#parallel stanford

“...and that's why I think we oughta quit while we're ahead.” Fiddleford says.

Ford runs his finger along the edge of the napkin. He continues staring at it, unsure of what to say.

It's a simple diagram, the y axis labeled “instability”, the x axis labeled “time.” The words “probability of failure” are scrawled hastily across the bottom of it. There are several tears in the paper along that string of words, as though the hand that wrote it could barely keep steady, digging into the thin lining of the napkin in agitation.

Ford remains silent, and he can feel the growing anxiety emanating from Fiddleford as time goes by. He hears his companion’s leg quietly pad against the table as it bounces.

He knows Fiddleford wants an answer, but he's not sure what answer he might possibly give him. A quiet voice in the back of his head hisses told ya so…

Fiddleford reaches over to his bag and takes out a stack of papers. He shoves them over to Ford.

Ford glances at it. “What is this, Fidds?”

It's a ludicrous question - the papers are self explanatory as he begins picking through them: a compilation of all of their research, even Ford’s work before Fiddleford joined the project.

The question he's really asking is why? And when? And I can't believe you'd do this (to me!) (for me...)

the voice in his head is growling now, spitting venom that makes him flinch as it washes over him. How could he HOW COULD HE WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS THAT MOTHERFUCKING MEDDLING BACKSTABBING PIECE OF WHITE TRASH we've worked so hard and he’d have us throw it all away

It's hard to tell if it's his thoughts or Bill’s sometimes (̶m̶o̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶)̶̶. (all the time). The anger swells in his chest just the same.

It's only after he's been staring at page 26 for several minutes, not processing what it reads, when the sound of his hands trembling against the paper becomes apparent, and soon afterward does Fiddleford’s strained, uneven voice.

“...frankly all ya’ve discovered should be more than enough to-”

“We.” Ford says. The word surprises Bill, stopping his rant dead in its tracks. The word surprises Ford himself.

“I...W-We?” Fiddleford stutters.

“Yes.” Ford says, adjusting his glasses. “All we ’ve discovered.”

There's an extended period of silence that is held between them, not so much uncomfortable as excruciating. Neither wants to be the first to speak, and neither dares, trying to gauge the other’s reaction, trying to decide where they might even begin.

“Yer angry.” Fiddleford says finally.

Ford scoffs. “Yeah Fidds, I'm fucking angry.” his jaw shifts in his mouth, his teeth raking the surface of one another. “I can't believe...I can't believe that you would do this to me...go behind my back…”

Bill is laughing, his anger joining Ford’s..he's crowing told ya so told ya so told ya so he's such a goddamned sniveling manipulative little LIAR

Fiddleford wrings his hands. “I-it...it's for yer own good…”

“Don't tell me what is and isn't good for me!” Ford snaps.

Fiddleford flinches like he's been struck.

Ford exhales. Shrill cackling echoes in his mind. Yeah that's it...let the hillbilly have it, give the little backstabber a taste of what he deserves…

Ford lays down the papers and motions to his companion, who winces again. Ford searches those hollow eyes, bags under them burrowed so deep in his skin nothing could quite fully conceal them. He looks at Fiddleford hair - it's like a threadbare, moth-eaten sweater, full of thin places and some patches...justmissing ... He grimaces inwardly.

“Look Fidds.” he says, his tone soft, despite the chorus of laughter and screaming in his head and the bubbling anger filling his veins as though scalding water has been injected directly into them...

He looks Fiddleford in the eyes again. God that shade of blue should never be so dull.

“Fidds.” he repeats. “Why don't we...why don't we hold off on activating the portal. Until we go through all the calculations...the programs and such...make sure it's safe...get some rest…”

Bill goes very silent very suddenly, as though he can't think of a single thing to say. Many of Ford’s more violent, furious thoughts and ill will turns to a more simmering, quiet anger.

Fiddleford himself only stutters. He finds his verbal footing with a scoff. “Wait, ya mean it? A break? Since when ?”

Ford chews in the inside of his cheek. He begins playing with his coat collar. “Well…” should he be honest? How can he be honest? Fiddleford hasn't been honest with him a single time since he got here… “Look. I don't want us to do something... rash …”

Fiddleford blinks. “...alright now I'm startin’ to worry. Are ya actually Stanford Pines?” he bites his lip, his knee bouncing even more, as though truly considering the possibility. Ford doesn't like that somehow. Not very much at all.

Ford snorts. “I thought I was the paranoid one.”

This retort seems to calm Fiddleford down. A bit anyway. “Ya don't take breaks. Ya don't ‘hold off.’ c’mon Ford! Ya told me ‘Icarus didn't flap hard enough’-”

“it's because he was just a stupid, weak kid.” Ford says. He's not sure where it came from or why its so angry and yet has all of the impact of a punch to a pillow, rather than a wall or a gut.

Ford twists his coat collar. He doesn't want to say it he can't say it he can't...it's so...he can’t...

