Work Text:
The bad feeling starts up again in earnest when he’s on the road leaving Gravity Falls. It’s like how leaving Palo Alto felt, but different, obviously. It’s a vague sadness- anyone would be sad, really- some inconceivable thing growing and rooted in him found it hard to move one way or the other. Like how it was in college.
Or… maybe. He can’t remember a lot from back then, now.
Is he getting old already?
Did he already give Stanford his presents?
Yes, he made sure to remember those. He worked so hard on them… both of them, really. But the gloves were something special. It took quite a few prototypes to get them right. Stanford doesn’t like his hands, he remembers. But he likes Stanford’s hands. He likes a lot about Stanford. But he also-
There’s some- no. The house is safe. That’s the way it was built. Stanford is fine, and he can take care of himself.
But… what if he can’t?
What if-
He forgot the presents, didn’t he?
Maybe he should turn around and-
Stop.
Where… is he now?
The feeling of suede. The glare from the not-quite clean windshield. The tape that keeps skipping.
Cigarettes are in the glovebox. Pills are in the glovebox. Something else is in the glovebox.
Fiddleford Hadron McGucket is in his car on the highway. He shakes his head, looks in the rear view mirror, past his face. Judging from his surroundings, he’s been driving for twenty minutes already.
It’s Christmas Eve, he remembers from feeling down his coat and looking at the reminders written on his hands. He’s going to Emma-May’s. Or, no, that’s not right- it’s HIS house. His name on the deed. He’s going back to his house.
(-he messed up the words again. Does that mean he doesn't love her anymore? Does that-)
Fiddleford swerves out of the way of a big rig, missing it by a hair. It’s honking at him, pressing down the horn, forcing the sound, and everything is real bright for a second, the sky, the trees, the other cars, even himself.
He shakes his head clear and ejects the skipping tape. Has he been listening to this same darn thing for twenty minutes?
He can’t just listen to silence, though. He can’t.
He’s trying to keep his eyes on the road, but they always come back to the glovebox. Thinking about what’s inside.
No matter how much he forgets, his eyes keep coming back.
No. He’s going to see Emma-May, and his son, Tater-tot- the greatest joy in his life. And he is so, so happy to see them. He hasn’t seen them in…
It doesn't matter. He’s seeing them now, ain’t he?
(Why did he take so long? Does he even love-)
“Sweet Suzanna,” Fiddleford mutters under his breath. He veers off the side of the road abruptly, earning a chorus of honks from the other cars. Whatever. He’s been pissing off a lot of people lately, it seems.
It won’t matter in a second, anyway.
--------------
Fiddleford McGucket is in his car on the side of the road. He checks his pockets and his hands, like he always does.
Right, he’s going to Palo Alto, to Emma-May’s house.
Speaking of which, he might as well get going off the side of the road anyways.
He starts the car and stalls a bit for an opening, then turns back onto the highway.
There isn’t a tape in, so Fiddleford grabs one from the passenger seat. It’s Bob Dylan, he forgets the album.
He’s been forgetting a lot, lately.
Did he remember to give Stanford the gifts?
After a few songs, the tape starts skipping like a heartbeat, or the gaps between memories.
When he pulls up to the house in Palo Alto, it’s beginning to snow a bit. They never did get snow much in Tennessee, did they? Fiddleford remembers a few winters, but nothing more than a few inches of snow. That didn’t stop him from attempting to build a mechanical snowball-throwing arm, though.
His efforts at Backupsmore were much more successful, especially with Stanford to help him on one notable occasion. Little did the man know, he was plotting his own destruction. Fiddleford laughs at the memory of his snowball machine completely burying Stanford, and Stanford’s indignant expression. The man refused to end on a loss, so they had spent the rest of the day perfecting the noble art of snow warfare against each other.
Lately, it was like that Stanford had died, and something else was wearing its skin.
… What on earth is he thinking about? This is crazy talk. Stanford’s back in Gravity Falls, and he can take care of himself. What’s important now is Emma-May, and Tate.
