#you have to pass through countless of revisions just to get your project approved

[dark-eyes-under-the-golden-sky]

Enemies to lovers to enemies to lovers except it’s me and academia

[canyouquotebibleincollege827]

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[danvssomethingorother]

The Third Wheel

Index: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

A03

The final part of my series for @fiddlestanfiction summer event. I’m just posting the final four chapters here but if you want them broke up, check out my A03 link.

Thanks @acidicgumdrops for editing! And a huge thank you to everyone who reads this!

—

Part 5

(Campfire, fireflies, suspicious)  

The next morning, they once more found themselves in Stan’s car heading out to the Rodriquez farm, Ford having assured them both countless times as they lay awake late into the night that it would work out this time with a little planning beforehand. Fidds curled into himself as much as he could so as not to touch either twin, not wanting to be accused of anything again. Fidds hadn’t been very surprised to find Stan fast asleep in the chair across from the bed the next morning. 

Just as Stan shouldn’t be surprised that Fidds had chosen to sit in the back seat. He’d lain awake most of the night thinking about how he just wanted to leave the hotel room, his head ducked under the covers and his fingers tugging gently at his hair, the anger and frustration that just radiated off Stan physically and mentally distressing him. As he lay there, listening to Stan snipe and snarl at Ford’s plans and Ford take the bait each time arguing loudly and calling Stan names that Stan returned, Fidds realized he just wanted to go away. Far away from both twins and maybe not come back.  

The rustling of sheets and the bathroom door being slammed shut startled him enough to rip out a large chunk of the hair he had previously been gripping to try and drown out the brothers. He buried his head into the bedding, trying to make his frustrated sob inaudible as the tears began quickly trickling down his face.  

He might have broken down completely after the awful day and nerve wracking night if it wasn’t for a familiar six fingers resting gently on top of his head. It brought him back to a time this action would have been the only thing that grounded him after a particularly hard day back in college. When he used to rest his head on Ford’s knee, and Ford would place his hand on the top of his head, softly messaging his scalp like he was doing now to help him unwind.

He felt a deep self-hatred bubbling in the pit of his stomach the next morning when he realized that that action had been the only thing to calm him enough to sleep through the night. His knee bounced restlessly in the back seat and his finger twitched on his lap as he felt Stan’s accusing stare hitting him from the rear view mirror as they began their long drive.  

Fidds glanced over at the page Ford was writing in and noticed an odd equation he was scratching quickly into the top, their eyes met as he glanced up from his book. Ford seemed taken aback a second noticing his friend watching him, but smiled towards him reassuringly and Fidds did his best to return the gesture.

“Is something troubling you today? Your KBPS is off the charts this morning.”

It took Fidds a moment to realize what he meant by that and then he slowly pressed down on his bouncing knees in embarrassment. He didn’t know how to respond to that so he didn’t, instead averting his eyes far away from Ford. He pressed his hands harder against his knees, feeling like he was being so rude to Ford who was only expressing concern for his well-being, but he felt uncomfortable discussing anything with him right now.

“If you’re worried about things going badly this time, you shouldn’t. I have a gut feeling that things will turn out better this time, Fidds, trust me. Once we get to the farm, we can make a trap for the creature and lie low until tonight when we strike.”

He gave Ford a halfhearted smile, hoping he was right about that.  

—

The rest of the ride was silent and uneventful, the only sound being the static Stan’s radio picked up and the scratching of Ford’s pen, his mind miles away from the car as he plotted their next moves. Fidds kept his eyes glued out the window, thoughts zooming in his head a mile a minute, each worry toppling over the last becoming an incoherent white noise.

They arrived at the farm a little past noon, Fidds’s first genuine smile of the day coming from Maria offering them quite the feast in gratitude for them returning after the dismal first trip to the ranch. It was a very strange to have Ford being more polite and talkative than Stan during their lunch. Ford was in such a good mood about his plan being a success, he was more than willing to shoot the breeze with their host.  

After their meal, Maria showed Fidds and Ford to a private area (the guest bedroom) to finish preparations on their plan before they got to work on initiating it. Fidds felt sickened by his relief that his boyfriend chose to sit in the living room with their host and watch a Spanish soap opera.  

Ford sat at the desk and Fidds leaned over the back of the chair, watching him scribble the last few details before handing it off to Fidds to make any last minute corrections. Being in familiar territory once more helped calm Fidds’s nerves significantly. His mind going back to the world of science and numbers felt like a breath of fresh air compared to the emotional turmoil with no solution in sight that was his current relationship.  

Ford turned his seat over to Fidds and Fidds shed away any thoughts about his problems with Stan entirely, talking a mile a minute about how to fix Ford’s calculations on the trap he wished to set up, trying to find creative but logical solutions to their limited supplies.

Ford almost took the book away from Fidds after he made a few corrections but Fidds swatted his hand away, reminding him they had time before his monster would arrive and he wasn’t starting building until these designs were up to his approval, not Ford’s. Ford shook his head and rolled his eyes before pulling out another book from his jacket and collapsing on the bed to pass the time while Fidds worked, needlessly making remarks under his breath.

During his third and final revision, Ford broke his concentration from the task at hand and back into the reality he didn’t quite want to be a part of at the moment.

“What is going on between you and my brother?”

Fidds didn’t answer at first, making his final corrections before setting his pencil down, unable to bring himself to look at Ford.

“It’s…. complicated.”  

It must have been bad if Ford, who was usually oblivious to the world around him, noticed their crumbling relationship.  

“You seem really upset today,” Ford began, but whatever he was going to say trailed off with a sigh. He awkwardly ran his fingers through his hair, not quite knowing what else to say. Emotions were not his forte, nor were they something he was used to dealing with so openly.

