#FiddleTurnips

[fiddleturnips]

Fiddleford Meets Bill

This is on AO3, but deserves its own post.

"Hiya, McGucket!" Ford said with a grin.

"You're not him," Fiddleford said. Which was stupid, why did he say that, why would he think that?

Stanford stopped moving. Then his accent changed. His face changed, he grinned wider. His yellow eyes got huger than they already were, till it looked like they hurt.

"Perceptive, aren't you?" he said.

Fiddleford bolted to the elevator. He pressed the button over and over with shaking hand, it seemed to crawl down, why hadn't they installed stairs, why did it just go up occasionally for no reason, why why why...

"Woah, there, Rockytop," the thing behind him said. There were footsteps. Fiddleford pressed himself against the door to the elevator - not again, not again, another not-Stanford with Stanford's face, another night all tied up in a closet, another inhuman thing -

A Stanford-like body took him by the arm and pulled him back just as the elevator opened. It wasn't gripping too hard, so he broke off and rushed inside. Stanford schmanford held the door open, and Fiddleford pressed hard into the back corner.

"Would you gimme a second? I'm not hurting you. Look. Look at me, not hurting you."

"You're not Stanford."

"Geeze, you act this way around EVERYONE who's not Stanford?"

Fiddleford swallowed. "Don't be stupid. You don't belong here."

The creature's eyes narrowed. Its grin drooped, but didn't vanish. "....Fine. I wanted to be friends. But no."

Not-Stanford stepped through the threshold. Fiddleford swallowed and pressed himself hard into the corner.

He half-heartedly lifted his fists.

The creature ignored him.

"You know I could crush you," it said.

"G-get back," Fiddleford squealed.

It rolled its eyes, then came all the way in, letting the elevator close. Fiddleford couldn't actually throw a punch; he didn't have room. The Shamford pressed so close to him that he could smell the aftershave Stanford's ma had sent him last Chaunukah and the mismatched tang of formaldehyde from specimen preservation.

It took Fiddleford's throat in one hand.

Fiddleford warbled.

It laughed. "I'm not a threat to Stanford. He and I are pals! You, on the other hand, are annoying."

The elevator went up with a clatter. Fiddleford pushed ineffectually against Stanford's chest and whimpered.

"But I'm not going to hurt you," it said again, then it pulled its hand back. Fiddleford grabbed his throat where he had been grabbed. His eyes were moist with tears.

Shamford backed to the other end of the elevator, hands raised. "See? I'm proving it! I can hurt you, and I'm choosing not to. You don't have to worry about me unless you provoke me. Got it?"

The door hissed open. It stood aside and gestured out with an exaggerated bow.

Fiddleford was afraid to move at first. When he did, he pressed his back against the side of the elevator and scootched along it until he reached the door.

Shamford laughed.

"Hey, uh, buddy. On the subject of not provoking?"

Fiddleford was backing away, refusing to turn from the thing, arms folded close to his chest.

"Let's keep this interaction between just the two of us. Okay?"

Fiddleford turned and ran.

"Our little secret!" it shouted, then, not too quiet to hear, "idiot hillbilly freak."

-

Fiddleford paced all night, then in the morning he went downstairs the instant he heard the coffeepot start. He stood fidgeting in the kitchen doorway until Stanford turned to greet him.

His eyes were clear.

"Doctor Pines. I need to talk to you."

Stanford raised his eyebrows. "Of course. What do you need?"

"Stanford Pines, please listen to me on this because I know I sound crazy, but I saw something last night."

"Of course I'm listening, McGucket." The coffeepot burbled away. Stanford had a box of eggs on the counter, but he stood and held his hands behind his back in that oh-so-carefully-modeled Attentive Listening posture he got whenever he felt like Fiddleford was being particularly paranoid.

Fiddleford took a deep breath and let it out. He put his hands on his hips. He sucked his teeth.

"Ford, I met something last night. Another thing with your face on it, down in the lab."

"Bill?"

"You NAMED IT????"

"I didn't name him, that's just his name!" Stanford said, frowning at Fiddleford as though he was being unreasonable. Fiddleford was flailing at him, but frankly that seemed justified given the circumstances.

"That's HIS name??? What the cockinahenhouse did you DO???"

"This is exactly why I didn't tell you!" Stanford shouted right back. The last drips of coffee were hissing out, but the pot sat ignored. "I knew you'd react like this!"

"This is absurd. This is absurd." Fiddleford was pacing faster than he had all night, tapping out a three-sets-of-four pattern on his right arm with his left hand. "What was it? What did I talk to last night, Ford? Why did it look like you?"

"Sit down, Fiddleford. Please." Stanford covered his face with his hands. "I'm not going to explain if you're not even going to try to listen."

Fiddleford stared at Stanford.

Stanford dropped his hands and took a deep breath. He met Fiddleford's eyes. With a very exaggerated motion, like he was trying to model good behavior to a particularly unreasonable child, he sat down.

And, well. It was Stanford. He... tended to be better at this sort of thing.

Fiddleford sat down.

-

The conversation did not exactly go well. Fiddleford was not happy that his boss was possessed. It devolved into a shouting match three separate times.

