#fandom drabble

[the-universal-sun]

stan putting off regressing when he needed to and having a meltdown with fidds and/or ford helping? ❤️

Hey guys! Sorry it's been a few days. I've been a little sick these past few days, so I've been away from my computer for the most part. But I'm feeling much better now! This takes place in the 80s, an AU where Stan and Fiddleford got Ford back after a couple of years!

There is a scene wherein Stan briefly hits his head with his hands, starting at "When that doesn't work..." and ending at the end of that small paragraph.

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    The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange. In the house, the soft hum of the evening felt insistent, like the ticking of a clock that grew louder with each passing minute. Stan sat in the living room, surrounded by the comforting chaos of his brother’s ramshackle house. The creaking floorboards seemed to echo his thoughts. He could feel that familiar pull, that soft haze and gentle fuzzy feeling tugging at the back of his mind-an urge he’s learned to resist being tempted by. Though there were the reassurances of both Stanford and Fiddleford that there was nothing wrong with him, that how his head gets sometimes is completely okay, that they loved taking care of him. Stan got up and paced the cluttered floor, his mind racing as he tried to drown out the world around him. He felt the familiar tug at his mind—the sensation that he kept trying to ignore all day. All week, really. Doodles lay scattered across the floor, evidence of his battle with the sensations that enveloped him. Every time he absentmindedly started coloring or drawing, he felt a wave of anxiety choke him, leading him to tear the paper into shreds and toss them into the trashcan.

     It's not that Stan doesn't like it, the fuzzy feeling he gets, but it's embarrassing, he's a grown man approaching 30, dammit! He shouldn't be carrying around a stuffed bear, coloring, and playing with blocks while two other grown men flutter around and coo at him! Sometimes when he's in town, he can feel people's eyes on him, like they know what happens-like they're judging him, like he's a freak. He can feel the need crawl around and itch under his skin. But he can't! He needs to prove to himself that he's capable of acting and being an adult! That he is an adult!

     "Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" Stan chants, frustrated by his own harried thoughts, wanting his mind to calm down and let him be, to escape the fuzzy haze creeping up on him. For all these thoughts to leave his head. He brings his hands up and pulls on his hair, hoping the pain can bring some clarity to his mind. When that doesn't work, he switches to hitting his hand with his palms, muttering "stop it, stop it, stop it..." with each hit until he feels six-fingered hands grab his wrists and pull them down with a-

     "Stanley, stop!" It's Ford who's grabbing his hands, his face drawn. He doesn't look angry, he looks upset-distraught-but not angry. Stan thinks he wants him to be angry, to yell and fight him and treat him like a damn adult. "What are you doing? What's happened?"

     "Nothin' happened. I'm fine." Stan bites out, trying to pull his hands back from his brother's iron grip to no avail. "Let go of me, Stanford. I need-I need to go" He pulls harder, almost wrenching his shoulders out before he feels another pair of hands come up and gently but firmly grasp his shoulders. Why do they have to be so gentle with him? Even when he's acting normal, when they get into arguments or small fights, there's no hitting or punching-nothing beyond the play fighting Ford and Stan will do sometimes. Stan's not used to it, not after violence has been his life for almost a decade.

     "What ya' need to do is calm down and talk to us, Stanley. Let Ford and I help, we're worried about you." He hears Fidds' voice in his ear behind him, his hands on his shoulders. Ford's hands firmly but gently held his wrists. Stan wants too badly to sink into that haze, to let them coddle him and hug and rock him, but he can't. He doesn't even know why anymore, why he hasn't let himself indulge.

     "Well stop worrying about me-I'm a grown-ass man and I can deal with myself." He can see Ford's eyes shift to look behind him, a silent conversation with Fidds. Usually, that would bother him, but right now he just wants to get out from their grasp, go to his room, and hide away from them-and the world-until he can get his head on straight.

     "I think I'm starting to understand what the problem is here. Stanley, it's been approximately 10 days since you've gone down-" that's what they call it when Stan's head gets fuzzy and he acts like a kid-"and after months of the same routine, your mind and body are used to going down at least twice a week. It's safe to say you're just in need of-"

     "No! I'm not in need of anything 'cept you letting go of! Me!" He tries to wrench himself to the side but crashes to his knees with a stilted sob as Fidds' arms wrap around his body from behind just as he makes his move. Why did they have to push this? To have his body so used to these feelings that he now needs it to function? Why did they have to care for him. He doesn't sob, he refuses to say he did. Stan just brings his hands up-Ford let go when Stan made his move-and presses his face into them so hard he can see stars bursting out from the darkness. "I can't do this," he muttered piteously into his hands, his voice warbling and throat feeling thick. " 'M not a kid, I don't need this. I shouldn't need this. I need to grow up." He wants to cry, he wants to go under, he wants Poindexter. Stan just wants to noise in his head to stop. He whines, feeling Ford kneel and bring an arm around him, Fidds laying his head down and Stan's shoulder and nuzzling it, shushing and humming.

     "Stanley...It's alright to feel like you do, and it's alright to feel frustrated by it. You've lived a hard life, and we both know comfort like this was a rarity in our home. But you can be safe here," Ford sits down next to Stan, his knees aching from the kneeling. "Fiddleford and I would never judge you, Lee. We love taking care of you."

     "But why? Why do you like taking care of me when I act like that-like a kid? Why do you care about me?" Stan's voice breaks on his last word, tears bubbling up to the surface and spilling down his cheeks, dripping and staining Stan's sweats.

     "What's not to care about, Stan?" It's Fiddleford who answers this time, Ford seemingly at a loss for words at Stan's questions. "You're such a kind-hearted and warm fella. You care so deeply about your friends and family, I know you'd go to the ends of the earth and then some for 'em. And you're funny as all get out. Real hoot, I'd say. Caring for you is like a breath of fresh air, Stanley. It soothes m' soul. So you can be tiny if you need to, Bubs." Fiddleford's words get a small laugh/scoff out of Stan, the kind words bringing some warmth to his heart. But he looks towards Ford, needing to hear him say something, anything. A confirmation that he does care for Stan. And his words hit like a gut punch.

     "I love you, Stanley. You're my twin, my best friend from birth. You never judged me for my hands, for my curiosities and obsessions. You protected me from bullies and my own thoughts. You came at my darkest hour to help me, even after we were estranged for a decade. You made a life and job for yourself here, you paid off my loans and debt. You brought in F and helped him stop his memory gun usage. Stanley, you worked tirelessly for two years to bring me back after the portal incident. You're my hero, you always have been. And I can't possibly describe how much joy it brings me to see you unwind and relax, to look so happy, to be so happy. I love caring for you, truly, from the bottom of my heart, to be someone you can trust to protect you. I love you." And that does it, Stan's sobbing into his arms, into Ford's arms, his heart feels like it's bursting, and he can feel himself plummet down. His mind calming as his fuzzy haze washes over it, his mind losing the battle as soon as Ford finishes speaking, the confirmation that he is so loved is what he needed, he realized. That he wasn't some weird burden on them when this happens, that he didn't have to be an adult all the time. He hasn't felt this loved in forever and hasn't ever been cared for as he is now.