Fidds said nothing and let the silence consume their dying conversation. His finger began twisting and tugging at a strand of hair that slipped into his line of sight, knee bumping against the desk.  

Fidds didn’t have the heart to say this was all Ford’s fault. If he hadn’t come with them, Fidds and Stan would likely be relaxing on a beach somewhere together without a care in the world. Maybe, even, Stan wouldn’t be so angry at him right now.  

A tear slid down his face as the unvoiced frustrations began to come out. His shaking hand slipped, yanking out a tuft of hair just as the first sob escaped his throat. Ford gently rested his hand on his shoulder and began running his fingers through his hair, a frown settling firmly on his face.

“I think it would be best if, after the capture of the chupacabra, we head home. I don’t know what’s going on, but it might be best to settle it in a more familiar place.”  

Fidds buried his head in his hands and silently agreed with Ford; this entire get away was a mess and he just wanted to go home.

—

The rest of the afternoon was spent plotting and constructing the trap. Despite the different environment, it felt more casual than anything else that had happened on this trip. It fell into a soothing normality that helped Fidds ward off his anxiety.

The normal routine of working on a project together even helped Stan get out of the miserable funk he had been.  

By lunch, he was able to smile at Fidds’s terrible pun that had Ford cracking up, and by the time dinner rolled around it was as if the fight never happened. Maybe they were all too wrapped up in the familiar environment of work to remember the fight they were having, or maybe (Fidds hoped) it was forgotten for good.  

Fidds shoved the bad events deep within his mind, hoping to never have to deal with them again as he settled next to Stan on the patio in front of the warm hand-crafted stone fire pit. Stan offered him a beer that he gratefully accepted. A smile crept across his face as Stan rested his arm around his shoulder and they drank their beers together in the comfortable silence, watching the fire burn.

Just the two of them at long last, their problems buried down deep behind both of their insecurities. Unlikely to be brought up again, just the way Fidds wanted it to be. ‘Let it be a forgotten memory, never to be spoken of,’ he decided, resting his head on Stan’s shoulder.  

Neither mentioned Ford’s absence as they watched the sun sink down on the horizon, which again was fine with Fidds. If it meant no confrontation, all the better. A part of him hoped Ford didn’t return and they didn’t go through with their plan, maybe they could spend their last week on this beautiful little ranch. Make real farm hands out of the Pines men, teach them the ropes like his father had taught him many years ago on a pig farm similar to this little home. Maybe letting their little week on a ranch convince Ford that having farm animals around their home would be useful and not a waste of time.

It was only hopeful thinking.

The sun sank at last and it was time for them to go through with their plan, but Fidds didn’t rise up from Stan and Stan made no attempt to move. Both just stared at the fire roaring in front of them, not raising their heads when Ford slammed the back door shut behind them.

When Fidds rose his head after a few seconds, he immediately noticed something off about Ford. Something not quite right about the way his fingers kept twitching and the smug smile he didn’t see often, especially not before dangerous encounters like this, that was resting on his face.

“Hey, Fiddlesticks! Ya got everything ready?”

There was something odd about Ford’s speech, Fiddleford noticed. The way he said each word, and that tone was foreign to his usual proper, light tone.  

“Yes, it’s all ready Stanford. We’ll start whenever you’re ready.”

There was an arrogance about his next words Fidds didn’t really like and he knew made Stan’s blood boil once more, scratching the scab off an old wound and making it bleed.  

“That’s good, Fiddlesticks, let’s hope there are no mistakes this time around. We only have so much time, so get off your lazy butts and let’s get to work!”

Stan’s mouth was beginning to shape into a snarl, but Fidds cut off whatever he was going to say by taking charge of the situation and drawing his boyfriend’s attention away from his brother’s strange behavior.

“Stanley, why don’t you go wait by the barn like we planned and get ready to draw that critter out with Marco; he should be here shortly to assist you. Me and Stanford are gonna be by the machine. Make sure ya—“

“I know what I’m doin’ Fidds,” he cut him off already, sinking back into his foul mood and disheartening Fidds once more as they set off in their opposite directions.  

Marco arrived back from the store right as the sun finally set, wishing a brief good luck to Fidds and Ford as he ran towards the barn, leaving the two by the crane-like machine that they had built mainly from garbage. Fidds feared it may be unstable, but that had never stopped him or Stanford from working on things in the past. Their college years were chalk full of questionable things one could make out of garbage, them constantly testing the boundaries of how far they could risk their lives just to outdo everyone else in the classroom.

Fidds bent over by the control center of the make-shift crane, no taller than the hen house, poised to drop the net down on the creature the second it ran under it. The net was made of thick chains with metal stakes attached to the end of them that would sink into the ground, pinning the little monster there so they could tranquilize it without a hitch.

That was the plan, anyway, but the machine had been made in a limited amount of time without any tests and mainly out of garbage, so it was really only with luck that this would work at all.  

Not far from them, Stan and Marco stood in front of the pen that housed the bait.  

Their plan was already ruined when they heard a commotion from the barn.

“I thought ya closed off all the holes in the barn, Marco?” Stan groaned, looking behind him at barn.

“I swear to you, Stan, I spent the last couple of days fixing the holes around the barn so it couldn’t go back in there.”

They would later find evidence that their little nuisance was living up on the rafters, hidden from sight in a nest it slept in during the day that Marco had assumed to be a bird’s nest. The lack of planning and foresight just made their job that much harder than it really needed to be.