But in the end, it simply was what it was. There wasn't much that Fiddleford could do, and Stanford swore up and down that Bill was not a danger. He was a companion. He was a mentor. He was, if not a friend, than at least a respected colleague.

A respected colleague, Stanford was not too proud to add, who had extensive academic credentials.

The implications were obvious. Fiddleford was not the brains of this operation. He was the hands. He made things. If the executive team was two people instead of just the one he had been led to believe in, then, well, he didn't have a leg to stand on about that.

-

"Bill, I had a conversation with McGucket."

Oh, perfect, this was just fucking perfect. That pimple was going to be a MESS to deal with.

-

Fiddleford had been up all night. Stanford insisted that he take the day off. In the meantime, he said, he'd talk to Bill and smooth things over. He would make sure that the professional respect went both ways. He would make sure, he assured Fiddleford, that next time, Bill remembered the rules of human interaction, and didn't frighten Fiddleford by mistake. That's all it was: a mistake. A misunderstanding. There was no reason for that misunderstanding to be repeated.

Fiddleford sat on the porch and picked out nervous improvisations on his banjo until the afternoon, then fell asleep for fourteen hours straight. Come morning, he shaved, got dressed as neat as he could, took some pills for the anxiety. Then he went down and met with Stanford again, ready to apologize for his behavior and do his best to pretend he was fine.

Stanford was in a good mood, bright-eyed and smiling. He gave Fiddleford's shoulder a squeeze, told him it was all worked out. He walked with him down to the lab after breakfast and they worked like nothing had even happened.

-

Fiddleford was finishing up some soddering in the workshop that evening, making up for time lost on his unscheduled day off. Stanford was going about his usual too-long workday, only breaking for meals and meditation sessions.

Nothing seemed particularly different - which, of course, it wouldn't. Nothing had actually changed. Except that now, something that had been secret wasn't anymore.

"So."

Fiddleford spun in his chair. the Shamford with the gold eyes - Bill was his name - was glaring at him with the most insincere smile Fiddleford had ever seen.

"You told Sixer about our chat! When I specifically told you not to, haha!"

Fiddleford put the soddering iron back in its mount. "I'm not gonna keep secrets from my lab partner," he said, but his voice shook.

"No, no, I don't blame you!" Bill laughed. "Not. At. All."

Sweet sassafrass, that was creepy.

"-And you know what? I'm over it! We can work together! We're lab partners too, you know."

Bill walked over and Fiddleford did his best not to show cowardice. He held his hands flat against the desk to keep from tapping. He swallowed back any nerves that he had. He looked Bill in the eyes, weird as they were.

"We'll be best friends, kid, don't worry." Bill ruffled his hair.

Fiddleford slapped Bill's borrowed arm away.

"You mind your business," Bill continued, "and I'll mind mine."

---

(The AO3 archive is treated as a dump bin since this work is being written haphazardly. The content is out of order and incomplete. The linked chapter is the mirror to this post, but the subsequent chapters might be happhazard. For more info and content warnings, read the series description and my pinned post.)

[fiddleturnips]

[fiddleturnips]

Bonding

This is an excerpt from a larger, incomplete chapter.

Stanley slammed the door on his way out. He didn't really have anywhere else to go, though, so he didn't go anywhere. He sat on the porch and smoked, staring at these unfamiliar Northwest mountains and thinking about how stupid it was that this dumb argument had apparently lasted decades.

Stan was on his second cigarette when Fiddleford came out. Stan didn't turn around, but he could tell it was him. His steps were trying to be heavy, but he probably weighed half what any Pines did including their Ma, and was barefoot besides. He stomped unmenacingly over and sat on the stair beside Stan.

"Can I bum one of those," he said. He was glaring out at the woods like he wanted to punch the whole mountain range in it's big stupid face.

Stan tapped one out and passed it. He shared his flame. Fiddleford took a huge drag that doubled the volume of his chest and hissed it out.

"Trouble in Paradise?" Stan joked.

"Thought I'd finally talked some sense into that man," Fiddleford snapped. "Always gotta be the smartest in the room, with his twelve cotton-pickin doctorates and his one man research grant, don't he get you can't solve everything with just smarts."

Stan suddenly decided he liked this guy. "Yeah. Yeah, it's always, oOooh, if I'm the biggest genius they ever saw then they have to crown me the king of fucking France or whatever. Everything that goes right, it's 'cause he was just better. Anything goes wrong was a fluke. Like, geeze, man, maybe if your entire future rested in a seventeen year old's ability to break the laws of physics it's the system that's the problem, y'know?"

"EXACTLY!" Fiddleford flung his arms out. It almost hit Stan in the face. "He did good in school, and I'm real happy for him, I really am! But it's like, we were in the same classes, and goshdurn it, I was better than him! So what's this magical force what makes him think everyone who didn't get where he did just didn't try hard enough?"

Fiddleford was starting to lose him now, but Stan got the impression the guy needed to vent from how loud it was coming out, so he didn't say anything.

"I tried, Doctor Stanford Pines, I tried till it almost killed me, and then I help you try til that almost kills me too! Maybe your dreams ain't worth all that!"