“Fiddleford.” he says finally. “We've been friends for a long time, correct?”

Fiddleford is quiet for a bit, then nods slowly. “Yeah?”

“We can't be friends...if we don't...if we don't trust each other…”

Bill is confused. Ford can feel it. He's scrambling for some sort of advice, some sort of prompting, but...Ford’s chest is filled with a maelstrom of confusion and emotion...all the words in his head he's not even quite sure of are tangled up and blurring into each other, colliding together, transferring meaning and feeling until they're unrecognizable...he just can't predict what order they'll take until he says them. Even he isn't sure what he's about to do and it scares the shit out of him.

Fiddleford nods again. “Yeah.” his voice is quite fragile.

Ford digs his teeth into his tongue. “We...you…” he exhales. “Goddammit Fiddleford...I trusted you...”

Fiddleford sets his jaw. “Yeah, well the feelin’s mutual.”

Ford gestures rapidly, startling Fiddleford once more. He admonishes himself, but he can't seem to keep his emotions bottled. “Yes! Yes that's the thingFidds! What happened to us? We've been..we…” his gaze falls to the floor as he mutters. “We're partners …” he props himself up on the table and buries his face in his hands. “Fuck, what are we even doing…”

Ford pushes his hands into his hair and glances up at Fiddleford, watching him find a corner of the booth away from him and letting his gaze settle on it. “I…”

Ford gets the feeling he's angry, he's searching for his reasons for being angry...but mostly he…

He sounds...sad... scared even…

Fiddleford whispers finally. “ I don't know… ”

Stanford nods, running his fingers through his hair. “Look Fiddleford. I'm angry. I'm fucking pissed. But I hate this. I hate seeing you like this. I hate...I just...I hate this. I hate that you felt this ” he smacks the papers on the table. Fiddleford jumps again and Ford lowers his hands beneath the table, berating himself silently. “This fucking desperate! And I hate that you're keeping things from me…”

Fiddleford looks at Ford, his eyes narrowing. “Yeah, we both have.”

Ford hates thinking about it. Hates having to admit to it. You couldn't have trusted him I mean look just LOOK at all the ways he's stabbed you in the fucking back...I hate that I pushed him to this...it's my fault...I hate hate hate him (this) ME for this…

He nods. “Yeah…” he laughs bitterly. “Yeah…”

He goes back to twisting the edge of his jacket under the table. “Look...the secrets of the universe aren't going to run off as far as I can tell...We can...hold off a little bit...sort this out…”

You're WALKING when you oughta be RUNNING what the fuck is wrong with you what the fuck where the fuck is this coming from don't be an idiot you're so CLOSE-

It’s coming from the blank look in Fiddleford’s eyes when Ford was pulling the gremloblin quills out of him. Fiddleford wasn't just scared - his skin was pale, he was limp in Ford’s arms, his gaze went past whatever was in front of him and kept going. he looked dead . Its coming from realizing how that look had slowly been creeping into his friend’s face, overtaking him during the last few...months? Longer?... And Ford hasn't even noticed …

It’s coming from imagining Fiddleford doing all this work secretly, typing out each treacherous letter, drawing every disloyal little diagram, all that effort just to betray him and everything they'd worked on A TRAITOR HE’S A TRAITORand Ford being so angry burning with so much anger he can barely think straight why would he do that why wouldn't he just come to him why wouldn't he just …

He couldn't lose him. He couldn't lose him. He couldn't...lose him…

The crinkle of an empty bag of toffee peanuts being crumpled in his hand echoes in his head.

Better to have only one loyal friend in the whole world than a herd of lily-livered backstabbers. Bill’s voice whispers somewhere in his mind, and it's true, it all adds up, Fiddleford’s been nothing but two-faced ever since he arrived maybe even as far back as college…

No. No, college-age Fiddleford with his soft hair draped over his shoulders and his half-cocked grin and the easy way his fingers danced across the strings of his banjo...maybe it was always fake...but if it was, Ford didn't want to know...not that far back...not when he was so vulnerable and alone…

That's how they get ya. Like wolves, and weasels, and anything that eats something with a heartbeat. They snap you up when you're all alone...

I have you. I'm not alone.

Yeah so ditch him. He's been poisoning you...

I...need to be certain. Absolutely...certain.

You ARE. I TOLD YOU didn't I?

Well...

You don't trust me ?

Ford clutches his head. “I want. To be certain .” he growls through clenched teeth.

He feels something brush against him, and it's his turn to flinch. He glances at his arm. Fiddleford’s hand is resting on it, his touch light and soft and warm...

Fiddleford doesn't ask anymore questions. He doesn't argue or insist. He just nods his head and mutters, “I've got time, if you do.”

Ford can't seem to find any words to say. There's nothing really for him to say. He looks Fiddleford in the eyes and dips his head very slightly in return. They end the night without much more talking, but Ford swears Fiddleford’s eyes are a little less dull after that.