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It was a rather gray day. The rain was pouring down against his body, beating wildly and soaking his clothes and hair. He looked more like...himself? Without a suit on, just the scruffy clothes and the awful mullet. If he paid close enough attention, he could feel the raindrops falling through the hole in his jacket and shirt, hitting against a fresh, raw burn. Any pain from that recognition went unnoticed. He felt himself shivering, but it wasn't from the cold or the physical pain, it was something stronger, as if something had been ripped out of him. He thought it was about cutting himself off from his identity definitively, about accepting that Stanley Pines was now a dead man. And there was no going back.
Right now, he also felt empty inside, wiped out.
It shouldn't hurt so much.
“It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault” He heard himself repeating over and over again, like a mantra, in a trance “I ruined his life, I ended his life” He felt himself shudder at his own words. He seemed to repeat it for an eternity, getting weaker and broken.
He stared at the gravestone for quite some time, searching for a name that wasn't there, not understanding why.
It didn't say Stanley.
Stanford Filbrick Pines.
Dead.
He had killed him.
A shaky sigh escaped his lips as he opened his eyes, finding the room dark to greet him. He wiped furiously at the involuntary tears that had gathered in his eyes. Lokeed around forlornly as his hands felt around the other side of the bed and found no scrawny body to curl up and cling to. It made the bed feel cold as hell. Made him wonder if he was still dreaming, if the next name to appear on a tombstone would be Fiddleford's. The very idea made him feel as if he was drowning, and he almost wished it was just him dumping Stan and not that.
He got out of bed carelessly, walking barefoot out of the room to look for him around the house, to know he was still there. The dim light from the kitchen guided him downstairs.
His body relaxed when he found Fiddleford, silent and with his back to him, rummaging through the cupboard. Stan cleared his throat and watched as Fidds literally jumped up, heard the thump of his feet as he returned to the floor and all, his glasses twisted at the sudden movement.
“Oh, Lee! Don’t be scaring me like that, now!” It was a reprimand, but it didn’t sound like one. his voice came out soft and mumbled, fitting for the silence that filled the night, even if they didn't have to worry about making noise and disturbing anyone. There was no one but them here. It was a contrast when her voice, raspy and gruff, turned to him.
“What are you doing up at this hour? This is a respectable house, nerd” He folded his arms, unsmiling but not serious. Fidds did smile, embarrassed. He was clutching the shirt he was wearing, which Stan recognized well, as he was the one who loaned it to him. It was wider and shorter on him than on Stanley.
“Ain’t been able to sleep no more” He moved closer to Stan, one of his hands gently running up and down his arm “And why are yer awake...”
“Why? Did ya have a night terror? I didn't hear you” He interrupted him, in a mixture of concern and wanting to delay a bit the warning of his new nightmare.
Stanley would've woken up, night terrors weren't exactly quiet. Fiddleford would have screamed, cried, there was even the possibility that he would be hitting him. It was not something that could go unnoticed, and it was unusual to find him easily awake after one. Still, it was the first reason that came to his mind.
Carefully, he pulled away the hand that was caressing him to hold it in his own, checking his wrist and arm and then moving on to the other. Some scar marks and bruises became visible on the engineer's skin, caused by somnambulism or mechanical work, none that he didn't recognize from before.
“… No, don't worry ‘bout it, my dear” Fidds smiled ruefully at him, sliding his hand from Stan's touch to gently pat his cheek. “Actually, it was just a nightmare” His expression turned into a grimace “I remember more clearly, but I didn't make any big trouble, like with the terrors” He said, seeing it as a good thing.
“What a thrill, huh?” He replied sarcastically.
Stanley didn't hesitate to wrap his arms around him, feeling even more relieved himself as the other also wrapped him in the embrace, Fidds hummed softly and Stan was no longer sure who was comforting who.
“Also a nightmare?” he asked against Stan's ear, making him wince. He pulled away just a little, not wanting to look at him at all, instead he thought the wood floor was really cool.
“Mhm” It was his affirmation, and when he encouraged himself to look at it again, anguish shone in Fiddleford's eyes, as if he himself hadn't just dreamt of something awful. Or perhaps, it was the mutual understanding between them.