Stan and Marco ran off towards the barn, filling Fidds with an unease he couldn’t explain as he realized he was alone with Ford. His knees quaked so hard it was hard for him to keep standing by the controls, which he tried to focus on to keep his mind off his growing anxiety.

A sense of déjà vu hit him as the goats flew out of the barn, running in terror. He clung to the rickety control panel to keep from being knocked over by the panicked animals.

Unbeknownst to him, Stan had pushed Marco out of the way of the large cow in the barn who was frantic and attacking anything in its way to get out of there while the creature latched onto a goat beside it. Marco and Stan were hauled up inside the barn, Marco returning his favor to Stan by looking after him till help arrived.

Ford was growing annoyed beside him and shoved him harder against the control panel, pushing a syringe against his chest and demanding he not mess up their plan while he went to find Stan.

In an astounding stroke of luck, Fidds caught the silhouette of the creature amidst the dirt clouds and hit the switch while it stood up on its hind legs, sniffing the air trying to get a bearing on its next move.

Without hesitation, Fidds powered the machine and watched, awe struck, as the machine constructed of only garbage actually worked. The net slammed down hard against the critter, knocking it to the ground as it began thrashing against its prison.

Fidds let out a few more shaky laughs, surprised it worked at all, before tightly holding the syringe and running over to the trapped creature.

Fidds fingers were shaking as he tried to hold the creature down on his own, even through the metal netting the creature managed to sink its teeth down into his arm, making Fidds yell out in pain and drop his needle. He struggled, crying out for help that didn’t come in the chaos surrounding him. Stanley still unconscious and Ford nowhere to be seen amidst the clouds of dirt and darkness.  

Small though the claws were, they were like finely sharpened barb wire, leaving long crimson lines across his arms the more he struggled. The syringe was now a good foot out of reach from where he sat struggling to get his arm free from the beast’s grip.

Black dots were beginning to form around his vision, everything spinning around him as he slumped into himself, his knees quaking as he feared the worst.

Giving into those sinking feelings, he nearly missed the lack of pressure on his arm and the creature’s cry of pain.

Most would assume when he looked up to see Stanford standing above him, stomping his foot into the creature making it let go of him, he would be relieved and filled with nothing short of joy. That, however, was far from what he was feeling at that moment.  

Warning bells were blaring inside him looking up at Stanford’s grin, it was inhuman and predatory and his eyes seemed to glow. A sea of fireflies lit up around him, illuminating that smile in the dark, shivers cascading down Fidds’s spine.

He shut his eyes trying to control his now erratic breathing, telling himself over and over again he was safe now that Stanford was back, he had nothing to fear being around Ford. He kept squeezing them tighter shut, even going as far as childishly covering his eyes with his numb shaking hands hearing the thuds of Ford’s feet smashing down on to the creature screeching out in pain.

Fidds eyes finally snapped open when the loud yelps stopped and he still heard the familiar thud of his boot meeting the ugly little creature’s flesh.  

Ford’s boot was positioned to strike the creature once more with his boot when Fidds finally spoke up, his squeaked out ‘stop’ was nearly inaudable to his own ears, so he repeated himself louder, crying out enough for his plea to echo over the frenzied farm animals.  

Their eyes met, Ford’s tense and threatening, Fidds’s teary and terrified. Ford lowered his foot and smiled at him as he gave the creature one last kick.

“Its had enough, Stanford, let’s just lock it up and be done with it,” he managed out becoming bold and moving between Ford and the creature, blocking any new blows in case whatever had gotten into Ford wasn’t over.

It was hard standing up right with his legs quivering the way they were, his breath shook with every word, but he stood his ground on this one. He may not like that creature and wanted it far away from him when this was said and done, but he didn’t want to be a part of needless cruelty either.  

Ford stared him down and a smile began to stretch across his face, daring Fidds to go and he foolishly accepted the invitation

“Yer not yerself, Stanford…please…let’s just go, ya got what ya wanted.”

Fidds tensed as Ford stepped closer towards him, a smug grin taking over his face. Ford’s hand raised and Fidds braced himself for some kind of strike, squeezing his eyes closed and turning his head away.

It never happened, though. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Ford snickering at his reaction.  

“Whatever ya say, Fiddlesticks. Let’s grab the little monster and get out of here.”  

Ford put his hands on Fidds shoulders and went to move him out of the way to get to the creature, but Fidds wouldn’t move and shook his head firmly.

“I-I can get him, Stanford,” he gasped out and Ford raised his eyebrow at his defiance, “He’s scared of you…”

“That arm of yours is pretty messed up, bean pole.” Ford shook his head at him and shrugged, grin still ever present on his face. “But hey! If ya wanna get yourself hurt some more, be my guest.”

Fidds almost let his guard down, even despite Ford’s insincere concern, and may have just gone back to pretending that the cruelty was in some way necessary. That Ford was only thinking of his safety.

If not for what happened next.  

“What’s the matter, Fiddlesticks? You sure are acting funny…”

Fidds began shaking as his hand pressed against his forehead and his hands travelled down his face, thumbs brushing against his jaw line.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were afraid of me.” Fidds tried to lie to them both and shake his head, but Ford held it still, gripping both sides of his face firmly and making Fidds look him in the eyes.

“That’s good, ya should be.”

A chill traveled down Fidds’s spine and he began to tremble as Ford’s hands moved further down, stopping at his neck and wrapping themselves around it. Ford pressed his thumbs hard into his windpipe, cutting off his air supply and making everything blur around him. Fiddleford’s hands instantly went to the ones gripping his throat, desperately tugging to loosen the hold.

Ford let go a second later, a smile still wide across his lips at Fiddleford’s terror as he fell to the ground, breathing hard and clinging to his throat, tears prickling against his eyes once more.  