     He's still sobbing into Ford's arms as he's led up the stairs into his room, a pair of hands changing him into his softest sweater-it's got footballs all over it-and wrapping him up in his Teddy Bear blankie. He blinks and sniffles as he feels cold wetness swipe across his face, Fidds had wet a wash cloth and was wiping the tears from his eyes. Stan smiled at him, giggling when Fidds smiles back with a goofy grin. Sixer helps him lay down in bed and tucks Poindexter in his arms-still cocooned in his blankie-brushing his hair back and away from his forehead, like Ma' used to do when they were really young.

     "There we go, Lee, feeling nice and comfortable and cozy? Is Poindexter tucked in enough?" Fidds asked, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, tucking the quilt under Stan's legs even tighter, knowing how much he liked that feeling. He nods and mumbles, not feeling up to speaking. He just wants to lie there with Poindexter, Sixer, and Fidds and stay in this hazy feeling forever, his body aches now that he's relaxing, he was so tense for days. "That's good. I've gotcha here a book to listen to, is that alright?" That's more than alright to Stan, who just nods and hopes Fidds does the voices for the book, he loves it when they do voices for the people in his books.

     "Here, Lee, let's not chew on your friend's ear. I've got you something better." His brother says, guiding Poindexter's ear out of Stan's mouth. He didn't even realize he was chewing on it. He gives his stuffy an apologetic pat as Ford guides Stan's pacifier into his mouth. It's got a car on it that's made to look like "The Stanley Mobile". It's so cool. Ford made it as a surprise for Stan a few weeks ago. He snuffles behind it, leaning his cocooned and burritoed body into Ford's as he settles down beside him, an arm reaching over and cuddling Stan as close to his body as possible. Stan just snuggles into his shoulder, feeling his breathing and matching it, leaching his brother's warmth and hearing his matching heartbeat.

     "There was once a Velveteen Rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid..." Stan just relaxes into his brother's warmth as he finds himself enraptured in Fidds' storytelling. His mind finally calmed and his heart sated and happy.

[ladyofparchments]

Okay, so I love a LOT of different fandoms (and will likely only increase this number as I gain more XP under my belt). And it’s not that I ever really “fall out” of any past fandoms, I just get super-excited about the current and future interests. However, I have to say my interest in some ninja turtles of the mutant variety has been... reignited to say the least, thanks mostly to @turtle-babe83​ and @exovapor​ (not fully blaming you two, buuuuut it’s hard not to start crushing again with all your posts. Many thanks for that btw!).

A child of the 80s, I grew up with the OG TMNT animated series. Yes, I crushed back then but not to the extent I do now. Donatello was my first favorite because as a bookworm, I related a lot to him. I see now he’s more of the tech side, but I like to think he’d definitely be interested in reading, too, even if most of it’s done via a computer screen. 

Brief period after the Donnie crush, I was looking at the esteemed leader of the quartet. Leonardo had that authority figure that I couldn’t help but admire back in the day, and I totally see why he’s so many fangirls’ favorite these days. It’s the “take-charge” mentality that still gets me now. 

Then came the big crush, and I knew precisely why when I was looking back on myself even as a child. I had serious anger issues and would definitely lash out when I’d had too much and bottled it up for far too long. And I could relate to feelings of being misunderstood or underestimated... like Big Red. Oh, Raphael, my dear sweet massive guy. How could I not fall for someone who struggled as he did at times? He’s still my primary favorite now for those reasons... and damn, he’s just so sexy in the films. 

So yeah, that’s me dipping back into one of my fandoms, perhaps delving a bit too deeply with Raph, but hey, just my opinion. And looking forward to any future writings coming from other TMNT Bayverse writers here. Much love, y’all. 

[the-bat-writes-imagines]

Vikings Masterlist

Ragnar 

Rollo

Floki

Harald

Being Married to Harald Headcanons

Halfdan

Runaway Imagine

Being Married to Halfdan Headcanons

Bjorn

Ubbe

Prompt 27 Drabble

Being Married to Ubbe Headcanons

Hvitserk

Prompt 10 Drabble

Hvitserk Liking You Headcanons

Sigurd

Being Married to Sigurd Headcanons

Ivar

Prompt 20 Drabble

Ivar Liking You Headcanons

Lagertha

[the-universal-sun]

Okay I just thought of something what if Stan regressed after getting his memory waist, because even though everything of Stanley Pines got a waste his mind still knew deep down that the headspace was healing so doing the most mentally traumatic thing that ever happened to him in his life his brain request to his age basically I want to Stanley with no memories

Sorry it took so long to get this out, I got hit by a bout of massive writer's block, but I got through it okay. Deep apologies for how late this is @pinkyshy10 and my other wonderful anon, I know this was requested back in December, but I hope you enjoy reading this! I hope I encapsulated your visions when writing, please let me know if I was off the mark, though! But thank you so so very much for your requests! I enjoyed writing it so much! Fun Fact: I've never watched Treasure Planet before, but it does seem super interesting, so I might give it a try along with the other movies you lovely people suggested that Stan, Ford, and Fiddleford may watch when Little. Please enjoy reading!

And as always, I'm open to helpful comments and critiques on my writing!

Stay warm!

XX

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Stan...

His name is Stan. He knows this, he was told this. But, it feels true, his name is Stan, he's a great uncle to Dipper and Mabel and the twin brother to Ford. His memories aren't all there, very little are, in fact. His niece, Mabel, her scrapbook helped him some, he can remember the summer and the fond emotions attached to the memories. To most of the memories. The brief ones with the man...with Stanford bring an ache to his chest, but he hopes the more he remembers him, the happier the memories will be.

Stan fumbles around in his room, trying to familiarize himself with the surroundings, half formed memories helping him along and silently guiding his steps. He's looking for something, he thinks as he scratches his head, the Fez having been taken off and set aside, something important. But he doesn't know what. More accurately, he can't remember what. He looks around his room again, trying to see if something stands out to him when he spots a lump under the covers of his bed. He grabs the edges of his comforter and pulls it back, revealing a old looking stuffed bear, looking closely he sees it's wearing a little sweater vest. Cute. Is this something he kept from his childhood or something? It's not like he would remember.

He picks up the bear delicately. No, he knows this bear, the memories are there, right in his reach. Ah, this is a gift he got when he was a young man. This is Poindexter, what a nerdy name. Stan sits on the edge of the bed, carefully cradling his stuffy, the action making his head start to go fuzzy. Not bad, not how it is when he's remembering things, but a pleasant sort of fuzzy, one that relaxes his body, making him gently rock back and forth on the edge of the bed. This is nice, he distantly thinks, bringing the teddy up to rub to his and rubbing the ears against his lips. He laughs at the ticklish feeling that brings. He does that for a long time, rocking and rubbing his teddy against his mouth before he grows bored, standing up and stretching. What should he do? He hums and taps his hands as he thinks, he'll go see if there's any cartoons playing this late. Stan doesn’t quite know why he wants cartoons, but nothing else appeals to him right now. He grabs the first blanket he sees, a hand-stitched quilt with teddy bears on the edges, and trudges off downstairs.

The living room is still a mess when he gets there, but the tv is plugged and still works, so Stan settles down in front of it, Poindexter and the blankie-blanket from his room in his lap. He turns the dials over and over again, but he can't find anything bedsides stupid commercials and the news. He's getting more and more annoyed, his breathing going heavy and his mumbling growing louder and louder. He doesn't care about waking everybody up, he wants cartoons, but he's not seeing them. Stan is about to hit the glass in anger when he hears his brother's voice.

