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squatch-and-stretch · 29 days ago

Text

Opening Up

Chapter 2

< Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 >

Fiddleford McGucket & Ford Pines | 3,013 words | Axolotl's Acolyte AU

[Ao3 Crosspost]

Fic under the cut

As soon as Ford hangs up, he realizes that there are three discrete problems with his plan;

One: he does not have a car, thanks Steve.

Two: even if he did have a car, he hasn’t driven one in approximately six years, and even before then, he was never particularly comfortable doing so. A winter drive from Oregon to Colorado was bound to be… taxing.

Three: he does not want to visit Stanley very much at all, actually. For the past ten years of festering resentment, he hasn’t even heard from the man, much less seen him. He really would prefer to keep it that way.

The first two could be… solved… Ford looks away from his journal to glance out the window. A truck that Ford has recently remembered as McGucket’s sits innocently in the driveway.

Now, Ford doesn’t necessarily remember Fiddleford McGucket, but he doesn’t not remember him. Plenty of pages in his journal talk about his assistant, F, and he remembers most of what happened between them. He remembers reaching something of a roadblock in the engineering of his project, and knowing exactly who to call for assistance, even if his trust in a man he knew for a matter of months now seems inexplicable. He remembers banjo strings and microchips and a warm hug in greeting. He remembers Christmas, warm gloves and a delicately crafted snowglobe, Krampus and a broken banjo, spiked eggnog and lights hung over the portal, McGucket’s warm weight pressed into his side, shrilly singing along to every Christmas carol that came on…

He remembers the Gremloblin, and the Shapeshifter, and he remembers the memory gun. He’s a smart enough man to put two (McGucket created a device that erases memories) and two (Ford forgot all about McGucket) together. The question is why.

He recalls McGucket’s hesitance in the later weeks of their project; a full compilation of Ford’s work and a plea to stop, you’ve done enough, look, I have everything here, it’s ready to be published. Why would McGucket erase himself only after they went through with the test? Why erase himself at all, when he could erase Bill or the portal or the existence of the basement all together? Why assist Ford in Bill’s eradication when he could forget about him altogether?

And Bill does seem to be eradicated. The barrier is undeniable, even if Ford struggles to remember its assembly. When Ford briefly fell asleep the other night, he woke up right where he left himself, dreams blissfully blank.

It just doesn’t make any sense to Ford, and now he finds himself needing McGucket’s help.

The snow outside has melted and refrozen again and again in the days since McGucket’s departure, but his frozen footprints are still visible. Presumably, Ford could track him down with ease, but is that truly the best plan? He found McGucket’s keys, so he could use his car easily enough. It's more a question of his own confidence in doing so. Ford is capable of anything he puts his mind to, of course, and if his idiot brother has been driving since he could reach the pedals, he’s certain he could figure it out, but…

Well, he needs to talk to the man either way. Depending on the results of their confrontation, Ford can decide whether or not he’s willing to enlist his help.

He dresses for the cold trek, gathers his crossbow just to be safe, and steps outside. For an Oregon winter, it's fairly temperate, but he knows McGucket would disagree— he was never good in the cold. Despite how much time has passed, he can follow the footsteps easily, though the pattern of them indicates shuffling steps and stumbling. At one point, Ford finds a deep divot in the snow, as if McGucket had collapsed. Against Ford’s will, he feels a jolt of concern.

Luckily, the trail doesn’t end there. McGucket is nowhere to be found, and there’s no sign of large wildlife that could have wounded him. Ford continues to follow the trail, and finds that it ends at a familiar tree; McGucket has hidden himself in the bunker, despite their resolution to cease work on it after the incident with the Shapeshifter. He had assumed that McGucket would avoid the place, considering the trauma of the event and his general skittishness. Then again, desperation often leads to unexpected bravery, and McGucket may have forgotten the events altogether. If McGucket found himself with nowhere else to go, the bunker, with its food and water and bedding, would be an acceptable location to shelter in despite past events.

Ford feels strangely guilty at the thought of McGucket, freezing cold with nowhere to go, forcing himself to set aside his panic and hide himself in a place he has far-from-fond memories of. He almost hopes that the events have gone forgotten.

