And here's the ficlet that goes with these images:
Fiddleford didn’t really know why he gave his phone number to Stan. It had just felt like the right thing to do at the time.
Some of the things Stan had slipped when he’d tried to leave at first just didn’t sit right with him. “He already has a low enough opinion of me,” and the look he gave Fiddleford when he realized Ford hadn’t even mentioned having a twin… He shouldn’t get involved, he knew. It wasn’t his problem to fix, and he already had enough issues with his own family.
But then, Stan had called him, and asked if he’d wanted to go have a drink and Fiddleford had said yes, because going out always sounded more appealing than staying at home.
It hadn’t always been this way, but it was now that he’d accepted the job with Ford. Emma hadn’t taken it well, which didn’t help matters. “You’re going to miss seeing your own son grow up?” She had asked, disbelievingly. “I thought you loved him, I thought we found a way to make this thing work, and you’re what? Just going to run away?” She was right of course, which had made it so much more hurtful.
And he did love Tate, but he was so scared of messing up. He’d lost his temper once and made him cry and he hadn’t known what to do. How do you explain to a toddler that you’re sorry for raising your voice? He supposed that was his fault for not telling Emma he didn’t feel ready to have kids. She’d wanted them, and she so rarely asked him for anything that he felt like he would have let her down, if he’d said no.
She could get behind their marriage being a facade for their respective catholic families, she understood when he’d asked if he could see other people on the side, since he wasn’t into women. She supported his dreams to build personal computers, had fought with her family to defend him, when their opinions got in the way. So he gave her the son she wanted and then he ran away and tried to forget his guilt by getting engrossed with his work.
He’d missed their anniversary this year. And her birthday. So he asked Ford for a vacation, to apologize to her, the both of them aware that he would likely miss Tate’s birthday as well.
Perhaps that was why he’d drank a little too much tonight. To help him forget about his guilt.
He’d had fun with Stan, telling stories about Ford and their research in the woods. Stan had mostly offered funny stories from their childhood, sharing very little about his life after high school besides a few crooked tales where he got in and out of trouble in epic ways.
He thinks it would have been interesting to have him around campus, if he’d come to college with Ford. They would have gotten into so much trouble, the three of them. Perhaps he should invite him to come to Gravity Falls with him.
Stan was driving him back and he was saying something so Fiddleford made an effort to tune back in.
“...guess what I’m trying to say is thank you.”
“For the drinks?” He asked, hoping he didn’t just make a giant fool of himself.
Stan glanced at him, apparently picking up on the fact Fidds was a little too drunk for this. “Yeah, I guess. That was nice of you to cover.”
He gestured dismissively, “don’t mention it.”
“Alright, I won’t tell everyone that a pretty twink bought me a drink then,” he joked, nudging Fiddleford’s arm.
He snorted disgracefully, “an’ I won’t tell no one my best friend’s secret twin is such a charmer.”
Stan scoffed, “no one would believe you.”
Fiddleford laughed tiredly, charmed by Stan’s dry sense of humour and witty comebacks.
“Could you -hum.” Stan started, then stopped, his eyes doing quick back and forths between Fiddleford’s face and the road.
“What?” Fidds asked eventually, when the heavy silence had stretched too long for comfort.
“It’s stupid,” Stan said dismissively, “but could you not tell Ford?”
“About this evening?” Fidds asked, a little confused. His sluggish, alcohol addled brain not connecting the dots.
Stan nodded, clearly uncomfortable. “Just, about me in general.”
“Are you afraid of what he might think about you?” Fiddleford asked, before realizing this was getting a little too personal a little too fast for Stan’s taste.
“No, I know what he thinks about me.” Stan answered, almost too quietly to be heard over the soft purring of the engine. “There’s no point fueling the fire, is there?”
Before Fiddleford could answer, Stan stopped the car and gestured to the house outside.