"Oh, yeah. And, like, maybe your dreams ain't everyone else's dream, too," Stanley said. It probably wasn't a fair thought, but it was one that came on him all the time in motels and WalMart parking lots: what the hell were dreams worth, if you went one way and he went the other and neither of you ever got to see each other again?

Fiddleford glanced over and huffed a smokey laugh. "Truth. Not sure how many daddies and doctor types need to hear that." Fiddleford wrinkled his nose. "Ack, forgot how foul these are."

"Then why'd you bum one?"

"Hoping to trick myself into thinking it was something stronger, I guess," he said, scraping out the lit end on the porch and leaving it in case Stan wanted the other half.

Stan side-eyed him. "You payin'?"

Fiddleford looked over at him in surprise. Then down.

Stan was peeking a baggie out of his inner coat pocket. It wasn't much, maybe half an ounce, and it was cheap shit. But hey. A sale's a sale.

Fiddleford didn't even ask. He just pulled a fifty, threw it at Stan, and snatched the bag. Stan passed him a box of rolling paper, and Fiddleford rolled first one, than a second, out with astonishing dexterity.

"Shit, you know your stuff."

"I had a social life in school."

He offered one to Stan, who lit them both up. Fiddleford lay back on the porch and sighed deeply.

"So. What's the story here?" Stan asked.

"Oh, Stanford's my best friend," Fiddleford said. "And as much as I hate to say it, your brother really is all that. Not only the biggest genius I ever met, but one of the best academics to boot. Brains alone don't get degrees."

"And now, uh, what's going on?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, we've been awful." Fiddleford sat up and occipied his hands by making more joints, resting his own on the stair between tokes. "Doctor Pines is here on grant money he got after groundbreaking solo research and a very impressive proof of concept at a conference a few years back. Now, I don't suppose you'd know much about academic politics, Mister Pines, but that is what we call a very big deal, especially when you look at what they gave him. And if I'm being completely frank, it's not primarily the work that's good. The man could convince the board to dig a canal in Arizona."

"What? Sixer?" Stanley laughed. He noticed, but didn't quite register Fiddleford's flinch at the name. "Guy never took a date to a school dance in his life."

"Maybe he ought've asked more funding admins."

Stanley chuckled. The weed was definitely helping.

"Anyhow, part of what he was doing here was building this big -" Fiddleford sucked from his joint, gestured lamely, lost his words - "I don't know how to describe it in plain speak. It's a doohickey."

"A doohicky."

"Portal, let's say. Real spaceman bullhockey. Let's just say, me'n him are close on the only ones as could do it, this stuff is mathematically on the edge of impossible."

"You an him, huh?"

"Oh, alright," Fiddleford said, grinning, rolling out the last of his little arts and crafts project. "Me. I'm the only one could build it. I weren't lying when I said I'm better'n him."

Stan coughed laughing. "Got a big head on your shoulders?"

"Hardly. I'm an engineer. Not an academic."

"Yeah, yeah. Smart guys. Look, I'm just a schlub."

Fiddleford's face fell. "Sorry, I don't mean that- oh, shucks, my wife always warned me I gotta watch what I say about that sort of thing. I didn't mean nothing by it. Having brains don't measure a man's worth, I know that more'n most."

"Aw, it's nothing," Stan said, made big-hearted and quick to forgive by the drugs. "You're good in my book."

Fiddleford was out of weed. He tucked what he'd made back into the bag and sealed it. When he gazed out at the woods this time, his anger had softened to irritation. "Anyway, I come out here to help him with his work. And believe me, it's good. He's got a one-of-a-kind opportunity here. But Stanford Pines is one of those Victorian types says discovery is all about taking risks, and let's just say when he takes risks I always seem to be the one who ends up with something broke."

"Aw man. I'm sorry. Seriously."

"First there was the Grenloblin, which is a horrid creature, by the way, then that cat-tannin' shapeshifter he kept as a pet even when it began to talk to us-"

"Wait, what?"

"And the gnome debacle keeps coming back to bite us, can't keep the windows sealed tight enough,"

"Gnomes?"

"And then that FUCKING demon."

Fiddleford abruptly stopped talking. He took another toke. His free hand was clenched into a shaking fist. Stan stared.

"What do you guys research, exactly?"

"Anomalies," said Fiddleford.

"Like, what, two-headed calves and shit?"

"That'd work. But Gravity Falls has gnomes."

"Little men in red hats."

"Little men in red hats."

"You're shitting me."

"I swear to you I am not."

"Don't suppose the bud went bad..."

"You'll see in the morning. I'll show you."

"You just described a bunch of dangerous shit. And also gnomes, I guess. Do I want to see it all?"

"Believe me, the most 'dangerous shit' is in this house."

Stanley, being an idiot but not that much of an idiot, was about to press him further. They were interrupted by the door, though, and his dumb brother's disapproval.

"Are you two smoking cannabis?" Ford demanded. Stanley chuckled at how much he sounded like a pearl-clutching old woman.

"Yes we are, and you're partaking," Fiddleford said, pulling out a joint. "We're making up for lost time, come on."

Stanford glared daggers. "I am not."