There’s maybe an inch of snow on the ground when he finally cuts the engine and approaches the door. He looks down at his hands, checks his pockets again. Why is he feeling this way about this house? Why does he want to turn and run away and hide forever?
(He must not love them very much then, after all.)
It’s true, isn’t it? He wouldn’t think it otherwise. He’s a bad person.
But… it doesn’t have to be true.
He hasn’t knocked yet. He has time to… He’d feel so much better if he…
Why is he even resisting?
He shakes his head and goes to unlock the car.
--------------
His name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. He is standing in front of Emma-May’s house in Palo Alto. It’s Christmas Eve, a white Christmas, with at least two inches of snow sticking on the ground. He’s excited to see his son, he’s excited to see his wife, for the first time in.. a while.
How long?
His hand pauses of its own accord before the door, then follows through in a decisive knock.
After a few moments, minutes, hours, Emma-May opens the door. She looks… well, she’s looked better.
No, he shouldn’t think that about his wife.
But it’s true - she looks frazzled, unhappy; there’s a stain on her shirt and an air of dissatisfaction about her. Also, a look of dissatisfaction on her face.
He pushes his doubts to the side and embraces her, and she relaxes in his arms. She shakes her head, rests it against his shoulder.
“Oh, Fiddleford,” she exhales. “We missed you.”
“I’m sorry, Emma-May,” His guilt always gets the best of him. “I always meant to come home sooner, I was just so-”
“Busy.” Emma-May pulls away, with a conflicted smile on her face. “I know. You boys are always… so busy.”
There’s an underlying tension that wasn’t there before, as far as he can remember.
“Well, I’m here now,” Fiddleford reassures. “An’ I’m not going anywhere. Um, for a day, that is. Then I have to get on back, uh. Finish the project.”
“Right, your project.” Emma-May turns and lets Fiddleford in. “Maybe you can tell me about it, once you’ve said hi to your son.”
How long has it been since he’s been here? The wallpaper is a different pattern, and there are some pictures he recognizes on the wall, and some he doesn’t. It makes his vision swim a bit, so he looks to the floor.
“Where’s my little Tater-Tot?” Fiddleford asks playfully as Emma-May moves to open up the fridge.
“He’s playing in his room. He might not remember you, though.”
Fiddleford’s heart drops. That’s… Is she trying to upset him?
He thinks again of his glovebox and walks down the hallway without a word. Thankfully, he still remembers which door is Tate’s.
Inside, a little boy’s sitting on the floor. Good lord above, he’s grown so much, so quickly. It seems like just yesterday he was holding his tiny newborn son in his arms. Now, Tate is at least two and a half feet tall, and has a thick mop of hair to match his mama’s. He appears to be building a tower of Lincoln Logs with surprising structural integrity. Already so smart, just like his ma and pa.
Tate looks up when Fiddleford comes in and his face twists up in a shy smile.
“My lil’ Tater-tot. Ya remember your Papa, don’t ya?” Fiddleford scoops him up in a big bear hug. “My lil’ perfect cutie pie. Tate… it’s me, it’s Papa. I’m finally home.”
“Put me down, baba! I gotta work!” Tate squeals happily, his laughter and lisp distorting the words. He really has grown up so much.
Fiddleford giggles with joy and hugs him tighter. “An’ I’ll never let you go! Never!”
It makes Tate laugh like a bubbling brook, so clear and pure it cleaves Fiddleford’s heart in two.
Emma-May’s voice comes from the kitchen: “Okay, enough play time, you two. I need to speak with your father, Tate.”
“Aw, can’t Tate come, too?”
“Tate’s tired, dear.”
“Aw, it ain’t even five’o-”
“Put him to bed, Fiddleford.”
Tate’s laughing stops. Fiddleford’s smile vanishes and he hugs his son tight. He just got to see him, and now he has to leave already?