He shakes his head clear, before kneeling down and packing a snowball in his six-fingered hands. They’re protected from the chill by the gloves Fiddleford made for him.

He tosses the snowball up at the lever, and the ground shudders as the entrance opens. Ford takes the crossbow off his back— it’s not yet loaded, but he keeps his other hand on the quiver of bolts— and cautiously begins his descent. The walls and steps are just as he left them.

As he steps into the first room, he finds Fiddleford curled up on the bed— he’s only recognizable by the stray tufts of dirty brown hair sticking out of the bundle of blankets.

Ford lowers the crossbow, feeling himself soften at the sight. How could he possibly be frightened of Fiddleford?

He steps closer to the bed, intending to wake him. He only moves a few steps before he hears something beneath the bed— the scrape of claws against the tiled floor, followed by a low growl. The white head of some manner of canid pokes out from under the bed, eyes narrowed, teeth bared.

Ford steps back and steadies himself, readying a bolt in his crossbow—

The mutt’s snarl drops immediately at the sight of him, mouth falling open into a canine grin.

“Ford!” the dog says, before taking a running leap at him.

Startled as he is by the sound of his own name, Ford is helpless to defend himself as the dog’s— the puppy, really, though it seems quite large for its age— heavy paws hit his stomach. He reaches for the collar, intending to throw it off of him, but there’s nothing to grip beyond scruffy white fur.

“Ford! Ford!” the dog exclaims, tail wagging like wild, pale eyes bright, tongue lolling stupidly. “Fiddleford said you wouldn’t come, but I knew you would!”

This is very clearly not an act of aggression. Ford slides the crossbow bolt back into its quiver, and hesitantly raises a hand to pet the dog between the ears. Something about this animal is familiar, but it couldn’t possibly be—

“Mm, Shifty?” Fiddleford mumbles sleepily, lowering the blankets just enough to squint around the room.

Fiddleford never called Experiment #210 Shifty, Ford suddenly recalls; you weren’t supposed to name livestock or lab animals.

Oh, McGucket really has lost it, hasn’t he?

“Fiddleford!” Shifty (and it really is Shifty, isn’t it?) turns away from Ford, and jumps onto the bed with Fiddleford instead. Fiddleford draws the blankets back up over his face before Shifty can lick it. “Fiddleford, get up, Ford is here!”

“Wait, what?” Fiddleford jolts up, and Shifty rolls off the bed. It's quickly back on its feet, where it dances from paw to paw, tail still wagging wildly as it glances between the two men.

Fiddleford meets Ford’s eyes. His eyes are wide, irises a familiar shade of stormy blue.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford breathes. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I was looking for you,” Ford admits, and Fiddleford glances at the crossbow at his side with furrowed brows.

“Listen, I know what it looks like, but I swear it wasn’ me,” Fiddleford says slowly, pleadingly, as he raises his hands in submission. Shifty bounces over to Ford and starts sniffing at the crossbow.

“Why did you release Shifty?” Ford asks, because that seems to be the most pressing concern at the moment.

“Well, uh, that was Ax, technically,” Fiddleford says, scratching at the pale pink streak of hair near his temple as he sits up properly. “They were curious, and had some eh… ethical objections to our methods.”

“Ethical?” Shifty echoes in a very close approximation of Fiddleford’s voice.

It’s nosing at Ford’s hand now. Ford pets its head uncertainly, and Shifty’s tail wags a steady beat against the ground.

“Relating to ethics, the generally accepted rules of right and wrong,” Ford explains, vaguely dazed.

“Oh! So Ax thinks you guys did something wrong?” Shifty asks, trotting back over to Fiddleford.

Fiddleford leans down to scratch it behind the ears without hesitation. He was sleeping in the same room as it. Despite everything, he seems to trust it.

“I agree!” Shifty says, leaning into Fiddleford’s hand. “You were being mean! The cage was so small and boring! I like this room more.”