Fiddleford fell back on the porch, stretched his legs out in front of him, and stared upside-down up at Stanford.

"You owe meeeeeeee."

Stanford kept glaring. Then he glared at Stanley, who shrugged.

"Did you bring this?" Ford snapped.

"Technically, but I didn't offer. He asked."

Fiddleford wiggled the outstretched joint.

Stanley had no idea the look on Stanford's face was, aside from uncomfortable, but the guy relented. He stepped forward, sat as far as he could from the other two, and gingerly picked up the joint. Stan tossed him the lighter, knowing very well that he wouldn't have his own. The other boys laughed at him when he struggled to get it lit right.

"Don't worry, Doctor Pines, I'm here for you," said Fiddleford in a fond, dreamy voice.

"Very reassuring, thank you," Stanford growled.

It was endearing. It was, hell, it was cute. Despite the blow-up inside, Stan was kind of... glad? that Stanford had apparently made an actual, honest-to-god friend.

[fiddleturnips]

One day, Emma-Mae is invited to a parent-teacher conference alone, without her husband. She goes in and meets the school counselor, who is, again, alone; the teacher has apparently approved the meeting, but been asked not to come.

Emma-Mae is not sure what to expect.

"I wanted to say:" says the counselor, "it isn't our place to comment on the home lives of the children in our care, provided those home lives are safe and conducive. However, I felt it was important to ask if there is anything we should know about. In strict confidence, of course."

He slides over a picture Tate drew.

It's a preprinted worksheet that says Draw your Family!

On it, Tate stands to the left of a man labeled "Daddy," who he holds hands with. That man is also holding hands with a woman labeled "Mommy." She holds hands with a man labeled "Stan." On Tate's other side, there is a man labeled "Dr Pines."

Emma-Mae examines it. The counselor watches for a reaction.

"No," she said, "this looks fine."

"Ah," says the counselor. "So, it will be fine if it goes home as usual in Tate's Friday Folder?"

"Yes, of course."

The man clears his throat. "Mrs. McGucket, I know it is none of my business, but..."

"Good Lord," Emma-Mae says, when he trails off, afraid to say more. "Look, I'm not gonna try to explain a damn thing. It's the nineteen-eighties, for pete's sake. I'll ask Dr. Pines to make dinner on Sunday, you free then?"

The counselor, who was not sure what to expect but it definitely wasn't this, agrees.

Bonus:

Emma-Mae tells Stanford the plan and Doctor Stanford Filbrick Pines, who has not spoken to another human being besides his family in like seven years, is just W H A T and everyone has to help calm his autistic ass down.

Dinner is phenomenal because he's trying to stay in the kitchen as much as possible, but eventually they get him to sit down and start talking about science.

[fiddleturnips]

I really love the way I'm writing Stanley in this fic because his romantic/sexual identity makes no fucking sense and he is fine with that

[fiddleturnips]

Emma-Mae vs. Ford normalizing Fiddlestan

I think the thing with Stanford is he has such a huge experience to education gap... like, he technically knows a bunch of stuff about sex, gender, and queerness, but he doesn't identify with or experience these things himself. So, his straight brother spontaneously develops this really weird, almost parentlike relationship with a guy who he's having casual sex with, and it just. doesn't make sense.

Emma-Mae gets it. Emma-Mae knows what being in love is like. She also knows what wanting to have sex is like, that's what her relationship with Stan is (she loves him, but he's more of a fuck buddy/best friend). The D/s side of it isn't something she experiences, but she's able to file it away as "weird gay shit" in her brain and thus accept it without really engaging with it. As for loving a guy who wants to have sex with you but who you don't really want to have sex with, well, she kind of normalized that already because a lot of women think that's normal - she definitely has a libido herself and has a bunch of female friends who have happy and active marital sex lives, but she also knows a lot of women who are like "I love the man but geeze, it's like he's always on." Her sexual and romantic vocabulary is developed from scratch from experience, whereas Ford's is much broader, but entirely theoretical.

Like, Emma-Mae is NOT a powerplay sort of a gal, but there was always this gap between what she wanted and what Fiddleford wanted, so as soon as they introduce a third into the relationship something clicks and she's just "Oh, yeah, that checks out "

Her husband is a sub but she is not a dom.

[fiddleturnips]

At this point I should seriously just drop the pretense of writing fanfiction and make this whole thing an original narrative. Anyway, here's Stan and Ford and the Lesbians:

Note: this story is playing fast and loose with pronouns and queer culture. This is to reflect the fact that these are two cishet men in a lesbian space in the 1980s. It's intentionally written to come off as ignorant, but well-meaning. The narrator is unreliable.

Stan has been getting used to the new routine with Emma-Mae and Fiddleford. They love him, he loves them, and he never knew that you could love family life so much.

But: he is still very much a heterosexual man being thrown into a homoromantic relationship for the first time. Some things are going over his head, and he's struggling to really understand them. He talks to Ford about this; since Ford isn't in the same bedroom situation, all of the others tend to vent their frustrations to him. In this particular instance, Stan is struggling to really know how to take care of a partner who does not like to be touched sexually, but loves to touch others. It feels unfair and imbalanced. It feels like Fiddleford might not really be a part of the sexual experience in the same way, like he might feel left out or used if things continue this way.