Tate doesn’t fuss when Fiddleford puts him to bed and turns out the lights. Of course, it doesn’t do much when the sun’s still coming in through the window.
“I’ll be back soon, Tater-Tot,” Fiddleford promises and closes the door behind him. He hopes it isn’t empty; without his boy in his arms, everything feels washed out.
He takes a breath in the hallway, then goes to see Emma-May. She’s still in the kitchen, frying what smells like bacon.
Something in his head tells him it’s best to face this head on, even as every bone in his body aches to walk back out the door.
Fiddleford takes a breath.
“Emma, is there something wrong?” He tries his best to stay steady, but his voice wavers slightly, betraying his worry. To stay upright, he leans against the counter. It’s a green vinyl. Fiddleford remembers it from when he and Emma first moved in.
She stays quiet for a minute- the bad kind of quiet, before the bomb hits. The bacon sizzles pleasantly in the cast-iron skillet.
“I figured we were due for a talk, that’s all,” she says eventually, and cracks an egg into another pan.
“We call fairly often, I reckon?“ At least once a week. Much more than Stanford uses the phone- they’re probably a drain on his expenses.
“I figured maybe you could tell me what you were working on, since it’s so important to you,” she cracks another egg. “ I would have figured you’d mentioned it by now, anyhow.”
And another egg. “But you haven’t, so this is me asking.”
She says it plain and simple, emotionless, and Fiddleford gets the sense there’s a lot more there.
“Sorry, I just sorta assumed you wouldn’t be interested in all that.,” Fiddleford drums his hand against the countertop. “Well, that and… I’m not sure Stanford wants people to know.”
Emma-May looks at him for the first time since he came in. There are dark circles under her eyes and lines around her mouth that didn’t used to be there. “ People? I’m your wife , Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, though I suppose you might not always act like it. I’m not just some ‘people.’ ”
Fiddleford’s gut clenches. “What do you mean by that? I don’t act like it? Do I-”
(-is it true?)
She makes a loose gesture with her hands and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to bring that up. I just… want to know what you’ve been working on.”
Fiddleford thinks about the glove compartment again.
“Stanford and I… we’re building a transuniversal polydimensional metavortex. Basically, a portal across dimensions, which Stanford believes to be the source of “weirdness” in the town. It’s gonna prove his Grand Unified Theory of Weirdness, once we get it runnin’. That’s… what we’ve been workin’ on. I know you can imagine how much work that is,” he ends with a laugh that sounds halfhearted even to his own ears.
Emma-May hmphs and nods. “And just how much is he intending to pay you for helping him out?”
Fiddleford runs a hand through his hair. It comes back with too many free strands. “Emma, we’ve been over this. It’s a favor, ya do favors for friends sometimes.”
“Yeah, like taking care of them when they’re sick, or paying for their lunch. This is… “ she runs her hands down her face. The bacon is burning.
“It’s a favor, and believe me, the man needs it,” Fiddleford states. He’s trying to keep his cool, but he doesn’t know what’s going on, really, and everything is starting to hurt too much again.
Emma-May turns off the burner for the bacon and flips the eggs. “It’s kind of strange he didn’t come to our wedding, being your best friend. Didn’t you ask him to be your best man?”
“This… isn’t relevant.”
“I say it’s relevant,” she says evenly. “How come you’re helping a man who doesn’t care enough to be with you on the biggest day of your life?”
“He- Emma, that’s not fair, I- You can’t say that. I can’t-”
He’s spiraling and he can feel it, like an emotional vertigo. What is he saying? Why is he here? Where is he?
Emma-May sighs as he flounders. “I- that was a bit harsh. I guess I just still don’t understand why you left us in the first place.”
She pauses, picks back up again at a different pace. “At first, I didn’t really think about it, so I didn’t ask. But then again, I assumed you’d be back within a few weeks. And then… Tate started getting big, and I realized you wouldn’t be around to see it.“
There's something deep and hurt in her eyes.