“Yer useful to me now, Fiddlesticks. If yer smart, you’d do whatever you could to stay useful.”

With that, he turned around and left Fidds there, calling for him to meet him back at the house with the creature.  

—

The creature didn’t move to harm Fidds when his shaking hands had moved to pick it up. It seemed to be done fighting at this point, or maybe it just preferred the notion of being with Fidds than Ford. He carried it back to the house without any fuss or complaints.

Ford was seemingly back to normal when he met him at the door, explaining to him how he had just helped Marco put Stan to bed and that he was doing fine for now, oblivious to what had just happened. Fidds wanted to keep it that way so he kept his mouth shut.

When Ford went to take the creature from Fidds, its aggressiveness was revived and it started snapping at Ford’s fingers, forcing them to drug it while they fixed it up. Fidds practically begged Ford, to his confusion, to let him do most of the work, almost fearing Ford would change on him again and cause more harm to the already injured creature.

At each touch from Ford, Fiddleford began to shake and twitch, which Ford interpreted as his bad nerves being in these kinds of situations.

Fiddleford was a shaking mess while Ford patched him up, talking calmly to him and asking him to try to breathe to control his anxiety so he could tend to his wounds properly. When he proudly announced he was finished, Fidds practically jumped up, taking the creature with him to the spare bedroom. He stammered out a good night to Ford, which he returned with confusion.

—

The family had allowed them to spend the night in their home while they recuperated, and the trio decided to head back to the hotel in the morning.

Stan was still out of commission from his blow to the head so he was in the only spare bed, Fiddleford not daring stray far from his side at the desk, and the injured little critter was in his kennel next to the desk. Ford had been in there to check on both the creature and his brother moments ago before calling it a night to go sleep on the couch. Ford noticed how distant Fidds was acting towards him, even commenting on it, and it was eating Fidds up that he could be this rude to his friend, but he was still reeling from the shock of Ford’s sudden change earlier that evening.

Finally alone in his room, he pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and took large heavy gulps of air, sputtering and choking as he tried to calm his nerves.

The moans of pain from the creature next to him had become nothing short of back ground noise as he tried put himself back together before Stan came to, wanting nothing more than to bury this entire event deep down enough to never think about it again and just go back to life as normal.  

His compassionate nature finally kicked in after a while, and he set his attention fully drugging the critter to hopefully take its pain away.

In its vulnerable state, it no longer looked like something to be feared. It was nothing more than a hairless raccoon, Fiddleford thought, and he’d always been fond of raccoons. He’d even made homes for the homeless creatures throughout their research facility, much to the annoyance of Ford and Stan.

Staring at the creature currently curled in the far corner moaning in pain and fear, a sense of pity flooded through Fiddleford and he, for the first time this entire evening, opened the kennel door. The creature’s tiny little claws were doing himself more damage, running against the muzzle they had placed on it. Fiddleford had earlier felt the muzzle was a safety precaution, but seeing the creature now in its injured state fully covered in bandages and already in a cage, he thought it was overkill.  

His fingers flexed, shook, and faltered several times as he reached his hand into the back of the kennel and unlatched the muzzle. He began shaking again, fearing he made a mistake when the creature stretched its neck forward, but he couldn’t help the smile when he felt it lick his arm. He patted its head gently and smiled a little brighter, seeing that it didn’t try to attack him like it had Stanford earlier.  

Fiddleford pulled his arm out of the cage and locked it up like nothing had happened, pleased that the animal had stopped its pained moans.

He crept over to the bed and tucked himself in next to Stan. As he reached over to shut off the lights and go to sleep after this long hellish day, he noticed that the scars on his left arm where the critter had clawed him earlier were completely healed, vanished like they had never happened.

He sat up, staring in astonishment at his newly healed wounds. Lost in his own world, he nearly missed Stan returning to a state of consciousness.

Fiddleford jumped when a hand touched his back and a raspy voice called out, “Hey, how’d it all go?”

“Stanley!” he gasped, the well wishes, threats of him ever scaring him like that again, and the thorough report on his health he planned out got lost in a hiccupped sob.

Stan just pulled him him down to the bed, where they both fell asleep, tangled tightly against each other.

Part 6

(Lake, Trouble, laughter)

This marked the last peaceful night Fiddleford would have next to Stan.

Fidds didn’t sleep with the twins the following nights; three in a row he spent down on the floor next the creature he pitied.  

He couldn’t explain to himself why the first night, he just couldn’t sleep next to Ford with the fear that he would lash out at him again. He didn’t even want to confront these fears. Didn’t want to admit them to Stan and create more conflict.

He used the critter as an excuse when Stan wanted to go out and stretch his legs the next day, after they got back to the hotel room and Stan was cleared healthy and Ford had agreed to go along. It had been an excuse, again, to avoid the conflict. Pretend for another moment longer that it didn’t exist.

The first day he didn’t even pay much attention to the critter, laying on the bed watching a show he couldn’t understand, staring at a menu for room service and flipping through his Spanish-to-English guide trying to decide on what to eat for lunch that day.  

The scratching from the cage was starting to test his patience as it hit his nerves just right, making it hard for him to concentrate on his task. He kept taking glances over at the cage, giving up almost entirely on his futile task as he snapped his dictionary shut.  

He looked over the bed to see the creature scratching against the floor of its cage, and Fiddleford looked on with pity, feeling just as trapped as it at this moment. Maybe letting it out would do it some good. Taking the muzzle off gained enough trust from it to let it touch him this morning and allow him to treat his injuries, so maybe letting him sit on the chair to be more comfortable while it healed would convince it not to hurt him in the future.  