Ford, as we have established, has a rather extensive book knowledge of queer culture -- despite having very little sexual, romantic, or gender experience himself. Ford does not fully understand how Fiddleford feels, but he has an idea of who might be able to help.

The problem is... he also fears that to ask for help would be an intrusion. He knows that this is not their community.

He knows it's a risk.

But, science demands risk, so one day, he and Stan tell the other two that they're taking a day out together as brothers, and then they drive into the city.

When they walk into the bookshop, they can feel the tension. This is not their place. They are not wanted here. They are clearly men, clearly straight, and clearly uncomfortable in this aggressively women-only environment. This is the nineteen eighties; queer subcultures can be reclusive and secretive, guarding themselves ferociously against anyone who might be on the side of the law. The fine grains of sex and gender that the 2000s developed, with its free availability of information and universal decriminalization of homosexuality, do not yet exist. Everything about these two big, scruffy, normal-looking men who are clearly not from around here clashes with the intended demographic of the store.

Ford walks up to the counter, awkward as anything. Stan tries to make himself inconspicuous by reading the shelves. The titles are strange, but no stranger than he'd seen on other shelves. They speak of a world that he is not only not part of, but has been intentionally shut out of since birth.

"Excuse me," says Ford, to the red-lipped dyke behind the counter. "I know that we aren't your usual customers, but we're looking for some information that I don't think I can get anywhere else."

She stares at him like he's speaking a different language. There is a second woman, a high femme in heals and perfect hair, who watches with the sort of open, disdainful curiosity you'd see at a zoo. Ford feels small and out of place, but he continues, lowering his voice like they're in a library.

"M-my brother, he has recently entered a, um, a relationship, and h-his partner is - well, his partner does not like to be touched. And I know m-men must experience this sort of thing often enough, but, ah, I have only heard of the phenomenon among women."

The moment, the very moment Ford genders Stan's partner - the moment the ladies realize that these two brothers are not intruders in their space, but pilgrims seeking help - everything changes. The femme woman's eyebrows raise in curiosity, the red-lipped cashier's face becomes animated and attentive.

"Hey, Jay, these guys might be up your alley!"

To Ford's shock, the person who emerges is a man. No, wait - she's... ? Ford does not know if the person who emerged is a man or a woman. He reminds himself yet again that this is not a place where you assume, and that the person very well might not be considered either. This individual, presumably a butch lesbian but perhaps something else, radiates steadiness like the captain of a ship. Ford is suddenly certain that this is the one in charge here.

"How can I help you?" the person asks. The voice is a low alto, or perhaps a high tenor. It does not help.

"My name is Stanford Pines," Ford says, hoping that the use of a real name will be seen as a peace offering - you know me and I am not asking to know you. "This is my brother."

"They're looking for some stone materials," the Femme says to the newcomer. "They seem cool."

The newcomer regards him for a moment, then nods. "You familiar with this kind of stuff?"

"I am, somewhat," Ford says. He feels his shoulders sink with relief. "Only from what I've read, obviously. I do my best to be educated on sexual matters. This is new territory for my brother and his-" - Ford stumbles over the right word - "-lover."

"Yeah, gimme a sec. What's your budget?"

Ford feels even more relief. Money is much easier to exchange than good will. "Fairly high. Probably higher than Stan's patience."

Stan cringes. Ford realizes his mistake, thata first name might a private detail.

Ford swallows, though, and goes on: "But the man he's involved with is an avid reader, and likely needs the encouragement much more than either of us."

"Yeah, I'm not a big reader," Stan mumbles, blushing and hiding his head in his collar.

Their guide explores the shelves, picking out books from the stack with practiced agility. She or he or whatever the gender is brings a sizeable stack to the counter, divided into sections.

"These three are required reading. They should help you get an idea of what you're getting into," the guide says over Ford's shoulder, looking straight at Stanley - who is still avoiding the counter. "The green one is a pretty easy read. I usually give it to younger girls. This is one I've recommended to guys with dicks before. These two are just general use, good to have in the house."

"Ah, I recognize a couple of these," Ford says, beginning to feel more comfortable as the talk gets academic. The femme raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrinks back again.

He's an outsider, he reminds himself again. Don't get too haughty.

They check out. Ford pays in cash. He leaves a sizeable tip, not really caring if it was wanted or expected but knowing that money leaves a mark.

As he rejoins Stan and they begin to walk out, Stan says:

"Do you think he'll go for it?"

And Ford replies:

"Stanley, you know he'll do anything as long as you're the one to ask it of him."

And then, from behind him, a high tenor (or low alto) voice says:

"Wait."

They stop in the doorway and turn back.

The captain of the shop is leaning against the counter. She stares intensely at Stan. She points at him.

"Come here," she says.

Stan swallows. He's never been this intimidated in his life. He walks back toward the counter. This weird lesbian bookmonger commands more respect from him than his own father ever did at his scariest.

Ford, in a moment of cowardice, hangs back.

"Tell me about him."

Stan pushes his hands deep in his pockets. His eyes shift away. He swallows again; his throat is dry.