"Stanley? What are doing? It's late and you need to rest, you've especially had a long and trying day." Stanford spoke softly, voice confused.

"Cartoons." Stan replied, pointing of the tv it's the one word he can move his tongue around. Why does he find it hard to speak again? Oh yeah-

"What? Stanley there aren't any cartoons even on there." Ford said, confused and more than a little worried for his brother's mental state.

Oh yeah, there aren't any cartoons on. Which is the problem. Stan points to the tv again, staring at Ford. Will he help? Stan just wants to watch cartoons with his Teddy and Blankie and not think of memories or triangles or monsters, he just wants to let himself be-be. Be what? He looks at himself, soft pajamas with cars on them, his teddy bear quilt and Poindexter. His head feels fuzzy, but not as fuzzy as it can get-as he wants it to get. He wants to be-

Small. Ah. That's what it is, he remembers now. Not all of it, but most of it. Sometimes when everything is too much or too loud or too overwhelming, his mind goes smaller. Littler, the internet said he "regresses" and that it can help relax him. And it does, and he likes it, that fuzzy feeling and wanting nothing more than to color and cuddle with his teddy. Except for the times he gets really lonely, wanting his brother here with him. And he is here now, isn't he? And he said he'd take care of Stanley, so that must mean with this too, right? Does Ford know about this? Stan doesn't remember if he does or not, and he can't bring himself to ask, can't get his mouth to work. Instead he just keeps pointing to the tv and looking at is brother, he still wants to watch cartoons.

"Ah-alright, then, Stanley. I can help you find something?" Ford sounds like he's asking a question, sitting next to Stanley and tuning the dials on the box set-the remote was destroyed sometime during Weirdmaggedon. He finagles it with with more success, stopping to let each channel fix and find itself in between the static, having more patience than his brother in this regard. He's about 20 channels deep at this point when the staticky screens stabilizes to a cartoon unfamiliar to Ford, hazy as the screen is. He looks at the screen, it must be after his time, the animation different from what he knew of back in the 80s. What is it-

"Treasure Planet!" Stan loves this movie when he feels small. It has space pirates and ships that move in the sky! Stan especially loves it because it was based on his and Ford's favorite book growing up, Treasure Island, but much cooler because they were also in space. He excitedly pats the space next to him, Ford has to stay and watch this, he'd love it! Stan chants little "stay stay stay"s as he pats the carpet beside him, Ford slowly and softly easing down beside him, tugging gently on the corner of Stan's teddy blankie to cover him. He doesn't need to, because Stan huddles in close, practically on Ford's lap, and spreads the blanket over both of them, Poindexter still gripped in his hands.

Stan, now that he has his cartoons and has his brother, blankie, and Poindexter, is more than willing to let the fuzzy in his head take over, relaxing into Ford's side, bringing Poindexter's ear back up to his mouth-he's not gonna chew on it, just rub it on his lips, that's all. Like before.

"Treasure Planet, hmm? Sounds kind of like Treasure Island, do you remember that book, Stanley? It was our favorite-!" Stan slaps a hand over Ford's mouth to make him quiet-shushing someone was rude, said Ma', but Ford was talking and Stan didn't want to miss any of the movie-luckily it was just starting so he didn't miss much. He cuddles closer to his brother, wrapping his hand, now free after Ford removed it, around his twin's arm, practically crawling in his lap and rocking softly, easy rocking to help soothe his excitement. He loved Treasure Planet so much, and now Ford can watch it and love it, too, so he's extra excited!

"Okay, Okay, Stanley, I'll be quiet. Sorry." Ford softly whispered, starring at Stan, who was enraptured by the television screen, with a soft look that bordered on confusion, he doesn't exactly understand what's happening, and hopes it's not a side-affect of the memory gun. But Stanley seems to happy and relaxed, something he hasn't seen in near 40 years, so whatever his concerns are, they can wait until the morning. Ford settles down, wrapping an arm around Stanley, softly rubbing his back, and turns his attention back to the movie. It does seem very interesting.

[the-universal-sun]

Hiii! I'm the Anon who asked about Ford's reaction to Poindexter's name. (I only saw you answered my question now, bc I was busy with school (last year of highschool is exhausting))

And I would absolutely looove a small drabble about Grunkle Ford's reaction to Poindexter's name...

... Have a nice Day! (Or whatever else depending on your time zone...)

Here's a drabble of Ford's reaction to Poindexter's name (and some Poindexter lore perhaps...lol) It's not so much focused on our Little Lee as it is Stanford, so I apologize if you were wanting more of that. If that's the case, let me know and I can write a new piece for you! But! Thank you so much for the request, my lovely anon! I hope your last year of high school finishes well and happily for you, and I hope that you're enjoying your break! Sorry it took so long to get to this, uni is giving me the run around, too. So if you're still here, thank you so much for your patience! I loved writing this so much, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

As always, I am open for helpful advice and criticisms!

Please enjoy :-)

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Stanford watched as Stanley played with his new dinosaur toys, making small growling and roaring noises every now and then as he clashes the toys together in a make believe fight. His old and forlorn looking teddy sat closely in his lap. Looking at the toy did make Ford feel the slightest bit guilty-Stanley bad kept it so close to him after he tried to take it and put it away, foolishly believing his gift of a stuffed Opossum would be better to play with. But the older toy looked decades old and he didn’t know if it was ever washed or if time had stained the poor thing, Ford wanted to put the plush up to keep it safe from falling apart. He knows better now, how precious the old toy bear was to Stanley, having been his only companion for close to 40 years, one of the few comfort items he allowed himself to have and keep when the world felt too Big for him. Ford sighs to himself, shaking the forlorn thoughts off and walking over to his brother, kneeling down to get on his level he runs a gentle hand through Stanley's hair, a gentle hum coming as a response.

"Lee, may I look at your friend here?" Stanley eyes him cautiously, tugging the stuffed bear close to his chest and turning, hiding it from him. I deserve this, he thinks, for trying to take away his toy. He inhales deeply and shakes his head again, he doesn't have time for these thoughts, he waits a moment and gathers himself, smiling gently at Stanley, "It's alright, I won't take him, Lee. I just want to look at him, I haven't had the chance to really be introduced to him, I don't even know his name!" Ford goes for a gentle laugh, this is what his research has told him to do. Be easy and soft-but firm when needed-when caring for someone in Stanley's headspace. He's never had to do "gentle" before, so this is a work in progress, but it seems he may have hit the mark; his brother looks less suspicious of him and more shy. He's blushing, even, the image so cute Ford wishes he had his journal so he could get a rough sketch of it. He'll have to draw it from memory later.

"Please, Lee? I promise you can keep holding him, I just want to get to know your friend here." He hopes Stanley has forgiven him enough from that incident. Ford smiles as his brother holds out the toy, still keeping a firm grip on it's sides. The stuffed bear has wire framed glassed and is wearing a yellow-plaid sweater vest-or it could have just yellowed with time, even with the care his brother has shown for it-and on the vest looks to be a pocket with some felt pens sewn into it. He recognizes that stitch work, Stanley must have hand sewn these himself! Oh the talent his brother has, remarkable! Ford just hopes he didn't sew these when regressed...