“Oh, darlin’ ” Fidds rough hands slid down, caressed his cheeks before one went to his tangled hair, shorter than when he'd first arrived at the shack, stroking it so lovingly he felt out of place. “I’m fixin’ to make us some milk with honey and we can talk about it. Does that sound okay?”
“Yeah, I guess it sounds good” He leaned against the touch rather than prompting him to leave, and before pulling away from him, the engineer pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
Stan didn’t move far from Fidds after that. He made a mental note to do the groceries soon when he saw that the fridge was beginning to empty. He watched as he poured the milk into a pot to warm it up and went back to rummaging through the cupboard until he found the honey. It, too, was beginning to run low. It was there at Fiddleford's initiative and they had begun to use it more as Stanley's nightmares and Fidds night terrors passed. Most of the time, on both occasions, the milk and honey were for Stan. Fiddleford would take the time to get out of bed and go get it ready for him to go back to sleep after a bad dream. On the other hand, after getting used to it, he had sometimes sneaked off to the kitchen to do it himself, when Fidds was still sleeping normally after his night terrors, without waking up. There was a sense of being better when Fidds made it, but even when he made it himself he would run into that feeling of calm, after so many times when the southerner had made it for him.
Fiddleford was also affected by distressing dreams. Night terrors were more common, but that didn't mean nightmares were few and far between. And he knew they were terrible. Fidds yawn led him to look at him more closely, the dark circles under his eyes, also his freckles. Overall he remained fairly quiet, it wasn't awkward, but he looked distracted, probably thinking about what had happened while he slept. His voice came through, suddenly starting to count, he realized that his fingers had started tapping against the kitchen counter, perhaps over pressing themselves. Each tap counted and accompanied by Fidds voice “One, two, three, four…” It was clear he was only talking to himself, perhaps even too low, so Stan wouldn't catch on “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten...”
It didn't take him long to catch up, distracting him with his hands, wrapping them around him and squeezing his body a little. When he searched his gaze and Fiddleford looked at him, noticed the embarrassment of being discovered. But Stan said nothing about it, and neither did he. Instead, his hands snuck under his shirt and just tickled through.
Fiddleford's laughter was something maniacal and loud that, strangely enough, Stan loved. He laughed like a damn lunatic. Sadly, it didn't take long for him to cover his mouth when the loud sound broke through the peaceful silence. But if anything was going to be loud, Stanley would rather it be his laughter and not all that crap that was tormenting his cowboy.
“Stanley, now, that's enough!” He said still chuckling, and Stan reluctantly obeyed “Do you know how late it is? And we get to make all this fuss.”
“If we lived in an apartment, we'd be kicked out for sure. Having a shack in the middle of nowhere has its advantages, we've never been heard”, there was a hint that Fiddleford did not pass unnoticed. And in response, he gave him a gentle slap on one of the hands that held him, looking at him with too slight a disapproval, with a smile.
“Ya lucky that’s how it is. Back at the farm, we was plenty noisy too…” His eyes twinkled wistfully.
“It had to come from somewhere.”
“Yer louder’n me, I’ll tell ya that much.”
“Dream on. Ya know, like, how loud ya sound?” The taller one shrugged.
If he thought deeply about it, Stan could believe that Fidds would have been someone quieter before he met him. On the usual, he didn't make a lot of noise, not like loud. Though for him, Fiddleford was always accompanied by some kind of sound, the humming of his voice when he was distracted, some of his compulsions. And with how disastrous their lives had become, there were things he would accept that weren't there before, but were now: anxiety attacks, panic attacks, the night terrors, their startles when he thought they were in danger from some external sound or other. At those times Fidds was noisy. Stan did not complain about it. Remembering also his voice stuttering and becoming loud in moments of excitement, his heart warmed with affection.
“It's not ‘bout anything, like ya” Come on, Stan was pretty loud. He yelled at him all the time when they weren't in the same room (okay, maybe he'd gotten used to it too), wasn't really careful about doing a lot of things, and ended up causing noise. He actually found it funny.