Fiddleford scooted the chair away from the table, dragging it next to the bed and putting a pillow on it. He just stared at his work for a few minutes, regaining his lost nerves before turning towards the cage.

He opened the cage and let the creature have a chance to prepare himself for visitors like he had learned to do the previous evening and morning. If you gave him time to react, he wouldn’t lunge at the hand to grab him in fear (it had left some deep cuts in Stanford’s hands).

His fingers inched slowly into the cage and gently touched the creature. He ran his fingers across its coarse skin and crooned sweet nothings towards it, waiting a second for the critter to react. He took a deep breath and put his hand carefully on the creature, avoiding any of its injuries.  

It thrashed once when he accidentally hit a sore spot. He instantly put it back down and waited a few minutes before attempting to pick him up again, calmly explaining to him what he was doing the entire time and apologizing profusely in soft, whispered coos.  

He actually found himself smiling as the critter licked his fingers, giving permission for him to pick it up once more.

He had meant to put him down on his spot in the chair but instead found himself setting him on the bed next to him. The creature was now propped up on pillows right next to Fidds before he placed a blanket on him.

Surprising himself, he found himself scratching the creature’s ear, pretending the injured little thing was one of his beloved raccoons, letting it nibble at some of his snacks he had beside the bed. He laughed softly as it voraciously ate the treats he had collected from souvenir stores all over town. It growled slightly when Fidds tried to take back the treat.

“Ya remind me of my son Tate in some ways, little fella. He loved his sweets, too, my little tater tot,” Fiddleford become sullen after admitting that, and smiled at the creature licking his hand clean of the honey, “I haven’t seen him in over a year. I’m sure ya would have gotten along, though, maybe I can finally convince his ma that I won’t let nothing bad happen to him…”

“She don’t trust the Stan twins, though, and didn’t like me sticking up for them and allowing them to be around our boy. I know she only wants what’s best for our son…”

He let himself trail off after that, just resting his hand on the injured animal’s head and letting those thoughts fall on the way side once more, not planning to touch them again. All they did was cause him pain, and it was a fruitless endeavor trying to see his son again. The last he saw him was when Stan convinced him to visit the child without his wife’s permission after school. Stan encouraged him to be strong and stupid. It was a nice memory of the three of them seeing Star Wars together and taking Tate for burgers and ice cream, but once his ex found out he had allowed their boy to be around someone she considered dangerous (Stan’s arrest warrant was plastered all over the mail room she worked in, something to do with fraud and illegal llama herding) she’d threatened to have them both arrested. They ended up making a deal with her: so as long as she kept her mouth shut about Stan’s warrant, he wasn’t allowed near their child.

Fiddleford just buried it all deep down again, scratching his new found friend’s ear and making him croon in joy.

“Someday I want to try my hand at making something that’ll take away all the bad thoughts in my head and make everything easier, but I made a promise to the Stans a while back to not accidentally damage my own brain…”

Fidds let his thoughts and words cut off, staring blankly at the TV smiling as the creature licked his finger once more, bringing his attention back to it.

“I figure you and I will be together for a while, so hows about I give you a proper name? I know Ford’s dead set on just givin’ ya a number so we don’t get too attached to ya, but I can’t be hanging around somethin’ I can’t address properly.”

He ran his fingers across its skin, making it purr in pleasure, absentmindedly staring at the TV while he thought, and a grin stretched across his face as he saw the critter watching the show just as attentively.

“Ya like Carlos? I think he’s quite attractive myself, but don’t tell Stanley I said that…”

The creature licked his fingers again and he chuckled.

“I’d say Carlos is a fine name for ya as well.”

—

It was getting late and there was no sign of the twins, and Fiddleford was becoming anxious. He feared that Ford might have changed again and done something to Stanley, leaving him all alone.  

He let Carlos stay on the bed with him throughout the night, watching him sleep and concentrating only on his wheezy snores. He found himself dozing off sometime into the night, only to be woken by shouting. He picked up Carlos who yapped in pain, snapping at Fidds for grabbing him so abruptly.  

He placed a gentle kiss down on the creature as if it were his child throwing a tantrum, and put him back in his cage, shutting it tight and putting a blanket over it to keep it slightly hidden. He hurried to the door and looked out the large window beside it, unable to see anything, but opening the window helped him make out the voices better.

“—You’re drunk!”

“Stop dodging the damn question! What did ya do?!”

Fiddleford had heard enough. Instantly, he was out the door and running down the stairs towards the parking lot.  

He arrived just in time to see the first punch being thrown by Stan, hitting Ford square in the face. Fidds opened his mouth to yell at his boyfriend, but no noise came as he watched Ford strike back.  

Something stopped him from getting in the middle of their fight, some fear growing and clawing inside him.  

Just as soon as their fight began it was over, Stan throwing in one last punch before getting up and grabbing Fidds’s arm.

“We’re leaving, find your own damn ride home if you want to hide shit.”

He practically dragged Fidds, a large lump settling firmly in the smaller man’s throat, preventing him from giving any sort of protest towards Stan’s rough treatment as they both staggered up the stairs. Stan smelt like he had been baptized in liquor and gotten his new attitude from that spiritual awakening.  

“Fidds, get yer stuff. We’re leaving NOW,” he grunted out as he entered the room. Fiddleford continued to stand there, watching his boyfriend throw their clothes in their suitcases, even taking most of Ford’s cloths due to his lack of attention. He continued watching as Stan left most of their belongings scattered around the room, merely kicking at the mess instead of making any attempt to pack it up.

“Stanley…” he began, watching him throw their suitcases out the door, hearing them thud hard against the concrete.