Fiddleford meets Ford’s eyes. He’s not entirely sure what his expression means, but he doesn’t look happy. That makes sense, because Ford isn’t happy either. He feels… bad. Guilty, almost, even though he knows he only did what must be done.

Fiddleford stopped scratching it at some point, so Shifty moves away. Its canine body shifts and twists into the pale flesh of its natural form. Fiddleford flinches, drawing his legs up and away from the shapeshifter.

Shifty ignores him in favor of laying down on the floor to fish something out from under the bed. It retrieves a SHMEZ dispenser in one big, fleshy claw, and victoriously presents it to Ford.

“Look, look what I found!” Shifty brags. “The candy tastes like chalk!”

“Ah…” Ford glances at Fiddleford, who gives him a smile; he can’t tell if it’s supposed to be reassuring or amused. “That’s… great?”

Shifty’s eyes squint happily, apparently pleased with his response.

“So, what was it that you wanted, Stanford?” Fiddleford asks, finally fully throwing the blankets off. He’s not wearing socks, and his toes are flushed from the chill of the bunker.

“Ah, right,” Ford straightens, focusing back onto Fiddleford’s face, staring at his bangs to avoid eye contact. They’re messy, more unkempt than Fiddleford usually lets them get. “I… my brother called, and I need to go see him.”

“I’m guessin’ it weren’t Shermie?” Fiddleford prompts.

He gives Ford a smile that’s probably meant to be reassuring or perhaps sympathetic, but Ford winces all the same.

“Yes, it is Stanley,” Ford sighs. “He’s in Colorado, and he’s gotten himself cursed.”

“Cursed, huh?” Fiddleford whistles lowly, leg bouncing. “Alrighty, what do ya need from me?”

Easy as that, huh? Despite the circumstances, Ford is not exactly surprised. This agreeability is very typical of Fiddleford, he realizes.

“I just need a ride to Denver,” Ford explains.

“Denver? I can get ya there, but we’ll have to stop along the way, probably in upper Utah I reckon?” Fiddleford says, patting a thoughtful rhythm against his bouncing leg. “That’s, what, 20 hours from here to there? Reckon I can manage splitting it in two.”

“Can I come?” Shifty cuts in, shifting into a cat to paw at Fiddleford’s leg, which immediately stills.

Fiddleford grimaces, leaning down to pick Shifty up and hold it in his lap.

“Sorry, bug, but you’ll have to stay down here,” Fiddleford says, scratching Shifty’s chin. “I’ll give you the combination for the security room, but I reckon you’ll best be stayin’ in this one.”

“What!? No!” Shifty whines, pawing at Fiddleford’s chest to get away.

Fiddleford lets it go, and it moves out of his lap to collapse face down in the sheets and resume its natural form. Four legs kick out at random, clawing at the sheets. Despite its clear dismay, it makes no move to harm either of them in any way.

“No no no! You said you wouldn’t lock me away again!”

“I said I wouldn’t put ya back in the tube, and I ain’t goin’ to,” Fiddleford sighs, hands hovering over the deflated shapeshifter. “You’ve got free reign of the bunker while we’re gone, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

“You’re gonna leave me again, and there’s nothing to eat but beans,” Shifty whines, now a puddle of slimy white flesh melted across the bed. “I hate beans. I wanna eat other stuff.”

“I know Shifty, and I’m real sorry, but Stanley could be in a real bad way,” Fiddleford says. “I gotta take care of him and Stanford for a bit.”

Shifty makes a strange but decidedly unhappy noise, morphing into a white rabbit. When Fiddleford reaches for it, its paws begin to dig at the sheets as if trying to burrow away. Fiddleford retreats, folding his arms and glancing over Ford with a small frown. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, so Ford assumes his expression is expectant, perhaps seeking support or reassurance.

“I’m… sure I could drive myself…?” Ford offers, but his lack of confidence is clear in his tone. Fiddleford picks up on it and grimaces.

“Ain’t no way, hun,” Fiddleford says, and the nickname isn’t irritating in the way unearned overfamiliarity often is. It feels natural, comforting even, and Ford isn’t given time to dwell on it as he continues, “I’ll drive you, even if Shifty ain’t happy about it.”