“I- yeah. That was my… I’m sorry,” Fiddleford stammers, a deep dread growing like a bottomless pit inside him. “The- the project- the project was really important-”
“Yeah, so important you neglected to tell me any details until today,” Emma-May mutters.
“Emma, that’s not fair and you know it.”
“No, you can’t fool me. There’s no way that portal means as much to you as it does to that man. Whatever happened to Fiddleford Computermajigs? Your personal ‘puters? Did he make you give all that up, too?”
The nausea grows. Fiddleford grips the counter. He might pass out. He might just die.
Why is this happening to him?
(It’s because he’s a bad person. He doesn’t love his family enough.)
“I’ll take that as an affirmative. God, I hate that man. He’s ruined you, Fiddleford.”
Fiddelford shakes his head. “Don’t say that, I told you not to say that Emma.”
“You’re not listening to me! He made you leave us behind, all for some mad science project out in the woods! Tate was a goddamn baby ! He needed you! I-” She quiets. “ I needed you. I needed you more than anything else, because I didn’t have anyone else.”
She takes a shaky breath. “Not to mention I still haven’t… really gotten my energy back, you know. And, what with the shifts at the grocery, just to make ends meet…” A sob slips out, which she stifles with a hand. “God, it’s been so hard, Fiddleford.”
She cries quietly for a moment, allows herself to be small. Fiddleford stands silent. He doesn’t want to comfort her. He knows he should want to.
He’s not really sorry. (Because he’s a bad person.) He would probably go to Gravity Falls again, given the option. (Because he doesn’t love his family.) How is he supposed to explain? (Tell her the truth.) Why doesn’t she just understand ? She always seemed to understand him in the past, without him needing to say a thing.
After a second, Emma-May straightens and sobers.
“Did you get Tate a Christmas present?”
Fiddleford shakes his head in shame. Why is she asking this?
“Did you get me a Christmas present?”
His heart catches in his throat, but he can’t lie to her. He shakes his head again.
“But you got him a Christmas present. Right?”
The world starts to spin.
Emma-May plates up the eggs. She takes a deep breath.
“I don’t want to see you again after tonight.” She tries to catch his eyes with her own. “Do you understand me?”
Fiddleford stands silent for a moment, thoughts moving slow like he’s at the event horizon. He deserved this. It still hurts.
“Tate,” he whispers, voice gaining strength. “No, Emma, what about Tate? No, Emma, let’s just… I don’t know, act like things used to be? We can have a good Christmas. And then we can… talk more about this.”
She seems to consider it. “When you break it off with him, I’ll talk.”
“T-There’s… really nothing I can do to make it up to you?”
“I just said what you can do.” She chuckles humorlessly. Her cheeks look wet again. “But then, I guess you just answered, too.”
There’s nothing to break off, Fiddleford wants to say. He can’t say it. He doesn’t know why, logically, because it doesn’t make sense, logically. But there is a feeling there that remains, incapable of being verbalized.
Instead of saying anything, he leaves the kitchen and goes into his son’s room, where he is sleeping.
He kisses him on his forehead. He thinks about the glovebox.
Before he leaves, he wants to say something to Emma-May, something that will maybe explain everything, or at least just make him feel less terrible.
He comes up with, “I love you.”
Emma-May’s eyes are wet. She doesn’t say anything. Fiddleford leaves.
Once he’s inside the car, Fiddleford slumps like a sack of potatoes. Some feeling, not exactly sadness, a feeling without a name, has him crying soundlessly, face dripping so he can hardly see, except for the spinning of the world around him, pulled down the deepest drain. A true black hole, a star collapsing on itself. The feeling is so great he can hardly move, except to shake with sobs.
He can say decidedly it isn’t a good feeling.
It will be okay, though. Because he’s reaching for the glovebox again, and pulling out what’s inside.
--------------
Fiddleford Hadron McGucket is in his car. He doesn’t remember why he’s parked outside of Emma-May’s house, but something in him knows that he can no longer go in anymore.