"He's, uh, he's cute. And real nice. Not like anyone I've had before."

"Is it your first time with a man?"

Stan nods.

"What your brother just said - what was he talking about?"

"Well." Stan looks at the shelves. He looks at the ceiling. He's suddenly protective of his lover, doesn't want to speak badly of him. "He's amazing. Nobody better make fun of him, alright? Don't care if you're a lady or not, sorry I really can't tell, but I'll clock you hard if you make fun of him."

She laughs hard at that low in her chest. The lipstick cashier grins wide.

"Let's say not a lady," she - he? - says. "But on my honor, I won't speak bad about your boy."

"He-" Stan takes his hands from his pockets and begins to play with his sleeves. "He's been through some shit. And he needs someone to take care of him. And he loves it so much, it makes him real happy when I'm there."

Beginning like that, baring his heart to this total stranger, does something to Stan. It does something more than alcohol, more than long sleepless nights on the road. And suddenly, all at once, it's pouring out of his heart, out of his mouth, stinging his eyes, the words are swallowing up the entire rest of the world:

"And he deserves the whole fucking world, you know? He likes it when I order him around a bit, but not, like, all dirty and mean about it, he just likes knowing he's safe, and that I got him, he can let go for a while. He, he trusts me so much, like nothing else, he's like a little baby bird or something or, or a puppy, just needs someone to remind him it's okay. And I'd do anything to take care of him, nobody ever gets to hurt him again if I'm around. But he's kinda, he, he needs it, y'know?"

Stan suddenly looks up, because he needs to see it in this bookstore butch's face, needs to know that he understands, that there's sympathy, and what Stan finds there is the rapt attention of someone who one hundred percent knows exactly what Stan is saying.

"He never knows when to quit! He forgets to take care of himself, and he gets caught up in his head or the nightmares when they get bad, and sometimes I just gotta - I just gotta tell him, y'know? Tell him to sit down and eat something, or go sleep and I've got him while he does, and he, well, he listens to me, y'know? He does what I say. Even when I'm dumb sometimes, way dumber than he is, he, he looks up to me like I'm a fucking rabbi or something, and then he does anything I tell him, and that's, that's, that's terrifying. Dumb idiot like me, and I have the most amazing guy in the whole world and I just, I'm scared of breaking him. Scared I'll screw up, like I screwed up everything else. But I can't, I ain't gonna screw this up. I'll do anything not to screw it up."

Stan runs out of steam. The lipstick cashier is tearing up and pressing her own cheek with one hand. The femme has an arm around her.

"Oh, honey," the femme says, the first words from her mouth this whole time. It's high and bright and as pretty as the rest of her.

Stan drops his head, embarrassed, sure he looks like a stupid sap, the uggliest guy in this damn bookshop, pressing back the tears so hard his cheeks hurt.

The bookmonger puts a strong, heavy hand on Stan's shoulder. Then he lifts it and cuffs Stan's head.

"Hey," he says. "We're all scared. It's worth being scared. It's totally, one hundred percent worth it. And you? I can tell you're gonna be great. Even if you screw it up, remember how you feel right now, and remember that you have something right now that most people never have in their lives. Even if you lose him someday, you remember that."

Stan squeezes his hands into fists. "I don't want to lose him."

The bookmonger shrugs. He doesn't argue.

"Well, anyway," he says.

He grabs a pencil and paper, scribbles an address and the name of a shop on it, tears it off and hands it to Stan. "You head to these guys, you tell them some of what you just told me, about how this guy relies on you to order him around some and how you don't wanna screw it up. They'll help you out."

Stan reads the paper, puzzled. It is embarrassingly obvious from the name that this is a sex shop.

"Uh, okay," he says.

"Now get out," the bookmonger says, although there is little force in the words.

Stan leaves with Ford. As they go, the femme's voice carries: "Oh, they're adorable."

The bookmonger replies: "Eh. Give it time."

Outside on the sidewalk, Ford holds the books in one arm, and they look down at the address. It's a few blocks away, easy enough to reach on foot.

"Well," says Stan, "can't be any more embarrassing than this was."

-

Part Two shall come whenever I have the time and motivation

[fiddleturnips]

Classism and sexism

Some thoughts on Stan and Emma-Mae in the story

Stan and Emma-Mae get along really well, once they get over their awkwardness. They were both kind of 'the dumb one' around over-educated nerds for a long time, and although she actually went to college, he also has the experience of trying to be a salesman when nobody can take you seriously - so he gives her a dressing down about how she needs to take less shit from people, if they want Fiddleford's computer business to get investors than, well, break into the offices, lie if you have to, just get the ball rolling by any means necessary. She says that sounds underhanded, he admits he's wanted in forty states, she starts dishing the illegal shit her family has been doing for close to a century. So, needless to say, They're Friends Now. (As much as Fiddleford and Emma-Mae were both "poor" by the standards of Fiddleford's school peers, Fiddleford's family actually owned property and a successful business. Emma-Mae's family literally fed themselves by hunting. So, the wealth dynamic Ford and Stan have is kinda mirrored.)

@forbiddenforestofdesire: Kind of interesting you see Em thinking she's the "dumb" one, does Fid put her down unintentionally?