"His name isss-name is...Poindexter..." Stanley's voice came slowly and softly, he was obviously concentration on speaking correctly for Ford-not that he cared for proper pronunciation. Well, he does, but not from his brother when he's regressed, when he's his Little Lee. Ford has also grown used to his brother not pronouncing words correctly, mostly as a way to annoy him...Ford's racing thoughts stop. Poindexter? Stanley named the bear after...him? It's obvious now that that he's looking at the bear, the glasses, the rather geekish attire Ford was known the wear in his youth-college gave him some fashion sense at least-with the little pens lovingly hand sewn into the bear's vest? When Stanley said that some older lady at the shelter he was at when he was around 18-19-even thinking about that made a jolt of anger spark in him, Stanley was just a baby-made a stuffed bear just for him, Ford admittedly did not think it was for him and she just said that to cheer a-a child up. But, seeing as how only the felt pens are new, Ford believes him. Believes that some lady asked Stanley who the person he wanted most at the time was and then made a plush toy version of said person, a toy which Stanley has kept, loved, and cherished for 40 years. A toy which has helped him through his darkest hours and comforted him when he felt Little. A toy modeled after...him...

"No no, don't cw-cry. M'sorry, for naming him-" Ford didn't even realize he had begun to cry until his brother frantically tried to console him, hands clumsily wiping tears away. He gently grabs his brother's wrists and pulls them away before lunging and pulling his Little brother-his Lee-into the tightest hug he could, burying his face in his brother's head to hide any more tears that may spill. His brother should never be sorry, not for this.

"No, it's okay, Lee. Don't apologize. I'm so so very happy that you named him Poindexter. I think it's a rather fitting name for him, a smart name. Good job, Lee, and thank you...I'm-" Ford has to clear his throat, his emotions getting to him. Moses, he loved his brother so much, "I'm glad he was there to help and comfort you when I...when I wasn't able to." He wasn't able to be there for Lee for such a long time, but now that he's back and they've made up, he's going to make sure that they spend the rest of their lives together, sailing across the seas like their dream has always been.

Ford pulls back from the hug, wiping some stray tears from his eyes. Lee looks utterly confused, the adorable tilt to his eyebrows tearing a laugh out of Ford, who quickly reassures Stanley that he's not laughing at him, accentuating his point with a hair ruffle. His brother just sits there in confusion, a stray finger gravitating towards his mouth to be chewed on. Ford bends down over his knees to face Poindexter, still held to Stan's chest in a firm grip, and reaches a hand out, two fingers gingerly shaking a cloth paw up and down.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Poindexter. Thank you for taking care of my brother..."

[the-universal-sun]

fiddleford being gentle with little stan when he first finds him after ford goes through the portal? maybe he comes to yell at ford and finds stan with a burned shoulder trying to work through being little to get his brother back? ❤️

Hey guys and the anon who requested this, I’m so sorry it’s so late, life got away from me, has been hectic, and I wanted to really put my focus into writing this request. If there are any missing “I” in a word, deeply apologies, my keyboard “i” cover broke halfway through writing this. There are some mentions of infections and medical treatment for Stan’s burn, just to warn you if any of that skeeves you out! If this seems way better than my previous work, it’s because I took about a week to write it! I really hope you enjoy this piece, and I hope the anon who requested it is still here! Please let me know if I've captured your vision!!!  

As always, I’m open for helpful advice on my writing/execution!

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     “Ford! Stanford Pines you come out here right now! I demand we talk!” Fiddleford H. McGucket was mad. Fuming. Pissed beyond all belief. He had just remembered some snippets of the portal incident and he knows his old partner (and little) was still working on it for that devil! He needs to make that man see some sense. Thankfully, Stanford hadn’t changed his locks or the passcode to the basement, so he’s able to stop down three flights of stairs to the bottom floor of the lab to confront him.

     “Stanford! I know you can hear me! Come out here right-now?” He stops short at the sight before him. The portal is broken down, machinery and wiring everywhere, broken and sparking. That’s not what makes him stop, no, it’s the figure in front of the control center. He looks…he looks ragged, haggard, even. His hair long and greasy, his skin looks dirty and sweaty, and he looks almost exactly like Stanford. Except gruffer. It hasn’t been that long since Fiddleford has seen his old partner, has it? He can’t have changed this much in just a few months. It’s when he gets a glimpse at the hands that it clicks in his mind. That’s not Stanford. He tries to think rationally before he freaks out and starts attacking the stranger, he’s gotten arrested for that a couple times already. He looks like Stanford, just rounder and greasier and with five fingers instead of six…He vaguely remembers a discussion him and Stanford had back in college, they were celebrating finishing their first set of finals with some well earned and homemade Hooch courtesy of you-know-who when the man had started muttering and was on the verge of sobbing about a “Lee”, and when FIddleford asked who that was, all Stanford could manage to get out before passing out was “M’ Twin”. And they never spoke of that incident again, Fiddleford putting that memory on a backburner until now. 

     So this must be that Lee fella, Stanford’s twin. Something must have happened if he’s here in that state and Stanford is nowhere to be seen. Something bad. This fills him with panic instead of anger, worry for his Bookworm his friend overpowering his negative emotions towards him. He walks quickly towards Lee, his steps slowing down as he gets the full view of this man, his ears picking up his intelligible muttering. He looks more than greasy and unwashed, he looks sick. He can see gauze on his shoulder, stained with pink and a different color, one he can’t quite make out in the poor lighting of the lab, but it twists his stomach nonetheless.

     “H-hey, Lee? Um-what happ-are you okay? Is F-Ford-” Fiddleford doesn’t quite know what to say to this man, who looks both so much like Ford but so different. Who looks sick. He makes the mistake of putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, flinching back as he turns around violently with a fist raised promising a world of pain. Fiddleford shrinks into himself with a small and terrified squeal. Lee stumbles back, though, eyes glossy and distant, the defensive act just muscle memory at this point. He seems like he’s about to slide against the console and fall, soFiddleford reaches out to help steady him, thankful for all the pig wrangling and calf birthing he’s had to do in his life back on the farm, Lee is heavier than Ford was is. He gets a better look at Lee’s face and feels his own pale, blood rapidly draining and leaving him feeling cold. Whatever injury he has on his shoulder has to be inflected, the man is burning up and sweating something fierce, low and intelligible mumbles spilling from his mouth, his bangs sticking to his forehead, the slight smell of sickness wafting over him. They’re both lucky Ford was able to synthesize and stock high grade antibiotics in case they ever needed them, because he needs them, that or a hospital, and he doesn’t know anything about Ford’s twin, not even enough to explain what had happened to him. 

     Propping Lee up against the console and making sure he wouldn’t fall, he quickly managed to run to a storage room to the right, temperature controlled to keep cool. He finds the medical supplies very diminished, but most of the antibiotics were there. Both worrying and relieving him. Ford had gotten injured so much to deplete their medical supplies this much? They were essentially prepared for an apocalypse. But the relief is that Ford never needed these hospital grade antibiotics, only to be used for serious infection. He collects the medicine, bandages, and any other thing he can think of, putting them in an empty first aid bag and slinging it around his shoulder, making his way back to Lee as fast as he could manage. Fiddleford hauls him up and leans him against his side, stumbling his way to the elevator that he could never bring himself to trust. He has to now, he can’t carry this man up all the flights of stairs that lead into the house. 