“Why can’t I come!?” Shifty wails, and the form beneath the sheet writhes.

“Well, if I’m bein’ completely honest with you?” Fiddleford pauses, waiting until Shifty stills before continuing, “I don’t know if I can trust you out and about just yet. And that ain’t your fault, it’s ours; we kept ya in here your whole life.”

“So lemme out!” Shifty whines.

“Not just yet, honey bun,” Fiddleford says. “We gotta focus on Stanley right now, but I’ll tell ya what? As soon as we get back, I’ll take ya out if it’s warm enough.”

“… promise?” Shifty mumbles, and its muzzle peaks out from under the blankets, fangs twitching. Fiddleford pats its head through the blanket.

“I promise. It’s just a few days.”

Shifty is quiet for a long moment, before it nods.

“Mmkay. I’ll be good.”

“Thank you, kiddo,” Fiddleford breathes, shoulders slumping. “We’ll be back soon as we can, promise.”

Shifty makes a soft noise of agreement.

“Okay… okay,” Fiddleford sighs, and pats the lump beneath the blanket a few more times before standing. “I’ll see y’soon, sweetheart.”

Another quiet noise. Fiddleford gives Ford an uncertain smile.

“C’mon, let’s get outta here,” Fiddleford says.

He grabs his socks off the foot of the bed, but does not retrieve shoes before leading the way out of the bunker. With one last suspicious glance, Ford follows. Once the entrance is sealed shut behind them, Ford speaks.

“So?”

“So?” Fiddleford echoes, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Shifty? Bug, kiddo, sweetheart?” Ford says. “You seem quite attached to a being you were once very insistent upon disparaging.”

Fiddleford’s smile drops into something more analytical.

“You remember that?” he asks softly, blue eyes seeming almost… hopeful.

It seems like an odd question at first— why wouldn’t he remember Fiddleford’s attitude towards Shifty?— before he recalls why Fiddleford was out in the bunker in the first place.

His hand returns to the quiver of crossbow bolts, and he regards Fiddleford suspiciously. He’s not dressed for the cold at all, and if he was armed, Ford is sure he could tell.

“Turn around,” Ford orders, and Fiddleford’s eyes widen.

He cracks a nervous smile, but lifts his arms and does as he says.

“Yessir,” Fiddleford teases. “Gonna execute me with a clean shot to the head? You oughta know it won’t stick.”

Ford pauses. Ought he know? He’s fairly certain this information is new to him… but he’s not about to admit that.

“Right, of course,” Ford says, sounding much less definite than he intended.

There’s no sign of the memory gun, and Ford doesn’t exactly want to pat him down in search of it.

“How did you find out Bill was bad news?” Fiddleford asks, glancing over his shoulder at Ford. Ford gestures for him to turn around, and he does, just to hit Ford with the full force of his analytical expression.

There were no notes in his journal about the confrontation. He barely remembers it at all, just knows with absolute certainty that Bill was bad and it’s good that he’s gone.

(He tells himself that, anyway, and ignores the ache around the space his muse once occupied.)

“He killed me a couple times,” Fiddleford explains, reaching slowly for Ford’s hand. He allows him to take it, and press it against his throat. Ford can feel the pulse beneath his palms, and the feeling fills him with a mix of relief and nauseous anxiety. “D’you remember, Stanford?”

He remembers. The feeling of his throat beneath his hands, the ridges of his trachea, the thrum of his pulse, his skin was smoother then, more recently shaved—

Ford jerks away as if burnt. He meets Fiddleford’s eyes and remembers them wide with terror, staring up at him from where he was kneeling on the floor, blood staining his shirt and slicking his hair.

Now, though, they’re soft and warm, familiar in their clear compassion.

Familiar. This man is so familiar to him, even still. When he reaches for Ford’s face to lay a cool hand gently against his cheek, Ford doesn’t move away.

“I wasn’t the one who erased your memories, Stanford,” Fiddleford says softly.