“Why are you and Ford fighting?”

Fidds didn’t know why he was asking, he already knew the answer, but if he kept burying it further maybe it would eventually go away and leave the three be.

Stan stopped his rampage around the room to look Fidds in the eye firmly before sighing and sitting down on the bed.

“He hurt ya the other night and that’s why you’ve been acting weird, ain’t it? That’s where that bruise on yer neck came from?”

Fidds said nothing, sitting down next to Stan and sighing softly.

“That ain’t what happened,” he lied, looking over at the kennel, “Stanford got a little too protective of me and hurt that creature really badly, and it scared me. I haven’t seen him so violent before. I guess I felt so bad that it was my fault poor Carlos got so badly hurt, I took it upon myself to take care of the little guy.”

A chuckle escaped Stan’s lips, “You named it?”

“I couldn’t keep calling him ‘that critter’, Stanley.”

Stan began laughing, throwing his arm around Fiddleford’s shoulder and kissing him on the cheek, “Yer not covering anything up are ya? Nothin’ bad happened?”

Fidds could have told Stan everything then and there, maybe the three of them could have found out what was wrong with Ford that made him change the way he did, but Fidds never wanted to think about those things again.

He wanted to move on without confronting the bad feelings and just forget, so he lied.

“Nothing happened, Stanley, please stop jumping to conclusions…”

Stan said nothing, gently rubbing his smaller boyfriend’s shoulder. He decided to hold back his own feelings, letting his own insecurities and fears slip behind a mask and simply acting like nothing was wrong, as Fidds was doing right now. He felt like an ass for jumping to conclusions, but it had felt good to punch his brother, so he likely wouldn’t apologize and Ford would hold a grudge to be brought up later.

Fiddleford smiled, though, for the first time feeling a false resolve. One day this would all be confronted, but for now he just wanted to be happy along with his boyfriend and best friend, dealing with his problems later.

Ford soon after came into the room. Fiddleford nudged Stan’s shoulder and made him apologize for starting the fight.

Someone, Fidds couldn’t recall later who suggested it, said they should spend the rest of the evening at the beach not too far from there to make up for lost time fighting and chasing monsters, so they cleaned up the mess Stan had made and packed a few towels before leaving. Fidds even talked the others into bringing Carlos along with them to get out of the cramped hotel for a little while.

The first genuinely happy memory of the trip was forged on the beachfront that night for Fidds to carry with him over the years.

The waves washed the conflicting feelings and fears clean from all of their consciousness as they sat together all through the night. Ford pointed out star constellations, marking them in his journal and almost forgetting they existed, making him feel so small in this world he confessed. The comment made Stan smile, pulling Fidds closer towards him and scratching behind Carlos’s ear, letting the creature lick his bruised knuckles.

The waves pulled in and scraped against the trio’s now bare feet, everything between them as clean and repaired as Stan’s knuckles.

Part 7

(Honey, seashells, chocolate)

Stan sat at the table watching in amusement as his boyfriend set all the day’s souvenirs out in front of creature’s kennel, reminding him more of an over excited five-year-old setting up for show-and-tell than the grown man he was.  

It was nice seeing him smile again. Things began slipping back into a normal routine for the three, all the drama stored away for now to be brought up when they returned home, if it was brought up at all.

For now, they were going to spend their last evening in their hotel room. Ford was already packed and ready to leave in the morning, buzzing with excitement over the research he wished to conduct on Fiddleford’s new pet (and would likely be just as much Ford’s pet, seeing the excitement on his face when Carlos had licked his finger).

Ford was on the floor besides Fidds, sketching him and his pet enthusiastically. The animal didn’t like being confined in its cage but it had been agreed he shouldn’t be moved often with his injuries.

Stan watched them interact, the pang of jealousy still somewhere in him but it was overshadowed with a pride that the people he loved most were content in front of him, slowly pulling the animal from its cage, checking its injury and giving him his bottle fed pureed raw meat. Ford and Fidds had spent days creating just the right blend of meats to give the creature they were both growing fond of the proper nutrition it needed.

It was an interesting few days going to the local butcher shop and ordering raw meat from the man at the counter, who always gave them odd looks about their choice in food and how Ford was always writing in his journal when he came in to see him. Stan had overheard him calling his brother some choice words to another customer, who wanted to know what his deal was watching him reach over the counter himself and weigh the food he wanted on his own to get better results on his choice.  

For once Ford was the one who declared they should turn in early, ready to go home after their stressful trip and Fiddleford couldn’t agree more.

Fidds turned to Stan and kissed him on the cheek, asking if he would join them. Stan instantly shut the TV off, grateful to turn in and be one step closer to returning home and having their own bed that they didn’t need to share with Ford.

—

Stan rose late in the middle of the night after the groggy revelation that the blob he was snuggling into was far too big to be his lover. His face contorted in disgust when he realized the ear he had just kissed had been his brother’s. He flung the cover off and let his brother have the bed to himself, watching his silhouette roll into the middle of bed, seemingly proud of the victory he wasn’t aware enough to celebrate.  

He had his mind on going out to his car and smoking, maybe getting some well needed rest there if he wasn’t going to get it here, when his eye caught the shadowy lump of his boyfriend curled next to Carlos’s kennel fast asleep. He sat on the floor next to him, resting his hand on his quaking shoulders before moving his hand up more running his fingers through his hair.

As his eyes adjusted more to the darkness, he noticed Fiddleford’s fingers lying at the foot of the kennel and the injured creature had moved himself as close to his only source of comfort as close as he could, claws resting on the tip Fidds’s fingers as he slept.