     Fiddleford breathes in deeply, glancing over at Lee from the corner of his eye, releasing his breath when he sees he’d hardly even registered change in surroundings or the fact that he had moved, his eyes gazing distantly down onto the floor. Fiddleford resolutely moves him into the open elevator, propping him against the wall and quickly pressing the buttons needed to bring them back up to the main part of the house. Lee stumbles as the elevator moves, an almost frightened whimper escaping him as the elevator creaks and groans, chugging slowly along, his hands finally moving on their own to grasp onto Fiddleford in a move that puts the skinny man almost in front of him. Something deep inside him tightened at the sight; Lee looked more like a lost child than a grown man. "Stay with me, Lee," Fiddleford murmured, his voice steadier than he felt. "We’re gonna get you sorted out. Just hang in there, okay?" A low whimper escaped Lee's lips, eliciting a rush of empathy from Fiddleford. It was clear that Stanford's twin had been through an ordeal far beyond what he could comprehend. The least he could do was ensure that Lee would be safe for the time being. 

     As the elevator doors dinged open, Fiddleford slowly moved with Lee out into the dark room, just registering how cold it was-is the heating even on? Was the bill paid or was all the power just directed to that damn portal room? Fiddleford glanced around, his mind racing. “I need to get you to a bathroom and a bed,” he decided. He gently helped Lee step out of the elevator, the man leaning heavily against him. He maneuvered him toward the stairs, taking them one step at a time and going very slowly, Fiddleford may be tall but Lee was bulkier than he was, he didn’t want to risk Lee toppling over and falling down the stairs, injuring both himself further and the one currently helping him walk. They stumble their way upstairs, Fiddleford having to haul Lee up again when he started to slump too closely to the side, and towards the extra bathroom on the second floor-Fiddleford remembers this one having better lighting and not being as cramped as the downstairs bathroom. He gently deposits Lee on the toilet, worrying about his lack of response to the movements and light being turned on-at least the power still works up here-ever present. Setting the first aid bag on the coffee table, he knelt beside Lee, anxiety gnawing at him. “Okay… let’s see what we’re dealin’ with here.” Fiddleford pulled back the gauze on Lee’s shoulder, and his breath caught in his throat. The shoulder was inflamed, swollen with an angry red hue, the bandaging far too stained for comfort. He can’t even tell what was burned into his shoulder from how bad it was. Lee’s eyes fluttered open slightly, revealing a hint of recognition. 

     “Wha—who…” Lee’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper, and he couldn’t manage to say full words. Fiddleford didn’t know how much he knew about Ford’s work, meaning he doesn’t know if Lee even knows about him, but, with how out of it he is he figures some small trickery shouldn’t be too bad, people tend to respond better to help by people they know, or well, are told they know.

     “It’s just me, Lee, your good ol’ pal, Fidds. You remember, right? We’re great friends, you n’ I.” He holds his breath as Lee just nods along, the fever and infection ravaging his body obviously making it difficult to properly think back on his words. 

     “For…” Lee trails off, his word soft and incomplete, but Fiddleford knows what he was trying to say and felt a pang of heartbreak at the mention of Stanford.

      “He’s… he’s not here right now. But I’m gonna take care of you, alright? Just focus on me.” He carefully began cleaning the wound, glancing up to gauge Lee’s reaction. Lee sniffled, biting his lip, but didn’t pull away, his eyes still hazy and glazed over. Fiddleford doesn’t think he’ll be lucid for a while now. Each moment that passed seemed to drag on, filled with Lee’s fragile breaths and the quiet sounds of their surroundings. What was supposed to be a simple act of care felt monumental. Fiddleford bandaged the injury carefully, relying on the knowledge they had accumulated over the years. “You’re gonna be alright, Lee. Just gotta get the antibiotics into ya, and you’ll start feeling better in no time.” He goes and pulls out the bottles of antibiotics, some IV fluids to help with Lee’s obvious dehydration, and the collapsible IV pole that he’d made-maybe a bit overkill for the time but it was perfect for now. He rounds Lee, finding his eyes already on him. “Heya, Lee, can I see your arm? I need ta’ give ya’ some antibiotics to help with your infection.” But the man made no movement or noise indicating he understood what Fiddleford was saying. He took his arm in gentle hands, swabbing and cleaning the inner elbow before inserting the butterfly needle-hushing Lee when he made strangled whimpering noises, seeing a glimmer of tears come to his eyes. He pats Lee’s head, unconsciously cooing to him as he leans his head into Fiddleford’s touches, a soft sigh and hum passing through his lips.

     “Let’s getcha up now, need to get you in some clothes, though m’ afraid no shirts for a little while, you need as little as possible on that burn o’ yours.” Fiddleford stood up, stumbling in surprise as Lee’s hand grasped his, standing up with him and still staring, more clarity in his eyes, but still nothing indicative of being fully present. Fiddleford took a steadying breath, trying to calm the rising tide of worry threatening to overwhelm him. As they shuffled into the small, dimly lit hallway, Lee's gaze began to clear a bit, though it still flickered with confusion and fear. Fiddleford was grateful for the flicker of awareness and desperately hoped that Lee would be able to grasp even a thread of comfort in this chaos. “C’mon, Lee. Let’s get you settled, alright?” he murmured. The soft squeeze of Lee’s hand around his reassured him that the man could understand him to an extent, enough for his body to respond, at the very least. He makes his way to an open door, peering inside to see if it was acceptable enough for Lee to sleep in. It seems that this was the room he was staying in, though, if the clothes thrown about and rustled blankets on a small bed were of any indication. Steadily, they hobble into the room, Fiddleford holding Lee’s hand and steadying him as they walk, keeping an eye on the IV to make sure it doesn’t get snagged or trip over anything. He sets Lee down on the edge of the bed, making sure he won’t fall over, before searching around the room for some soft and hopefully clean pants, only finding some faded sweats. They didn’t seem too filthy, so Fiddleford deemed them as okay for now and turned around before stopping dead center, eyes assessing the scene before him. Lee had, from somewhere, grabbed a teddy bear-one with a remarkable similarity to Stanford-and was grasping it tightly, his body hunching over to bury his face in the soft cloth. He could see the slight trembling in Lee’s shoulders as he held the toy, hiding behind its plush form. An epiphany struck Fiddleford…it’s possible that Ford and Lee were more similar than just in looks. 

     “Hey, buddy,” Fiddleford spoke softly, moving closer, careful not to startle Lee. “That’s a nice bear you’ve got there…” as he came closer, he saw a blanket strewn on the bed behind Lee, a large quilt with what looked to be some crudely sewn Teddy Bears on it. Fiddleford’s heart ached at the sight of Lee clutching the teddy bear, drawn into its warmth and softness as he huddled over it, the blanket behind him just solidifying his thoughts. The plush creature and quilt seemed to offer a sense of security amid all this chaos and confusion. He knelt beside the bed, keeping his voice soft and calm. “Hey there, Lee. Let’s get ya’ some pants, alright? Just something comfortable for now.” Lee remained silent, his gaze still fixed on the bear. Fiddleford moved quickly to the small dresser, pulling out the faded sweats he had spotted earlier. He returned to Lee, who hadn't shifted from his position, burying his face against the bear's plush fur. “Hang tight, ‘right?” Fiddleford said, moving in front of Lee. He carefully helped him remove the old, dirty pants, mindful of Lee’s discomfort. With each movement, he offered gentle reassurances, softening the air with his presence. “We’re almost done.” He knows the other man can’t understand him, not fully, but Fiddleford knows from experience that talking to a kid or someone in this mindset can help keep them calm, and calm is what Lee needs right now. 