He wants to believe him. Honestly, he thinks he does, but…

“…let’s get back to the cabin,” he says, voice softer than intended, and he turns to lead the way.

#axolotls acolyte au #silver scribe (writing tag)

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squatch-and-stretch · 1 month ago

Text

Opening Up

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 >

Ford Pines & Stan Pines | 2,337 words | Axolotl’s Acolyte AU

Stan gets himself cursed, and reluctantly calls upon his brother for help. Never one to resist the strange and unusual, Ford goes to him, even if he has to recruit the assistant he barely remembers to get there.

[Ao3 Crosspost]

Fic under the cut

For better or for worse (mostly for worse), Stan is a pretty stubborn guy. When he gets himself into a situation, he’s got a tendency to dig his heels in and stick to his guns. Even if he is forced to hit the bricks, he won’t often admit, even to himself, that he made a mistake.

Right now, Stan can admit that he’s made a mistake.

“Um, what are you doing?” a woman says loudly, and Stan tries his best to hide his flinch as he turns to face her. His hand, along with a bag of chips, is shoved into the pocket of his jacket.

“Right now? Talking to the prettiest broad this side of the Rocky Mountains,” he says with a wink. A shock of pain laces up his hand, because okay, fine, she’s an ugly old lady who isn’t Stan’s type at all.

“Excuse you, I am married!” she gasps shrilly, lifting her hand to show Stan a flashy wedding ring.

It’s the sorta thing Pa used to sell, but it’s probably actual diamond instead of quartz, judging by the fancy duds she’s all dressed up in. It’s a shame Stan has to play it lowkey, because she’d be a great target for… something. Maybe he can still pickpocket her if he manages to play this off.

“Lucky man,” Stan says casually, and yes, fine, he’s lying, his shoulder doesn’t need to tell him that! He turns away from the woman just slightly, even if the hole won’t show through his clothes.

“I meant, you put a bag of chips in your pocket! Like you were trying to steal it!” she says, loudly. Stan glances over his shoulder to see the cashier— young man, probably a high schooler who’s not getting paid enough to watch customers carefully but isn’t quite disillusioned enough to straight-up let them steal— perk up. Shit.

“Hey, I haven’t stolen nothin’ yet!” Stan says, which is at least a little true. He hasn’t stolen anything from here, but in general—

Pain pulses through his left cheek. The woman shrieks, quickly going pale. Two finely manicured hands lift to cover her gaping mouth.

“Oh my lord, what’s wrong with you!?” she gasps, backing away.

“Hey, what are you doing?” the cashier says, jumping the counter to storm up to him. Stan turns to face him, and the cashier stops. “Oh, ew, what the hell?”

“Is that any way to talk to a non-paying customer?” Stan scoffs, gesturing with one hand. The cashier looks down at his hand and gags. “Yeesh, you’re dramatic!”

Stan lifts his hand to wink at the cashier through the perfectly round hole punched right through it. The cashier stumbles away, hitting his back on the counter.

“Call the police! Young man, call the police!” the woman screams.

“For what!? I ain’t doing shit!” Stan says, turning to throw his arms up at her. The movement jostles the bag of chips out of his pocket and onto the ground.

“A thief and a freak!” she scoffs, sounding a little smug about herself despite the horror.

“Who’re you calling a freak?” Stan snaps; despite everything, that word still gets his hackles up.

“Yes, hello? Yeah, I’m a cashier at the—“ he hears the cashier starting to say, and Stan curses. He grabs the bag of chips off the ground— so not worth it— and makes a break for the front door. Obviously, neither of them stop him.

So yeah, Stan may have made a mistake. Not in robbing the 8-Twelve, because that was one of his favorite hobbies and also his main source of food, but in getting stuck with a curse that punishes him every time he lies. He can cover up a lot of it with his clothes, but he looks like a beat-up slice of swiss cheese.

And yeah, okay, the chick he was messing with was pretty obviously a witch, what with the cat following her around and the bottles on her belt and yeah, okay, she had a pointy hat, but she also had a heck of a lot of jewelry! Expensive looking stuff too, big colorful jewels on gold and silver chains. He was feeling a little nostalgic for the ol’ pawn shop and just couldn’t resist giving it a go.