Stan took pity on this sorry sight and, not caring about ‘Dr. Ford’s’ orders, cracked the cage open to lift the already thrashing creature out. He took the nips at his fingers with stride, understanding the creature’s panic, which slowly disappeared as he was laid next to the man who took care of him. He gently helped the little monster curl comfortably against his boyfriend before getting up and stealing the comforter from Ford, letting him lay in the chill if he was going to hog the bed.  

He wrapped the blanket snuggly around them before tucking it around himself, wrapping his arms snuggly around his boyfriend and securely shielding him from any of the chill that snuck under the comforter.

He kissed his neck and whispered he loved him before rejoining him in a peaceful slumber.

Part 8

(Popsicles, sea, refreshing)  

Red sticky goop slid down Stan’s arm the longer he neglected his popsicle in favor of watching the sun sink into the ocean, vibrant colors bleeding into the water, making it shimmer and shine. Reminding Stan how beautiful the world could be when not grimmed down by all the ugliness.

He grimaced in disgust as ‘Carlos’ began licking at his arm. The second its snake like tongue touched his popsicle, he dropped it on its head and watched with a sneer as the creature sucked on the stick, red ooze slobbering down its mouth, its razor teeth turning the stick into mulch as it ground it all in its wide open mouth.

Fiddleford merely giggled at Stan’s disgust, cooing at the creature on his lap to slow down, no need to choke.

Stan wrapped his arm tightly around his boyfriend, snuggling him closer to him on the hood of the car, Ford’s loud snores echoing from the back seat after a long final day at the beach. Plenty of souvenirs, sea shells and photos (which both Stan twins would likely want to burn later on down the line) were stacked on the back seat floor. Some had toppled over on the sleeping Ford, who was too tired to notice.  

Carlos’s scaly head nuzzled against Stan’s hand and he began absent mindedly stroking down the side of his ears, being mindful enough to not touch any of its nasty fresh scars, making it coo in satisfaction curling tighter on Fiddleford’s lap.

In an hour they would be heading home, Stan would have to tuck the little evil beast away just right so border patrol didn’t find the little demon Fidds had taken upon himself to see healed back to health.

For now, though, he just wanted to enjoy the sunset and the company sitting next to him. Basking in the breezy weather cooling their bright red skin.

He reached over the side of the car and pulled out a beer, taking a long refreshing drink. This was a close to paradise as this trip was going to get, so he might as well enjoy it.  

[daniel-browne]

The Tower of Song Has a Vault

Recently finished Sylvie Simmons’ I’m Your Man: The Life of Leonard Cohen, a book I should have read a long time ago. There are loads of anecdotes I’d never come across before (the Iggy Pop cameo is worth the price of admission), but what surprised me more than anything was how many Leonard Cohen songs have gone unreleased over the years.

My image of Cohen the songwriter—one that he himself reinforced in any number of ways—has been of the anti-Dylan, a perfectionist toiling for years, decades even, to hone a single song, discarding countless verses that failed to meet his standards. Simmons doesn’t contradict this image, but she does dispel the misconception (which, for all I know, was mine alone) that Cohen’s perfectionism meant that the songs we hear on his fourteen studio albums were the only ones he was able to finish.

Of course, I was aware of a few scattered orphans: the two new cuts that appeared on The Best Of Vol. 2, the bonus tracks tacked onto the reissue of Songs of Leonard Cohen, the 17-minute “Blues by the Jews” (a.k.a. “Billy Sunday”), which I encountered on the Rare Songs bootleg. But the fact that there weren’t more out there, even on bootlegs and reissues, seemed to confirm that Cohen had given us all he had.

Simmons’ research makes it clear that isn’t the case. I don’t have the book in front of me, but I believe she names at least a half dozen outtakes from Songs of Leonard Cohen besides the two that made it onto the 2007 reissue. Songwriting became a more torturous undertaking for Cohen in the years following his debut, and the amount of scrapped material shrank accordingly. Nonetheless, Simmons doles out more than a few tantalizing references: the European-only single “Do I Have to Dance All Night”; early, unrecognizable versions of favorites like “Anthem” and “A Thousand Kisses Deep”; an unrealized album project, Songs for Rebecca; even a complete set of recitations of the poems from the Book of Longing.

It’s interesting that Prince’s legendary vault has been the subject of so much speculation, controversy and covetousness in the year since his death, while Cohen’s archives have gone, near as I can tell, almost entirely unremarked on. That probably has at least something to do with the lack of intrigue concerning the status of his estate. You’d think that very lack of intrigue—Cohen did all his recording for a single label and his heirs were closely involved in his creative process in later years—would present an opportunity, but if anyone’s talking about a commercial release of the lost work Simmons documents, they’re doing it very quietly.

One possible hurdle is that Cohen’s vault is more notional than actual, hardly the temperature-controlled sanctum sanctorum Prince installed in Paisley Park. The dogged bloodhounds at the Leonard Cohen Files, which the man himself was known to haunt, report that Cohen lost the Songs for Rebecca tapes, while the Book of Longing recordings have deteriorated past the point of viability. But is this a good enough reason to give up on the idea of a bootleg series for Cohen fans? Surely, someone else (producer John Lissauer?) has a copy of Rebecca. And, as the 2014 restoration of Dylan’s Basement Tapes demonstrates, even the cruddiest sound quality can be conquered these days through a combination of doggedness and digital wizardry.

Perhaps the bigger hang-up is the notion that Cohen, who was notoriously hard on himself, wouldn’t have wanted what amount to pages from his sketchbook to see the light of day. After all, he decided against releasing them during his life, and Simmons writes that he personally put a stop to Sony’s reissue campaign after the first three albums because he felt that the bonus tracks compromised the integrity of his original artistic statement.

