#i want to smell like someone spilled whisky on a first edition and set it on fire.

[dieinct]

op of this post locked reblogs (valid; also doing so) but this is exactly it. i want to smell like a library mistake.

[thelastspeecher]

Recoil - Chapter 4: Squib Load

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   AO3

I was too busy working on my thesis last week and getting sick this week to upload this chapter.  The fic is already written, but it takes time to post, especially since I sometimes edit while I’m posting it.  But!  It is here.  And things go from bad to worse...

(Again, this fic was inspired by “1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back” by @infriga)

Squib load (noun): a firearms malfunction in which a fired projectile does not have enough force behind it to exit the barrel, and thus becomes stuck

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              Stan paced anxiously by the side of Ford’s bed, glancing at Ford every now and then.  Ford was sleeping peacefully, his chubby, cherubic face particularly angelic.  Stan scowled.

              He has no right to look so relaxed when he did this to himself.  Why the hell did he eat that plant?  He knows better than that!  Hell, I know better than that, and I’m a dumbass.

              “Yer bound to wear a hole in the floor like that,” a voice said.  Stan spun around.  Fiddleford had returned from his house.  He handed the plastic bag he was holding to Stan.  “That oughta fit him.  Yer lucky that I’m a bit of a hoarder.  Children’s clothes are expensive.”

              “I know,” Stan mumbled, thinking back to some of the price tags he’d seen at the mall, what felt like years ago.  “Why didn’t his clothes shrink with him this time?”

              “The cause was dif’rent,” Fiddleford said.  Stan rolled his eyes.

              “Yeah, I got that, Fiddlenerd.  I’m complaining, not actually asking a question.”  Stan set the bag down next to the bed.  “It looks like he’s done shrinking, at least.” Stan looked at Ford again.  “No clue how old he is now.”  Fiddleford crossed over to the bed and sat on the edge. He stroked Ford’s hair out of his face.

              “I can’t give ya an exact age, but he looks to be ‘bout three.  Maybe a young four or an old two.  Depends on whether he was larger or smaller than average as a child.”  Fiddleford looked at Stan expectantly.  Stan shrugged.  “Well, the range of old two to young four ain’t exactly an easy one.  If ya thought he was difficult ‘fore, he’s goin’ to be extra difficult now.”

              “Why did that plant do this to him?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford let out a heavy sigh.

              “I don’t know, and I won’t until I get a chance to observe it more closely. Unfortunately, Stanford was the one who knew biology.  Combine the fact I ain’t that knowledgeable in the first place with the current state of my mind and ya wind up with someone tryin’ to shoot with both eyes closed.”

              “You figured out what was going on with the energy whatever,” Stan protested. Fiddleford shook his head.

              “Stanford collected most of that data hisself.  And it was regardin’ a machine’s impact.  This time, it’s a plant’s impact.  My knowledge on plants is strictly from growin’ up on a farm. That plant wasn’t alfalfa or an apple tree.”  Ford made a small noise and rolled over.  Fiddleford smiled faintly.  “These are terrible conditions, to be sure, but I’m a sucker fer a cute face.”  Stan sat on the edge of the bed as well, watching Fiddleford watch Ford.

              There was no doubt that Fiddleford was a loving, caring father. He radiated an aura of gentleness while he looked at Ford.  Stan felt an ugly jealousy unfurling in his chest, thinking of his own childhood.  Dreading the sound of heavy footsteps on stairs, being ignored until he succeeded or, more often, screwed up.

              Why is this hick who looks like there’s a chicken nesting in his hair a better dad than I got?  Fiddleford looked up.  He furrowed his brow thoughtfully.

              “Somethin’ wrong?”

              “No, just-”  Stan looked away and tried to fight back his sudden irritation.  “Just thinking about when we were this small before.”

              “Ah.”  The sound was small, but full of understanding.  Stan looked back at Fiddleford.  “I ain’t privy to the details, but Stanford told me a few things ‘bout his – your – parents.”  Fiddleford gazed down at Ford.  “I forget sometimes that not everyone had a ma and pa that took care of ‘em as well as mine did.  When ya grow up with somethin’, ya tend to not realize that there are folks who don’t have that thing.”  The jealousy that had arisen out of nowhere began to settle into a low simmer.