     “How’s about we lay back down now, okay?  Rest yer’ head on that pillow and just breathe in, ‘kay? Some quiet time.” Lee absentmindedly nodded, his grip on the bear tightening momentarily before loosening again. He leaned back, still looking dazed and feverish, but more comfortable now that he was semi-clean and dressed with fluid running into him. Fiddleford decided to remain quiet for a little while, too, letting the soft sounds of the house settle around them. The air was a little chilly, but Fiddleford figured they could tackle that issue soon enough. He slowly brings his hand towards Lee’s head, watching for any signs of flinching or cowering before he lowers it and softly begins to stroke his hair, cooing softly as Lee’s eye fluttered closed, his head leaning into the hand gently caressing him, soft murmurs escaping his lips. Fiddleford, with one practiced hand, pulls the blankets over Lee, the thinner ones first, the thicker comforter that was piled on the floor, and finally, Lee’s well-loved quilt, tucking them around the gentle creature before him, keeping his IV arms out of most of the layers besides to top quilt.

     Fiddleford's heart warmed at the sight of Lee nestled under the blankets, the calming rhythm of his breathing creating a peaceful atmosphere in the room, he felt a swell of protective instinct for the man beside him. “Just like that, Lee. Nice n’ comfy n’ cozy,” he murmured softly, continuing to thread his fingers through Lee’s hair, taking care to avoid any tug on the IV line. Lee seemed to lean further into Fiddleford’s touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he began to relax into the layers of warmth wrapped around him. As Fiddleford settled into a rhythm, the gentle motion of his hand seemed to draw Lee deeper into a state of comfort-deeper into his headspace if Lee’s soft chewing of the bear’s ear before Fiddleford removed it was anything to go by. The world around them faded into the background, the cold chill of the air outside kept at bay by the cocoon of blankets. The sound of breathing filled the room—the steady rise and fall of Lee’s chest mixed with Fiddleford’s quieter, more measured breaths.

     “Y’know, I used to do this for your brother, too,” Fiddleford’s voice cut through the silence, “When he felt younger-smaller-the world feeling too big for him. I was there to help him and take care of him. I wouldn’t mind being that person for you, neither. I don’t know what happened with our Ford, but I hope you’ll tell me.” Fiddleford breathes into the silence, just staring at Lee, who’s dozing off surrounded by his teddy and warmth of the blankets. “I want to take care of you, I’ve missed takin’ care of someone, actually. N’ I have more than enough room in my heart to add another person.” Lee made a soft, indistinct noise, his eyes still closed, as if he somehow understood the intent behind Fiddleford's words. Fiddleford smiled softly, hoping that the weight of his sincerity could reach Lee’s subconscious, anchoring him in a sea of uncertainty.

     Closing his eyes for just a moment, Fiddleford let the sounds of the house mingle with Lee's breathing, the gentle cadences a soft lullaby. He found his own fatigue creeping in, but he fought it off for the sake of his friend. Lee needed someone to hold firm and steady in this chaotic world, and he was more than willing to take on that role. After some time, Fiddleford felt the room grow quieter—Lee's breathing became more even, deeper. He risked glancing at Lee's face, noticing the way his features had relaxed under the quilt, the tension that had gripped him slowly dissipating as he found solace in sleep. There was something reassuring about seeing him at peace like this, a small flicker of hope sparking in Fiddleford’s heart.

     “Just keep resting,” Fiddleford whispered, pulling gently at the edges of the blankets around Lee, tucking him in a bit more snugly. “I’ll be here.” The rest of the night was full of soft snuffles and easy sighs, this little corner-their little corner-of the world tucked away for a few hours, peace falling around them

[the-universal-sun]

little!stan crying for his mama on hanukkah with cg ford and/or fidds?

Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Happy First Day of Hanukkah! I set this to post at 8 am but it looks like I set it wrong, my apologies! Thank you so much to this lovely anon for the idea of Stan crying over his mother, this helped me form the direction of the drabble-the part that kept stumping me and to @thehessianslady for the sweater idea! I enjoyed writing this so much, and I hope you all enjoy reading this!

I hope you guys had a lovely holiday/will have a lovely holiday, but to any who are struggling or are feeling alone right now, know that I am always in your corner. I will always believe in you and I will always be proud of any of your accomplishments, little or small, nothing is insignificant. I am always open to talk if you need someone, for anything. To vent, rant, or to just chat so you have something to do! I am always here for you guys, and I thank you all for giving me so much love and support!

I truly AM sending all of you all the Love in the entire world!

XOXO

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     The winter air was crisp and freezing outside the Shack, wind howling against the windows, promising frostbite for any who dared to venture out unprepared. Inside, however, was warm and cozy, the scent of cinnamon mixing in an oddly delightful way with the scent of potatoes. The soft glow of twinkling lights and flickering candles lit up the living room of the Shack-a fun mix of Christmas and Hanukkah decorating the space. Stan sat on the floor, bundled in a sweater two sizes too big for him, a homemade gift by Fiddleford. It was matching Ford's, both sweaters reminiscent of their childhood Dreidal sweater, but softer and with snowflakes adorning the ends. Stan had begged and begged for his twin to wear the sweater, giving him his patented Puppy Dog Eyes and wobbling his lips for added effect. It worked like a charm, Ford being weak to Stan when he was feeling small. Too bad Fidds didn't want to wear his special sweater that he picked out himself. Stan smiled widely and giggled as he built and knocked over his new blocks, Poindexter sat next to him and his new friend, an Oppossum he named "Shanklin 2". He woke up to so many presents for him; presents for when he's small and presents for when he's big! Stan thinks he loves Christmas if he's getting gifts just for being good. And he got to play with his new toys all day long, neither Sixer or Fidds telling him to grow up or anything. He felt free-free to play and to indulge in his fuzzy mindset, the holiday spirit soothing him and wrapping around him like a warm blanket. The only thing that's missing is an ugly sweater on Fidds and his Ma'. Except he can't talk to his Ma', not now when he knows the old man's home, surrounded by the super annoying aunties and uncles who were probably told to shun him back when he was kicked out. His head's too fuzzy and small to talk to her now anyways, his tongue not wanting to move to speak right, if he managed to say anything, he'd probably sound like a baby. Or drunk.

     Stan shakes his head to get rid of those sad and grown-up thoughts, grabbing his sippy cup half full of warmed cocoa-he can't stand to wait for hot drinks to cool down, burning his tongue too many times but never learning his lesson-and trying to focus on everything else. The pretty lights and ornaments in their tree-he's never had a Christmas tree before, Stan got to help decorate it and he even was allowed to put the star on! The Menora and the first two candles, the flames looking super pretty against the rainbow-colored Christmas Lights. He let it all wash over him, feeling his head get fuzzier and fuzzier, feeling even smaller than before. He chews on the straw of his sippy before a six-fingered hand replaces it with a pacifier; he giggles when the fingers tickle his chin before ruffling his hair. Stan feels so warm and happy right now, happier than he's been in forever.