This is a tough one. If Cohen specified that he wanted his unreleased songs to stay unreleased, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it, at least in the short term. (Time has a way of rendering these questions academic. If a previously unknown work by Shakespeare or Beethoven came to light, would we let the artist’s wishes stand in the way of its release?) There are a few handy bootlegs out there--thanks to the good folks at Cohencentric--and that would have to do.

Having said that, there’s no evidence Cohen categorically opposed efforts to rifle through his back pages. For one thing, he was familiar not only with The Leonard Cohen Files but Cohencentric, as well, and he apparently voiced no objection to its Other Songs project. Simmons even contributed liner notes to the second volume, something I can’t imagine she would have agreed to absent Cohen’s blessing.

As for his concern about the reissue-with-bonus-tracks approach, there’s a simple solution: rather than treating the unreleased songs as add-ons, collect them into their own box set or series of stand-alone compilations, a la Dylan’s Bootleg Series. (If Cohen had been more prolific, it might make sense to pair each album with a second disc of extras—see Costello, Elvis—but assuming Simmons managed to unearth just about everything there is to find, then a single, comprehensive box might do the trick.)

Cohen’s vault may not be as deep or fascinating as Prince’s, but like Prince, he was one of the most important artists of our time. The way I see it, his output is worth knowing and honoring in its entirety. Not every song met his standard of perfection, but hey, didn’t someone once say, there is a crack in everything?

***

So what would a Leonard Cohen bootleg series look like? I went through this exercise with respect to Prince a while back. Here now is my best-case scenario for Cohen:

--Poetry: Before we get to the music, consider this: Cohen published 11 books of poetry, including the anthologies Selected Poems and Stranger Music, each of which included otherwise uncollected work. Of these, only four are currently in print. This is mind-boggling to me, given that Cohen is one of the most well-known and beloved figures in recent history to make his name as a poet. I’ve been lucky enough to snag vintage copies of many of these books over the years, but the two I’m missing, Flowers for Hitler and Parasites of Heaven, are currently going for anywhere from $75 to $650 on Amazon. I can appreciate a good fetish object as much as the next fan, but I’ve never really approved of artificial scarcity. As a first step in honoring Cohen’s legacy, let’s get all of his written work back on shelves.

--Studio recordings: When it comes to archival releases, I’m generally more interested in songs I’ve never heard before than alternate versions of songs I already know. Cohen’s case is somewhat different because, as I mentioned above, certain songs went through radical transformations over the course of many years. Who knows if there are enough different versions of “Anthem,” say, to fill a whole disc, the way a recent Dylan set included a whole disc of “Like a Rolling Stone” takes? Who knows if such a thing would even make for compelling listening? (I skipped the “LaR” sessions.) We do know that Cohen expressed an interest in letting fans into his creative process, posting poems and songs in draft form to the “Blackening Pages” section of the Leonard Cohen Files and later going back to make revisions. “I want to send, among other things, the first manuscript scratchings for Suzanne and other early songs,” he said. “I'd like to make the process clear, or at least throw some light on the mysterious activity of writing.” Demos and outtakes of finished songs, while not my bag, are at the very least of historical interest and could help round out a box set. Highlights from the David Crosby sessions that first came to light on the Songs from a Room reissue would be an obvious candidate. I’d also be keen to hear early attempts at the songs from Death of a Ladies Man before Phil Spector got his jittery hands on them (I believe at least two were a part of the Songs for Rebecca sessions.)

--Live recordings: If you ask me, there’s more than enough live Cohen product on the market already [UPDATE: This Pitchfork piece, while informative, doesn’t persuade me otherwise]. He could be a great showman, but he wasn’t exactly Dylan, twisting his songs into strange new shapes from night to night. In many instances, the most significant variation is in the between-song patter, which could take on a hypnotic power of its own. There are exceptions, though. A number of bootlegs feature old pop and country chestnuts, socialist hymns, even Yiddish ditties getting the Cohen treatment. It would be nice to have those collected in one volume with the sound cleaned up, a kind of companion to the Basement Tapes. The 1972 Tel Aviv concert, which found Cohen facing down overzealous security guards in a sequel of sorts to his famous Isle of Wight performance, is worth a full commercial release. His revelatory summit meeting with Sonny Rollins—almost certainly the greatest musician he ever played with—on the Night Music TV show makes you wonder if there’s more that didn’t make it to air. Similarly, if another epic improvisation like the delirious “Please Don’t Pass Me By” is sitting on a shelf somewhere, I definitely want to hear it.

--Other artists: Another tidbit I gleaned from Simmons’ book is that there’s a small handful of songs Cohen gave to other artists and never recorded himself (or recorded but never released): “Priests” (Judy Collins), “Summertime” (Diana Ross), “Song for Bernadette” (Jennifer Warnes), “Way Down Deep” (Warnes again), and “It Just Feels” (someone named Sylvie Marechal). There’s also Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “God Is Alive, Magic Is Afoot,” which takes its lyrics from Cohen’s novel Beautiful Losers. There’s even a song Simmons overlooked, “Come Spend the Morning,” which was cut, in different versions, by both Lee Hazlewood and Engelbert Humperdinck! A collection of this stuff would make a fun alternative to the many inessential tribute albums out there and serve a useful purpose since these songs are little known and, in the case of the Hazlewood track, out of print. Throw in some choice bits from the gonzo movie musical Night Magic—a collaboration between Cohen, who wrote the lyrics in Spenserian stanzas, and Lewis Furey, “the Canadian Lou Reed”—and you’ve got yourself a party.