              Right.  The reason why he’s a good dad and Pops wasn’t is because this guy actually cares about other people.  And he had a good dad, so he had someone he could copy. It was like a stone had been tossed into Stan’s stomach.  It’s for the best I haven’t had kids yet.  Maybe I shouldn’t ever.  It’s not like I had someone who could show me how to do it right.

              “What’s in the past is in the past,” Fiddleford said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.  Stan snorted.

              “Sounds like something someone who had a good past would say.”

              “Or it’s somethin’ someone would say if they’re beginnin’ to learn the hard way that they need to find a healthy way to move past negative events,” Fiddleford said sharply.  Stan raised an eyebrow.

              I touched a nerve, didn’t I?  The urge to keep pushing was strong, especially since Fiddleford had been strangely specific.  Stan fought back that urge.  Don’t. If you push him, he might leave. And if he leaves, you’re stuck with three-year-old Ford and no idea how to take care of him, let alone cure him. Stan frowned, a stray phrase that Fiddleford had mentioned earlier suddenly catching his attention.

              “What did you mean by your ‘current state of mind’?” Stan asked. Fiddleford stilled.  “You’ve mentioned it before.  That your brain isn’t what it used to be.”

              “That’s private, personal business,” Fiddleford said tightly.

              “Not really, if it’s gonna make curing Ford more difficult.”  Stan had touched another nerve.  Fiddleford’s jaw clenched.

              “Then it serves him right, ‘cause his actions ‘re what led me to it,” Fiddleford growled.

              “So it has to do with whatever happened between you and Ford,” Stan said. Fiddleford nodded reluctantly. “What was it?  Bad breakup?” Stan joked.  Fiddleford completely froze, every muscle tensed.  Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth like a bee trapped inside a room.  Stan could practically hear the gears frantically turning in Fiddleford’s head. Finally, Fiddleford relaxed.

              “No.”

              “…That’s it?  That’s all you’re gonna say?  ‘No’?”

              “What more do ya want me to say?”

              “I want you to tell me what happened with you and Ford.  And why it might make curing him more difficult. You might have a beef with him and I do too, but he’s still my brother, okay?  I want him to get back to normal!”  Stan began to pick up steam as he spoke, physically shaking by the time he bit off his last word.

              “Fine.”  Fiddleford carefully pulled Ford’s blanket higher, covering Ford’s shoulders.  “I’ll tell ya.”  His voice was soft but firm.  He looked up at Stan, meeting his eyes unflinchingly.  “But only if ya tell me in turn ‘bout yer own issues with him.”

              “Hell, no,” Stan said immediately.  “That’s my business.”

              “It’s only fair fer you to share with me, if I have to share with you.”

              “Your shit is relevant to the situation!  Mine isn’t!”

              “So you don’t think that there’s even a slight chance Ford might use whatever bad blood is between the two of ya as a weapon?” Fiddleford shot back. “He’s a toddler.  Toddler’s aren’t exactly known fer their self-control, and honestly, Ford wasn’t particularly good at that as an adult!  He’ll get frustrated at some point and use it against ya, to get ya to back down or hurt yer feelin’s ‘cause he’s upset he can’t stay up past eight!  It might not be relevant in the same way, but that don’t mean it ain’t!”

              “You goddamn fucking-” Stan started.  Ford let out a loud groan and began to move.  Stan and Fiddleford froze.  Stan belatedly realized that his voice had been getting louder, as had Fiddleford’s.  Fiddleford seemed to have come to the same conclusion.  Once Ford stilled again, Fiddleford got up.

              “Maybe we should have this conversation in the living room,” Fiddleford said quietly.  “A toddler is one of the worst people to wake up from a nap.  A toddler who will wake up and know he’s not supposed to be one?  Bound to be even worse.”

----- 

              Stan entered the kitchen.  Fiddleford looked up from the papers scattered across the kitchen table.  Stan held up the bottles he had found.

              “Time to get liquored up!” he said cheerfully.  Fiddleford raised his eyebrows.