So, despite the fact that she was so obviously a witch, Stan struck up a conversation. She was young enough for him to play charming in a potential-boyfriend way instead of a son or grandson way, so he laid it on thick. So thick that they ended up in a swanky little bar just outside of Denver later that same day. A few drinks in, and it was easy enough for him to lay a loving hand over hers and slip a ring and bracelet into his pockets while whispering sweet nothings.

Unfortunately, she was not drunk enough to let that slip, but she was drunk enough to scream and cry and sob about her broken heart and how all men are the same, which seemed like a lot for a man she’d met earlier that day. She made such a scene that Stan gave everything back and even apologized as he made a break for it.

When he woke up to a sharp pain in his chest and looked down to see a clean round hole punched right through it, he had no doubt in his mind about where it came from. It hurt, but it didn’t bleed or anything, even as Stan sat up and stared at the layers of his insides along the edges. Vaguely, he remembers thinking that Ford would be really into this.

So, Stan had a hole in his chest. In a way, he kinda felt like it’d been there for a long time, somewhere around ten years in fact. It didn’t hurt for long, so Stan covered it up and went on with his life. The hole punched right through his heart continued to not kill him, so Stan continued trying not to die.

Unfortunately, not dying for a man like Stan meant a whole lot of lying, so it didn’t take long for Stan to figure out that the curse wasn’t a one-and-done sort of deal. No, of course not, that’d be too easy; put a shirt on and nobody’d ever know.

Instead, a brand new hole would open up every time Stan told a lie, and every time it’d hurt like hell. Sure, Stan was pretty used to hurting like hell, but constant wincing wasn’t a good look on a charming salesman. Eventually, the holes got a whole (hole, heh.) lot harder to hide; a few on his hands and wrists, one right through his throat, and now one on his cheek. After all he’d done to get his hands on some decent dentures, Stan wasn’t willing to lose his winning smile all over again.

After wandering around downtown Denver long enough to lose anyone who might be following him, he makes his way back to his car. He catches his face in the mirror, and sees that the way it’s punched through one cheek and not the other gives him an unsettling view of the inside of his mouth. It isn’t drying it out though, which is pretty cool. Still, incredibly uncool that he has a hole in his face.

As he takes off his shirt and looks down at his torso and arms, he finds that he hadn’t realized how bad it’d gotten. It’s still more flesh than not, but Stan doesn’t want to think about what’ll happen once it’s not. If he gets enough holes to circle his wrist, will his hand fall off? What will happen if the holes chew him up entirely? Will he still exist as a consciousness without a body?

That's a fun thought experiment, or, maybe it would be if it wasn’t at risk of becoming a reality.

He could hide the hole on his cheek— he’s already taken to wearing a scarf to cover his neck, he’d just have to bring it up over his nose— but how much longer can he keep this up? How many more lies can he tell before he ceases to exist entirely?

Yeah, he’d made a mistake alright. He just has no idea how to fix it. He might be able to track the witch down, but he doesn’t exactly trust her to help him out after… all that. But who else could he call in to help him with something so weird?

Weird. Stan knows one person who he thinks might know a whole lot about weird.

Ma mentions Ford just about every time they talk. He’s up in Oregon, she says, studying all that ‘anomaly hokey-pokey he was always into when youse was kids’. Pa hates it, says he should be studying something worthwhile (read, profitable), but Ma always seemed amused, happy that at least one of her sons was living the dream despite the best efforts of the other.

So yeah, Ford. If anyone knows about weird curses and spells and shit, it’s probably him. The thing is, he really doesn’t want to call Ford, especially not when he needs him to clean up his own mess.

On the other hand, weird curse! Ford would love that! It’s also super gross or maybe scientifically intriguing how all of Stan’s organs are just hanging out, fully functional around the hole punched in them. Stan doesn’t really know what Ford is focusing on (probably nothing, because he wants to know everything ) but surely he’d be interested in what Stan’s got going on?

Yeah, Stan needs help, but it’s with something Ford will be interested in! He’s totally justified in calling him.