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     "Merry Christmas, Fidds," Ford said, clinking his glass of cooled-down hot chocolate-he can never wait for drinks to cool down-against Fiddleford's piping hot glass. He had never felt so peaceful this time of year, always surrounded by fast-moving and loud noises during the season, family he hadn't seen in a year pinching his cheeks and giving him wet kisses. And when he left for college, he stopped celebrating entirely-aside from that one Krampus incident with Fidds a few years back-having no desire to surround himself with noisy relatives, to sit beside an empty chair. But this year is different, he's with his friend and Lee, and it's just the three of them in their little shack, it's peaceful and nice. Being here and in the moment with the two closest people in his life, fills him up with such a fiery warmth that his heart aches and his breath gets caught in his chest; he can't stop smiling and laughing, even when all that's happening is Lee staring at the lights, that's how all-encompassing his happiness is. Ford couldn't ask for a better first Christmas.

     "Happy Hanukkah, Ford, Lee." It was the first night of Hanukkah, a holiday Fiddleford's never celebrated, growing up Southern Baptist and all, so the traditions are all a bit new to him. Thankfully, as Ford and Stan both told him, it's just the three of them so there's no nosy fourth cousins to tell him he's not lighting the candles at the right angle or saying the Shehecheyanu wrong. He sat up, going to the kitchen to bring out the little gift he's been making for Ford and Stan; Sufganiyot. He's been working on the recipe he found in Ford's things-their mother's recipe he reckons-for a week now, and Fiddleford believes this batch to be a success. He knows neither of the men have had it for over a decade, but with how they're establishing all these new traditions in the house, he thinks it'd be nice to have an old one.

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     Stan, who's been watching to doorway since Fidds left, perks up when he returns. He wiggles in his spot, hoping he's bringing another present or another tasty treat. He's been eating lots of them today, Latkes and gingerbread cookies and cinnamon pancakes, but he can't help but want more-Fidds' cooking was so good! Better than Ford's at least. He clapped lightly when Fidds came back in with a plate full of something he couldn't see from the floor. He gets to his feet, grabbing Poindexter and Shanklin 2, and walks towards Fidds, but Ford guides him to the couch instead, ignoring his pout and hand rubbing his stomach so desperately. Stan's starving, he deserves to have first dibs on the food!

     "Don't give me that look, Lee, you just had dinner an hour ago, you can wait a few more seconds before you have dessert." Ford takes his pacifier and taps the corners of his lips, getting a smile and giggle out of Stan. Ford laughs too, slinging a warm arm over his shoulder and pulling him in for a big and warm hug. Ford's hugs always make Stan melt, he feels so safe and protected, like nothing can come and get him and hurt him or scare him, not with his brother there to protect him from the outside world. It brings nice squiggly feelings to Stan's tummy, Ford's hugs, and sometimes those feelings make Stan wiggle in place from how nice they are. Like now, he relishes in Ford's and Fidds' breathy laughs as he wiggles under Ford's arm. The wiggles intensify when Fidds brings the plate closer to them, getting a good look at the delicious morsel he made them. Stan gasps with excitement. He made Suf-Sufgina-

     "Fiddleford, you made Sufganiyot?! Where'd you even find a recipe for that?" Yeah, that word Sixer said! Ma' made it all the time back-back in Jersey. How did Fidds know to make it for Hanukkah? Stan thinks he must be psychic or something, how else would he know and find a recipe?

     "Well, m'a bit ashamed t'say that I found it riflin' through your stuff. I assumed your mom must've sent it, so I'm sorry if it tastes piss poor in comparison." Fiddleford blushes, rubbing a foot on the ground and looking down, not meeting their eyes. Stan just giggles, Fidds said "piss".

     "Nonsense, F, I'm sure it's fine. If this is what you've spent all week in that kitchen working on, then they'll be great. Right, Lee?" Stan nods absentmindedly, almost drooling over the plate of Suf-goodies. They smelled so good, he needed to eat one right at this very moment. He looked pleadingly at Ford, pouting and whining, ignoring his and Fidds' conversation. He dives right in when he gets simultaneous nods, scrambling for the powdered-sugar-coated goodness. He takes one and shoves it in his mouth, doing happy wiggles at the taste. Fidds was so good at cooking, it tasted just like Mama's! Stan hasn't tasted this in ages, he forgot how good they were! He knows if Mama were here now she'd be fussing at him for being messy, wiping the powdered sugar off his cheeks with a wink. Sometimes Sixer does that, mostly Fidds, but it's not the same as when Mama did it. She'd probably get on to them about the wrapping paper still in the living room, making them clean it up before getting dessert. He misses her, now more than ever. Phone calls every month or so can only do so much. Stan feels his lips quivering, he hasn't cried over her in years, but something about this day, about tasting her recipe, he can't help it.

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     "Lee, are you alright? You're crying. Is-is something the matter?" Ford's looking back and forth between Stan and the dessert, glaring at the Sufganiyot as if it was personally responsible for making Stan cry. Both he and Fidds startle when Stan gives a hiccup, his crying-silent up to now-beginning to have noise, sniffling, hiccups, and sobs emanating from Stan-the dessert plate having been moved from his lap at some point-as he curls over his lap, fisted hands rubbing his eyes. "Lee, come on. What's the matter, you were fine just a moment ago," here Ford pauses, hands hovering over Stan as he thinks. This is the first holiday they've celebrated together in over 12 years, a decade of holidays Stan spent alone and probably cold. Taking a deep breath, still unused to emotional talk, Ford asked, "Was it a bad thought, Lee? Some nasty thought ringing around in there?" Ford softened his voice like Fiddleford does, bringing a hand up to rub Stan's back, patting it to help dislodge a cough or two. He's not good at talking about emotions, at not being dismissive of emotions, but he's getting better. And these are Stan's emotions, not his, he's more open when it comes to helping his brother than he is when confronting his own issues.

     "Ma'..." Stan whimpered between sobs, his small and croaking voice cracking Ford's heart. He's missing their mother...It's understandable, really, Stan may have talked to her a few dozen times over the years, but he hasn't seen her since he was kicked out, hasn't had the nerve to, not with their father still kicking around up there. And with Fiddleford making her dessert while Stan was in his headspace during this holiday, all these big emotions must have collided with each other, causing Stan's tears. Ford goes to quickly console Fiddleford, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, because if he still knows his friend, he knows that he'd blame himself. He was right, Fiddleford looks absolutely downtrodden, his lips and brow furled down into the deepest frown Ford has ever seen on the man-rivaling his expression when he's furious.

     "Oh, St-Stan I'm so sorry-"

     "Nope. This is not your fault, Fiddleford, and it's not yours either, Stanley. We are not playing the blame game, not on Hanukkah. Fidds, Stan misses our mother, he hasn't seen her since he was 17, there was always a possibility that he'd cry today given the timing and his headspace-I should have accounted for that." Ford quickly assures Fiddleford, needing him to know how much it is not his fault. He turns back to face Stan, who's still crying but at least is looking up at him, "Stanley, it is completely okay to cry over missing Ma', it's been years since you've seen her and you're in a more sensitive headspace right now. So please don't call your tears stupid," here Ford wipes a tear trailing down Stan's face away, "they never are. I'll tell you what, first thing tomorrow morning, I'll call Ma' to get her alone, maybe to a pay phone, and then I'll put you on, feeling small or not, and we'll explain to her that we've made up and are living together, sound good?" Ford may be rushing this whole "consoling" business, but they've been having such a good day all day, which is a rarity with the three of them, and he wants to keep the good mood going. Usually, this would be Fiddleford's job, but Ford figures he can, in the spirit of the season and his friend's own feelings of guilt, be the uplifting and guiding person today. He wipes more of Stan's tears, bopping his nose to earn a smile out of him-that action always does-and brushing his hair back.