Me: I doubt it. In fact, he probably praises her to the moon and back. I think it's more that they have a very traditional Southertionship, and in traditional relationships, the woman is in charge of the house and the man has the career. She kind of just got pushed down by society and never even noticed it was happening.

@forbiddenforestofdesire: ah yeah even the best of husbands would probably not have had the bandwidth then to really see a woman in that time period sort of becoming smaller for her spouse

I enjoy the way I'm writing the McGuckets, though. They're both square pegs trying to squeeze themselves into round holes, and eventually something happens that's so terrible that they can't concentrate on pretending to be normal. When they come out the other side, they discover that being normal wasn't really serving them well, anyway.

[fiddleturnips]

Backupsmore University

Okay, so. The following is not very well written and has been heavily edited in my actual draft - the chapter it was in has been broken up and spread between like three different chapters. However, I realized that the context for Why Fiddleford Is Like That is sort of important for my other snippets to make sense.

Content warning for depression, but this section does not contain graphic detail. Further content warning for the American Public School System in the Nineteen-Seventies. (Specifically: the school system's relative inability to absorb non-average children.)

"Ah. Right." Stanford sat back down. The broken mug scraped across the tiles and clattered as Fiddleford swept. "Well, we were in high school. It was close to graduation. We'd been fighting anyway. Big time for me, because it was around the Science Fair-"

"Scholarship season."

"Yes."

"Your family weren't that well off, am I rembering right? I seem to recall you were seeking a full ride and couldn't get it."

"I was going to go to Westmore. If I could afford it, I would have anyway. But Backupsmore was a lot more manageable."

Fiddleford laughed. "Ain't that the truth."

"Wait, you were full ride. And you were, what, seventeen Freshman year? What were you doing there?"

"They weren't that strict on school transcripts," Fiddleford said. "A lot more welcoming of science and engineering portfolios. And I needed full ride, I wasn't getting a dime after a bug came by and wiped out my school stock."

"Your… your what?"

"Oh, you wouldn't have this sort of thing. Some of us livestock breeders, when a kid's young, we'll start to set some animals aside for them. You invest in a couple of pigs, add to the herd when you can, teach the kid to care for 'em, and when it comes time for high school graduation you can get a sturdy few grand even if it's just a small herd, then if you invest it right and keep an eye on the price of pork, you can pay a kid through college with a bit to spare. Only mine all got sick and died out."

"That is fascinating and tragic. You never talked about this."

"Yeah, I never talked to the Yankee kids about the fact that I was going to a bum school because my papa couldn't afford a better one because my pigs died and I didn't have school transcripts 'cause I didn't go to school. How do you think that woulda gone over?"

Stanford did know about Fiddleford's school history. At this moment, he was significantly exaggerating. He had gone to school, and he had excelled at school - for about two thirds as long as any other kid, if you combined all of the months.

Pines and McGucket were close college friends, in a lot of the same classes and clubs, spending study hours together in the tucked-away rooms that let them get as loud and melodramatic as they wanted. At first, Fiddleford had joked that he'd done a lot of special programs for county fairs as a kid. Then, he'd joked that nobody taught him per se as he'd just up and swallowed a library one summer and they all figured that was probably that. Then he'd joked that he was a dropout, and when pressed on that he'd grudgingly admit that no, he was homeschooled.

Then eventually the two boys got close enough and he got tipsy enough for it all to come out. The whole story was that the older he got, the more he skipped grades and got shifted to advanced classes and eventually got stuck in the school's Special Education department because as it was they had no idea what the hell else to do with him, the more he'd get bored and start stealing books from older kids and building things out of school supplies and on one memorable occasion stuck a fork in the electrical outlet - he'd been found with third-degree burns on his hand and a paper beside him calculating the exact voltage available from the wall outlet in comparison to the shock a human being could survive - anyway, the more all of that happened, the earlier in the year his Ma and Pa would have the hard conversation that the trouble he could cause at home was nothing like the trouble he was already causing in the classroom.

By high school, his Ma had sat him down and said: Look. You need an education. Every single word of what they teach you in those there classrooms matters, even the stuff you think is dumb and silly. So you're gonna stay home this year, we're getting permission to let you do experiments in the local tech college's labs for Chemistry and such and the rest you're figuring out on your own. And at the end of the year, you are submitting reports about what you learned to every single teacher in the school, and we'll see if they find fault in your methods.

She'd meant for him to get through Freshman core curriculum. He'd gotten through that most of the electives. The next year, he did the rest of the core curriculum and they rented out some textbooks from the local tech college, plus a special weekly tutoring session with the Language Arts teacher because his critical thinking was a bit underdeveloped and another with the AP Maths guy to whip his self-correction into shape. The year after that, they had a sit-down with a representative of the County and a recruitment man from a university and the principal of the high school he'd dropped out of. He couldn't legally leave the public system until he was at the legal age, but they all agreed that he was doing just fine on his own until then.

He wasn't seventeen when he enrolled at Backupsmore. He was sixteen. And he'd already tested out of Freshman and Sophmore classes, and the only other one there who'd done that was Stanford. The two were friends because up to that point, neither one had ever had a peer.