Stan puts his clothes back on, and tells himself that it’s all totally justified and fine and Ford won’t be mad at all. He continues to tell himself that as he leaves his car and makes his way to the nearest phone booth, and as he slips a coin in and dials that number he knows by heart, and as he listens to the dial tone.

Once Ford actually picks up, though, he regrets everything he ever did to make it to this point.

“ Doctor Stanford Pines speaking ,” Ford says stiffly, a little smugly, because he loves introducing himself as Doctor Pines.

This was a mistake. The words catch in Stan’s throat.

“Hey,” Stan says, instead of the quick and clear explanation of what’s going on he was planning on.

“ Hello? To whom am I speaking ?”

“ Whom the hell says whom?” Stan snorts before he can stop himself.

” That’s not —“ Ford stutters, and then his voice goes all soft with… disbelief? “… wait, Stanley ?”

He doesn’t sound mad.

“Yup, that’s my name.”

Silence on the other end for a long, painful moment.

“ What do you want ?” Ford asks, and yep, there’s the anger.

“Well, uh, hate to ask this of you outta the blue, but I kinda sorta got cursed and need some help getting uncursed?” Stan says, speeding up towards the end in a rush to get it all out.

Another long lapse of silence, followed by a heavy sigh.

“ Of course. Of course you would call me like this ,” Ford huffs. “ 10 years of silence, and now you’re calling me just because you got yourself into a bad situation !”

“Oh sure, I got myself into a bad situation, it’s all my fault!” Stan says, and a shiver runs up his spine as he feels one of the holes force itself shut. Damnit. Stupid curse doesn’t understand sarcasm. “Listen, can you help me or not? You know I wouldn’t call if I had any other choice.”

Damn, that sounds desperate. Play it cool, Stanley.

“I mean, it’s not life or death, I don’t think, at least not yet, but it sure does suck.”

Another hole closes. He doesn’t love being honest, but maybe Stan can fix it himself if Ford refuses… until he tells another lie, of course. Ugh.

Another long-suffering sigh from Ford.

“Hold on a moment, Stanley,” Ford says, and the phone clicks against a table or countertop or whatever; he set it down, but didn’t hang up.

Stanley holds on for a moment, before he hears approaching footsteps and the sounds of rustling pages over the phone.

“ Explain this ‘curse’ to me. How did you acquire it, and what are its effects ?” Ford asks.

“Long and short of it? I ticked off a witch and now I’m full of holes.”

“… holes ?” Ford echoes, soft and almost sounding scared. “ You said it wasn’t life or death! If you have several puncture wounds, even if they are magically inflicted, you should be at the hospital, not calling me!”

“Nah man, they’re not puncture wounds,” though Stan sure knows what those feel like, “they’re just… holes. The first one is right through my heart and it’s still beating and shit.”

“… fascinating ,” Ford says with an audible scrape of pen against paper. “ You are not bleeding, and no organ functions have been compromised ?”

“Nope, not as far as I can tell anyway,” Stan says, poking around the hole in his hand. “And my voice sounds pretty normal, right? You’d never guess I have a hole in my cheek! And my throat.”

“ True, I would not have guessed that at all, ” Ford says faintly. “ Well, I suppose I’ll have to investigate in person. Where are you located ?”

“Huh?” Stan grunts. “No, you don’t need to come all the way out here, Poindexter! Just… point me in the right direction or something. Gimme a hint.”

“ No, this is something I must see for myself ,” Ford says. “ Where are you ?”

“Really, you don’t need to—“

“Stanley. Tell me where you are,” Ford says firmly. After a moment, he continues, “please.”

Shiiit.

“Denver, Colorado. Just outside of downtown,” Stan admits. “But really, you don’t—“

Click.

God damnit. As if speaking to him over the phone wasn’t hard enough, now Stan’s gonna have to see his brother face to hole-filled face.

#silver scribe (writing tag)#axolotls acolyte au #you just have to trust that this is an axolotl’s acolyte fic. they aren’t around yet but trust me #it’s not about them but trust me

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