” before taking Stanford’s hand.

It’s like the whole world knocks him flat on his butt.

Actually, it feels like that time he got bulldozed by Sally, the family’s old sow, but with more lightning or something.

“What—” he starts, and stops.

His voice is way too low.  Did his vocal cords fry?

He sits up and looks right at his own self.

He looks weird, from this angle (the mirror effect, he knows; your reflection is your face flipped and not your face as you’d actually see it) and is he really that skinny?

He (Stanford?) adjusts his glasses and looks up at Fiddleford.  “Incredible!” He says, and his eyes go wide when he hears himself speak.

Fiddleford cracks up, and yeah, that’s Stanford’s laugh coming out of his mouth for sure.

Stanford grins, and that big manic look of his doesn’t quite fit on his borrowed face, but somehow that just makes Fiddleford feel a little easier at heart.  

“Well,” Stanford says.  He gets to his feet, a little unsteadily.  “I never.”

Stanford’s teasing, but two can play at that game.

“This carpet,” Fiddleford says in Stanford’s best lecture voice, and he’d definitely do this too if he could sound half so important, “is powered by unicorn juice, and specifically those unicorns that eat gnomes and—”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Stanford says, and it is a special kind of weird to hear Stanford’s speech patterns in Fiddleford’s voice.  “It’s not actually powered by unicorn juice.  You know that, right?”

“I don’t know half of what you get up to, t’be completely honest.”  Fiddleford cautiously gets to his feet.  Stanford’s a bit shorter and far more compact overall than he is, and the lower center of gravity is messing with him.  

Stanford’s peering into the mirror across the room.  “I wonder if I could play the banjo,” he says.  “It’s largely muscle memory, so I’d expect your body to know it even if I don’t.”

“You could certainly try,” Fiddleford says.  He steps off the carpet and frowns.  “Stanford, did you sleep last night?  You feel—”

“I’m getting the banjo!”  Stanford’s already out the door, and there’s a stumbling crash down the hall.

"Stanford!”  If Fiddleford gets his body back black and blue he’s going to play the banjo every night til eleven for a week.

“Sorry!”

Trust Stanford to literally run from the idea of sleep.

Fiddleford takes his turn in front of the mirror.

It’s a trip, for sure, and he decides to leave it at that.

He does take a moment to inspect his borrowed hands and wiggle the fingers.  Stanford’s body is clearly perfectly fine with the extra digits, but Fiddleford’s brain might need a minute or two.

His hands automatically go into his coat pockets when Stanford returns, and Fiddleford’s pretty sure that’s Stanford’s own muscle memory at work.

“Listen to this!”  Stanford picks out the opening bars of “Sweet Home Alabama.”  It’s clumsy, but not half bad, all things considered.  “You seem familiar with this one.”

“It’s one of my thinking songs,” Fiddleford says, “so I can play without really focusing on it.”

“I still don’t know how playing the banjo helps you think,” Stanford says.  

Fiddleford shrugs.  “You just haven’t got the ear for it.”

“I like my ears too much for it.”

Fiddleford has a thought.  “Hang on a minute.  We can change back, right?”

“Hm?  Oh, yes, of course.  You change back the same way you swapped in the first place.”  Stanford gives him a wry look.  “Had enough of being me?”

“Had enough of your sorry excuse for banjo playing, thank you very much.”

Stanford laughs.  “Fair enough.”

“Although playing with six fingers—”

“No, no, that’s not necessary.”  Stanford grabs his arm, like he’s about to drag Fiddleford around the way he does, but Fiddleford doesn’t move.

Fiddleford grins.  “I’m you, Stanford.  I got the muscle in this house now.”

Stanford’s outraged cat-that-just-got-dumped-in-the-tub look is hilarious on Fiddleford’s face.  “Seriously?”

“Yep.”  Because Fiddleford is a nice guy, he gets back on the rug.  Because Fiddleford has always wanted to turn the tables, he hauls Stanford along with him.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you,” Stanford says, and it’s not a question.

“Much more than I anticipated,” Fiddleford says, and it’s the truth.

Swapping bodies is just as unpleasant as it was the first time, but the relief Fiddleford feels when he opens his eyes and sees Stanford across from him is pretty good repayment.

“Stanford?”  He asks, just in case.

Stanford uncrosses his eyes and looks at him.  “Who?”

Fiddleford’s heart stops for all of two seconds before he catches the grin on Stanford’s face.  “Doggonit, Stanford, you’re gonna put me in my grave one of these days and I’ll have to come back as a spirit just to say ‘I told you so’.”

“Nonsense.”  Stanford scrambles up and pulls Fiddleford to his feet.  “You’re a paragon of health, Fiddleford.”

“Uh huh.”  Fiddleford dusts himself off.  “Can we go back to the portal now?  I think I’ve had enough of this mad scientist stuff to last me a week or two.”

Stanford, predictably, starts lecturing him on how it’s not “mad science,” it’s just “highly experimental science,” which is hogwash if you ask Fiddleford.

If it keeps Stanford away from his banjo, though, he’ll take it.