Stanford Pines was a by-the-book scientist. He'd completed every year of school the way it was intended, on time, and with very high marks. He'd also completed science fair projects and extracurriculars. Once he reached university, he kept a full schedule, his days planned to the minute, with an exercise routine and designated journaling time. His accelerated schooling happened because he did things to the letter, bull-rushed through the political game, took every advantage he could get, and was so damn good at his job that nobody could find a reason to keep him from going at it.

Fiddleford McGucket was a free thinking engineer. He couldn't keep his head on straight enough to follow orders, but he was "such a delight to have in class" and "unfailingly diligent with his homework" and "not afraid to do the hard, boring work that needs doing for a project's success," so he kept getting special treatment anyway.

For Stanford Pines, his combined arrogance with his peers, aggressively growth-minded attitude, relentless self-paced work schedule, and unfailing results put him through twelve doctorates and a self-guided grant program.

For Fiddleford McGucket, the combined inexperience working with others, habit of taking on all the work that was available to him so he could prove he was worthwhile, commitment to doing everything perfectly right the first time no matter how loaded his schedule was, and desperate, desperate need to fit in for once left him plastered to the floor of a bathroom stall trying not to cry out loud while he psyched himself up to get back to the lab every spring and autumn night for a year.

Pines and McGucket had both set astronomical standards for themselves that no normal human could possibly hope to achieve. Difference was, Doctor Stanford Pines had somehow done it.

[fiddleturnips]

When I start posting the fic in order I'm really going to have to take some time to edit through Fiddleford's accent for consistency. He code-switches according to consistent rules that I keep forgetting.

I'm also making an effort to avoid overusing dialectical speech, and to clearly show how his speech gets more dialectical over time. But it's haaaaard

[fiddleturnips]

Emma-Mae at the women's club, listening to everyone else complain that their husbands are losing their libidos: sips tea, says nothing

[fiddleturnips]

Having fun posting things on AO3, even though it's all out of order. I've been in a different mood lately, so I'm filling in the middle of the story, pre-Bill-banishment.

That said, I can't figure out the timeline of Emma-Mae and Stan getting involved. Things are supposed to escalate sharply after she shows up, she needs to be around before Stan and Stan needs a runway period. I might send her on a quest for a bit.

[fiddleturnips]

They're D/s your honor

Stan's brow wrinkled ever so slightly. He stepped in. "Hey. Gorgeous." His tone of voice was steady, stern. The instant Fiddleford heard it, he changed - he became more still and his expression was softer. He turned his face to Stan. Stan put a hand on his cheek, which immediately flushed red. This spot of coloration did not come with any flustered twitching or embarrassed pulling away; he simply sat, staring up with rapt attention, in Stanley's hands. "You gotta eat, bud," said Stanley. "You need to take care of yourself." Fiddleford dropped his eyes and leaned his face further into Stanley's hand. "…If I make us something quick, will you take a break and eat with me?" Fiddleford nodded. "You're doing good. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, you're wonderful and nothing you do can change that."

[fiddleturnips]

This is a story about how Gifted Child Syndrome sucks, btw.

[fiddleturnips]

I can't write her easily, but I have Emma-Mae's plot utility down.

Context: Bill has been torturing the humans with terrifying imagery in dreams and hallucinations, and Emma-Mae's have had a specific theme. (Also she's a nurse.)

Emma-Mae, too furious to keep her peace anymore, spun on Stanford. "I'm not scared of GODDAMN horses!" Ford recoiled from the force of her shout. He blinked. "But Bill knows your innermost thoughts-" "No, he knows what's in your dreams! An if you're spending every night and day single mindedly thinkin about something, it's gonna be in your dreams!" Ford's brows pinched together, gears turning in his head. "Wait. So you're saying that project you've been working on..." Emma-Mae glared at him. She gestures with one hand for him go finish his sentence. "...It was a decoy." "THERE you go." Ford began to pace along the kitchen. Stan butted in: "But... If you weren't working on something that would help..." "What the hell could I do that they can't? I'm here for medical expertise and shotgun proficiency and those ain't going away. My head is better empty." Stan looked at her like she'd just revealed some secret truth to him. He was in awe. "You're smart." "Yes I'm smart, I'm a nurse! They don't just give those credentials away! Education is what you make of it. There's a reason twelve times Doctor Pines needed doctoral dropout Mister McGucket to build his damn portal, and it's because twelve doctorates and none of them in engineering means you can't build a damn portal! We're smarter together, and Cipher's gonna try to break us apart every single fucking chance he gets, and you morons almost fell for it!" "Why the horses?" Ford asked suddenly. "It was easy," Emma-Mae said. "And mind you there's other reasons you don't get to know about, what with him having a damn key to your innermost mind." "Yes, of course. That makes sense." Ford held his chin with one hand, deep in thought. "You want him to think he can control you...."

[fiddleturnips]

The whole history of this fic is:

Write a kinky noncon story

Challenge myself to write non-kink in the kinky noncon story

Now it's slowly eking its way toward being "The Story of how the Stans, Emma-Mae, and Fiddleford became a polyamorous witchhunting family in the woods"