              “You can.  I think I’ll avoid imbibin’ fer a while.”  He pointed at a cup sitting next to him, likely leaving water rings over everything. “I’m fine with my water fer now.” He looked back down at the papers, frowned, and picked one up.  “I don’t need to mess up my mind with alcohol.  It’s a bit like a hamster in a wheel as it is.”

              “Suit yourself.”  Stan opened a pantry and grabbed a glass tumbler, then poured amber liquid into it from one of the bottles.  He picked up the glass and sniffed the liquid experimentally.  “Hmm.  Smells like some fine whisky.  Ford’s got good taste.”  Stan joined Fiddleford at the table.  Fiddleford set down his piece of paper.

              “So.  Tell me about yer history with Stanford,” Fiddleford said, nonchalant.

              “One sec.”  Stan gulped down half of his glass of whisky.  “All right.  Ford and I were best friends when we were kids.  Mom would call us ‘joined at the hip’.  We…”  Stan trailed off.

              You don’t need to spill the whole thing.  He doesn’t need to hear it.  Stan cleared his throat.

              “But when we were in high school, Ford made this science fair experiment. All of a sudden, colleges were looking at him like he was gonna solve world hunger or cure cancer or whatever. He decided that he wanted to go to one of ‘em.  I was pretty pissed, ‘cause we always planned on doing stuff together when we were finally old enough to leave New Jersey.  And I went to go yell at his experiment about it.”  He managed a weak laugh.  “Like that was gonna help.”

              “Better ‘n yellin’ at Stanford,” Fiddleford said, his tone carefully neutral.

              “Not really.  I bumped a thing, something fell, and the damn machine broke.  I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t.”  The memory filled him with a hot, pulsing shame.  “That screw-up screwed up his shot at going to a fancy school out west,” Stan finished.  Fiddleford nodded.

              “I knew he was bitter ‘bout not gettin’ to go to West Coast Tech, but I never knew why he didn’t go there.”  Fiddleford rolled his eyes.  “He complained about it all the time at Backupsmore.”

              “He- wait, you went to college together?”

              “We were roommates.”

              Oh my god, they were roommates.

              “Even if he got into West Coast Tech, I doubt he’d have enjoyed it.  That school might be years ahead of the general population in terms of technology and science, but it’s way behind in…how should I say it?  Social progress.”

              “Sounds like you have experience with them.”

              “A bit.”  Fiddleford took a drink of water, his eyes stormy.  “I got in.  West Coast Tech accepted me to their engineerin’ program.  But then they found out somethin’ personal about me.  Don’t know how.  Maybe some spiteful feller from my high school told ‘em.  But it don’t matter.  Once they found out, they decided they didn’t want to be associated with my ‘lifestyle’.”  Fiddleford etched quotation marks in the air, a distinctly sour look on his face.

              “They couldn’t rescind my acceptance over it,” Fiddleford continued. “I mean, they could’ve.  But my ma was a lawyer ‘fore she married my pa, which they knew, ‘cause I mentioned it in my cover letter.  So they knew I’d make a stink over it.  Them backin’ out on their decision to accept me over a rumor.” Fiddleford swallowed.  “A rumor that was true, but I didn’t confirm it to ‘em. I ain’t always wise, but I ain’t dumb, neither.

              “They didn’t want to deal with the bad press, so they quietly changed the rules fer financial aid.  When I first got in, I qualified fer all sorts of grants and scholarships. Practic’ly a full ride.  But after they changed the rules, I didn’t qualify no more.  And without financial aid, I couldn’t go.”  Fiddleford downed the rest of his glass.  “They effectively shot me in the legs.  Didn’t kill me, but wounded me enough that I couldn’t go on.” Fiddleford’s voice broke. “Absolute horseshit, the lot of it.”

              “I’d agree with that,” Stan said solemnly.  Fiddleford sighed.

              “Anyways, I doubt Stanford would’ve thrived in an environment like that.” Fiddleford shook his head.  “Never mind.  Was that the end of yer story?”

              “…Basically,” Stan said.  Fiddleford took off his small reading glasses and busily rubbed at them with his sleeve. “I don’t know how that’s gonna help you clean those.  Your shirt’s even dirtier.”

              “Hmph.”  Fiddleford set his glasses down on the table.  He locked eyes with Stan.  Without a thin layer of smeared glass covering them, his eyes were a bright shade of blue, something that took Stan by surprise.  He wasn’t completely sure why it startled him, but nonetheless, it did. “What happened when Stanford’s machine was broken?”