     "Now," Fiddleford's weak voice came a few minutes later from his place kneeling in front of Stan, "Is there anything we-anything I can do to cheer you up, Sugar Plum?" Ford knew that was the worst question to ask as soon as he saw Stan's lips curl, tears drying on his face but slowly stopping with the comfort of his caregivers. Ford knew this smirk well-it was the type reminiscent of the old Grinch movie they watched as children. It promised mischief. That look soon transformed into a teary eyes and a begging look, his brother even clasping his hands together with a pout. Ford had to give it to Stan, small or not, he knew how to play Fidds for a sucker. He burst out laughing as soon as he hears Stan voice, his tone quiet and childish but adorable, his request.

     "The sweater." Fiddleford's face dropped dramatically, but he was no match to Stan's puppy eyes. With a distraught look towards Ford, he heaved himself up and trudged off to his bedroom.

     Ford's suddenly glad to be wearing a matching sweater with Stan because Fiddleford comes out a moment later dressed in the ugliest sweater Ford had ever seen. It had lights, some form of discombobulated configuration of what he believes to be Rudolph, and a "HU HU HU" sewn into it over a dozen times. It physically hurt him to see. It physically hurt Fidds to wear, if the pained and cringing grimace was anything to go by, the wool looked incredibly itchy.

     But Stan was happy, smiling and clapping, wiggling around in what Ford and Fidds have deemed his "happy dance", so Fiddleford can suck it up. In the spirit of the holiday season.

[the-universal-sun]

mmmore cg fidds w lee please!! >:3 they r so cut e

Sorry this took so long! I hope you're still here to enjoy this! It's a bit angsty, but I think it's pretty fluffy still! I really hope you enjoy this, and that you're safe and warm! Thank you so very much for the request!!!

There is some implied abuse, so TW: implied abuse, so please skip over the small ("Stanley? Pumpkin, what's wrong?) paragraph if that would bother you, but that's the only time it's implied! I hope it's not too much!!!

Please enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And as always, I'm open to helpful comments and critiques!

Stay safe!

xx

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"Stanley Caryn Pines, just what do you think you're doing?" Fidds' voice spooked a squeaky noise from Stan, who had been sneaking up behind him. It was lunch time and Fidds was taking such a long time and we was soooo hungry, he hadn't eaten since breakfast! So Stan decided to sneak in the kitchen behind Fidds to get something to eat from the plates laid out. How did Fidds hear him?! Stan was being as sneaky as he possibly could be.

"Were you plannin' on spooking me now? You know not to do that when I'm standing over the stove." He scolded, turning around from his stirring to stare at Stan with a stern eye.

"Mm-mm." Stan mumbled, bringing his finger up the bite his knuckle nervously. He didn't want to scare Fidds, even though it's funny to sneak up behind him and shout "Boo!", he knows the rules. Not to do it when Fidds has sharp objects or when he's cooking, because then someone could get hurt. Stan gnaws at his knuckle nervously. Did he scare Fidds? He snuck up behind him, but he didn't shout or try to scare him. Is he in trouble now? Stan doesn't want to be in trouble, 'specially if he didn't mean to break any rules.

"Stanley? Pumpkin, what's wrong? You're rocking." Was he? Stan didn't even notice. He's never gotten in real trouble with Fidds before-he's never broken a rule of theirs before. He's good. Stan doesn't like being in trouble, being in trouble means being yelled at or chased out of town. Or some big ouchies.

"Stanley?"

Would Fidds yell at him like Pa'? He's nothing like Pa', but Stan's also never broke a rule 'afore, so maybe he does yell like him. He chews on his finger harder, his breathing going funny and his head spinny from his rocking.

"Stanley!" Hands, gentle hands, stop Stan's rocking. They bring his face up. It's Fidds' hands, and his face is doing something funny. His eyebrows look all scrunched up. His hands take Stan's finger from his mouth with a soft please stop and just looks at him. The look gives Stan a funny feeling in his stummy, a swooping feeling. "Stanley, Honey Bee, what's wrong. You're so worked up, I-was it-was it me?" Fidds' voice was soft and sad sounding. Stan didn't like it. Fidds being sad. It's not right, it makes his chest tight.

"Mmm-mmm." Stan mumbles again, trying to find his words. His tongue felt thick and hard to move, but he has to speak, to explain to Fidds and make him not sad sounding anymore. "Not-not scare. I-um-I was-was hungry." He looked down and pointed to the plate on the counter, the one with crackers on it. "Wanted to-sneak s-some cwra-crackers." Stan's face feels hot; he hates it when his voice goes soft and baby-like. It's embarrassing.

"You were just sneaking some-well, Stanley, why didn't you ask? I don't you having a snack if you're hungry, you know, don't you?" Did Stan know that? Back at-with Pa' and Ma', he had to wait until lunch or dinner to eat, no snacks were allowed, they always said something about ruining his something-or-other. He started rocking again, against Fidds' hands. Was it not like that every where? "Stanley, I'd never want you to go hungry, you can have a snack whenever you like, just ask and I'll get it for you. Alright?" Fidds' voice sounded quivery. Stan didn't like that.

"Um..." He can't think of what to say. He's not really hungry anymore, his tummy is still doing flips. "M' sorry." What is he sorry for again? Stan doesn't know, he's just used to saying sorry all the time.

"No no, it's alright, Stanley, nothing to apologize for, I'm sorry for scaring you myself." No! Fidds didn't do anything wrong! He didn't know Stan wasn't trying to scare him! Stan shook his head, trying to tell Fiddleford he had nothing to be sorry about.

"Well if I don't have anything to apologize for, then you don't either, Mister." Stan scrunched his nose and giggled when Fidds swiped his hair back and just stared at him. Stan stared back, thinking. Thinking about how weird it was to think about Pa' and Fidds in the same way. Fidds is nothing like Pa'; Fidds is his-his Papa. He's so good to Stan, when he's acting like an adult and when his head gets all fuzzy sometimes-like it is now. Fidds cares about him a lot, and Stan cares about him so very much. He never wants Fidds to go. He loves him

Fiddleford chuckled as Stan threw his arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. "All's forgiven, alright? Alright." He squeezed Stan back just as tightly and breathed in his scent. He had no idea what just went on in his head, but he'd never complain about a hug. 'Specially not from his Little Captain over here.

Stan and Fidds stand there like that for minutes, just hugging and softly rocking in the kitchen. Stan's content, he's basked in Fidds' presence. And he'd do that all day if his tummy hadn't rumbled. Maybe he was still hungry. He blushed and looked down, his hand rose to his mouth to be gnawed on before Fidds grabbed it and pulled him to the table. He pulled the chair out and pushed it back in when Stan sat and brought over his special (sippy) cup full of lemonade.

"Lunch is almost ready, but here," He set down the plate of crackers in front of Stan, "these can tide you over in the mean time." Stan looked between Fidds and the crackers and few times before he slowly grabbed one off the plate and started nibbling on it. He's still worried he'd get in trouble, but Fidds just ruffled his hair before going back to the stove to finish lunch. Stan sat there and slowly ate his crackers, his tummy not feeling swoopy anymore.

Stan felt warm.