Stanley rolled his eyes but said nothing. Instead, he allowed Fidds to pull him aside as he turned off the stove and went to pour the milk. He heard the soft clinking of the spoon, mixing the milk and honey in the background, looking out of the kitchen.
“Wanna go to the couch? These chairs are going to give me a backache” He said before heading over to take his place, Fidds made a sound of appreciation , following Stan with mugs in hand and watching as he slumped down on the couch. It was small and didn't leave much space for the engineer, but they used to work it out. That's why, when he received his steaming cup, Stan palmed his legs with a smile. Fiddleford rolled his eyes.
“Now, make room fer me. Yer favored” Stanley sighed and, without much enthusiasm, pressed himself further against one of the armrests, Fidds settled in, resting his back against the other. Even so, his legs soon found their place over Stan's in the tight space, and he found himself satisfied with that.
“You want to tell me what happened, then?” Fiddleford spoke against his own mug, looking up at him. His tired face and gentle eyes dimly illuminated by the now lit lamp. “In your nightmare, sugarcube.”
He let out a sigh, detailing the engineer “The usual, after living through some crazy stuff” He explained vaguely. When the other didn't seem convinced, Stan pressed his hand against the hot mug before he felt it burning, he pulled that hand away and merely gripped the handle with the other. “It was about Ford.”
If Fiddleford's expression had been pained before, it was genuinely painful now. And he wasn't sure he could bear that look much longer, like he was someone to worry about or something to take care of. He already felt too coddled, looking for Fidds after a bad dream, letting him fix him warm milk. It was all too sweet and domestic, so good it was strange.
“But enough about me” He tried to push the subject away from between them with a wave of his recently burned hand. “What was your nightmare?” Specs seemed to lose the color from his face the moment he asked. A softer, overly nervous chuckle escaped him. Stan sat up slightly, paying much closer attention. His hand rested tenderly on one of the legs resting in his lap.
“That, uhm”, He took a long sip of milk, and Stanley waited as patiently as he could. “Didn't make much sense, actually,” for being taller than Stan, he somehow managed to shrink into himself and look much smaller. “So many things...at once. It was chaos. My head is a real mess, ya know” His expression became serious, sad, holding a hand against his temple as if in pain.
He was not sure what the right words were, or what to say to make them both stop feeling miserable. Instead, he made sure to pull it closer towards him and let them both finish the warm drink. They remained in that silence until they set their empty cups down on the fossil that served as a coffee table. Fidds clung tighter to him, burying his face in his neck. Stan thought about it for a moment.
“Ya here now, and we're okay” He murmured lightly against his ear, stroking his hair as he had done a while ago. “We'll get through this.” Fidds hummed, his own hands untangling strands of brown hair. His hair used to be curly, but now it was just messily straight.
“I know” Fidds nestled his head on his shoulder, looking at him lovingly “I feel better now, because yer here” He tugged a little on his undershirt, prompting him to lean in and kiss, Stan pressed happily against the other's chapped lips.
“Ya such a lovebug, Fidds.”
They shared little kisses in the quiet of the living room, growing sleepier and sleepier. “Stanley?” he stroked his chin, looking up at him carefully.
“What?”
“We're bringing Ford back.” He said softly, his voice so absent of hesitation that it shook Stan. It almost made him forget all the times when Fiddleford refused to work on that thing they had under the shack again, the times when he'd let himself get carried away and fearfully mention to him everything that might trigger the activation of the portal. They had argued several times regarding it, because Stanley didn't give a damn, not when it was about his brother. But now they were fine.
And despite all that, Fiddleford was here, helping him. Not just with the portal, he was with him, sleeping in the same bed, caring for him, kissing him, Stanley. He was here between his hands and he wasn't going anywhere. Stan let a smile grace his face, one that Fidds gave him back.
“Yeah” He leaned back more comfortably against the couch, nuzzling small circles on his lover's waist as he scratched his head in a way that made his eyes begin to close against his will. “Sweetheart.”
“Mhm?”
“I love ya.”
Fidds' fingers stopped so short in their action that it seemed as if they had never done so when they continued scratching.
“I love ya too, darlin'.”
The next morning they awoke sore from sleeping on the small couch, tangled up with each other.