              “Ford got pissed.”

              “And yer father?”

              “Even more pissed.”

              “What did he do?”  Fiddleford’s questions weren’t purposeless.  Each one was sharp, short, and thought-out.  A chill ran down Stan’s spine.  Fiddleford knew there was something Stan wasn’t saying.  Something Fiddleford was determined to find out.

              “Why do you care what my dad did?” Stan snapped.  “It doesn’t have anything to do with- with anything!  Back off!”  Fiddleford’s mouth straightened into one flat line.  After a moment, he leaned back.

              “I mentioned before that Stanford told me a bit ‘bout yer parents.  Not a lot, but enough to know that yer father would not have reacted well to this.”  Stan was silent.  “I don’t consider myself a busybody, but-”

              “You’re doing a pretty good job of pretending to be one, then.”

              “Am I wrong?” Fiddleford pried.  Stan scowled.  “Am I wrong in that somethin’ particularly awful went down that day?”

              “I don’t need to answer any more of your questions!” Stan thundered.  “I said I’d tell you why Ford and I weren’t on good terms.  I did, so I’m not gonna tell you anything else.”  Fiddleford held up his hands placatingly.

              “All right.  I’ll drop it. Fer now.”  Fiddleford looked down at the spreading water ring from his glass. “I s’ppose it’s my turn to share my bad blood with Stanford.”

              “Damn straight.”  Stan leaned back and took a swig of his whisky.  “Talk, Fiddledork.”

----- 

              “That’s essentially what happened,” Fiddleford said.  His mouth was dry from talking for so long.  “Both to make things…tense between Stanford and myself, and to leave me in my current state.”  Fiddleford’s shoulders drooped.  “I’ve felt scatter-brained before, but nothin’ like this.”

              “Huh.  I get it now,” Stan said thoughtfully.  Fiddleford was too weary from the weight of his decisions to respond energetically. He picked up his glass of water.

              “Get what?” he asked.

              “Why you and Ford used to get along so well.  You’re both dumbass geniuses.”  That startled Fiddleford out of his tiredness.  He slammed his glass down on the table and glared at Stan.

              “Excuse me?”

              “Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m a dumbass, too,” Stan said airily.  He ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “But I’m not the kinda dumbass who makes sci-fi villain weapons, I’m the kinda dumbass who licks a metal pole in winter.”  Stan shook his head.  “How the hell did you think it was a good idea to make something that would erase memories?  That’s like, the plotline of half of Ford’s favorite books.”

              “Being able to erase traumatic events would revolutionize treatment! Think of all those folks with PTSD-”

              “Look.  I’ve been through plenty of traumatic shit I’d rather forget,” Stan said.  His voice was level but firm.  “There are things that haunt me.  But forgetting ‘em would mean I- well, if I don’t have my memories, I’m not me anymore.  And isn’t that the same problem you’ve got?  You used that thing on yourself and started forgetting and now you’re not the same guy that got into West Coast Tech.”

              “To be fair, there have been side effects from prolonged use,” Fiddleford said. “If I had worked out the tweaks more before beginning to use it-”

              “Maybe you wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Stan finished.  “But maybe you would.  I stand by what I said.  Everyone’s got things they wish hadn’t happened, or that they could forget happened. Erasing them, though, changes who we are.”  Stan was silent for a moment.  He looked out the window, his eyes mournful.  “I don’t always like who I am.  That doesn’t mean I’ll try to become someone else.  I don’t know how to be someone else.  I barely know how to be me.  Y’know?”  A heavy silence filled the room.

              “Yer quite the philosopher,” Fiddleford said finally. Stan shrugged.

              “I think a lot.  Not enough to be like you or Ford, but my head isn’t completely empty.”  He cracked a small grin.  Fiddleford managed a weak smile in return.  Quiet footsteps sounded in the kitchen.  Stan and Fiddleford looked over.  “You found the clothes,” Stan said to Ford.  Ford looked down at himself.  He was wearing bright red shorts and a white T-shirt that Fiddleford remembered having a lizard on the front.  The lizard wasn’t visible at the moment, though.  “Your shirt is inside-out,” Stan said helpfully.  Ford scowled.

              “I’m aware.  My coordination is currently lacking.”

              “Tots aren’t really known fer their gracefulness,” Fiddleford said, in what he hoped was an empathetic tone.  Ford rubbed his eyes.

              “‘Tots’?  I take it I’m a toddler, then?” he asked, his voice shaking.

              “Looks like,” Stan said.  He seemed to be taking the tactic opposite to Fiddleford’s.  Rather than keep Ford calm by commiserating, he appeared to be downplaying the seriousness of the situation.  His voice was light and cheerful, like the latest wrinkle to occur could be smoothed out easily.  Fiddleford nodded slightly, appreciative.

              Stan might try to deny it, but he has very good instincts.  Children pick up on the emotions of adults and will mirror them.

              “What brought about this development?” Ford asked.  Stan got up from his chair and crouched down in front of Ford.

              “You ate a weird plant in the woods.  Lift your arms.”

              “Why?”

              “Why did you eat the plant or why should you lift your arms?” Stan asked. “I don’t know the answer to the first one, but the answer to the second one is so that I can fix your shirt. C’mon.  Lift ‘em up.”  Ford did as he was told.  Stan slid off Ford’s shirt, turned it outside-in, and put it back on Ford. Through the process, he was gentle and careful.

              “Do you not remember the plant?” Fiddleford asked Ford.  Ford rubbed his chin, an action directly contradicting his current youthful appearance.

              “No.  Do you happen to have it?  Seeing it might jolt my memory.”

              “It’s in the lab,” Stan answered.  Ford nodded.

              “Excellent.  I’ll need to run some tests on myself anyways.  Two birds with one stone.”

              “Oh, hell no,” Stan said firmly.  Ford’s eyes widened, taking Fiddleford aback.  He’d expected a scowl or frown.  Ford seemed less angry than startled.

              “What?  Why?” Ford whined.  Stan stood up.

              “You’re three.”

              “So?”

              “Your lab isn’t safe!  There’s all sortsa weird, dangerous stuff in there.”

              “Stanley!”

              “Calm down, gents,” Fiddleford said.  “Stanley, Stanford’s right in that more tests need to be run on him. Stanford, Stanley’s right that it ain’t really safe fer ya to be in the lab.  Yer too lil to do any experimentation anyways.”

              “I beg to differ,” Ford muttered, crossing his arms and looking away.  He let out a small squeak as Stan picked him up. “Hey!”

              “Fiddlesticks, think you can run the tests on him?”

              “I can do my best,” Fiddleford said hesitantly.

              “Your best is gonna be better than mine,” Stan said.  “Let’s go get those tests done.  Then…I dunno, maybe we put Ford down for a nap.”

              “No!” Ford protested.  He squirmed in Stan’s arms.  “Put me down!”

              “I thought you didn’t wanna be put down for a nap,” Stan said snarkily. Ford stopped squirming to glare at him.

              “That’s not what I meant and you know it!  I can walk downstairs myself!”

              “I’m not gonna risk it.  Those stairs are steep.  I don’t want you to trip and break your nose.”  Fiddleford watched the bickering with some amusement.  It wasn’t quite the same as an argument between siblings, which Fiddleford had plenty of experience with.  But it also wasn’t quite the same as an argument between a parent and child, which Fiddleford also knew well.

              Whichever fightin’ it’s most like, it’s kind of cute.  Though that might have somethin’ to do with the people who are arguin’.  Fiddleford flushed slightly.  Now what did I mean by that?

              “Fine, dad,” Ford grumbled, giving in.  Stan was facing away from him, but Fiddleford could still see him tense slightly.  “You can carry me down the stairs.  But I refuse to be carried all the way to the lab.  I can walk to the stairs.”

              “Sure,” Stan said quietly.  He set Ford down.  Ford immediately set off, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. Fiddleford got up and walked over to Stan.  He placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder.  Stan startled.

              “Somethin’ wrong?” Fiddleford asked softly.  Stan looked away.  “…All right, I won’t push it.  But ya seemed mighty tense just now.”

              “It’s probably nothing,” Stan muttered.  “It’s- Ford’s never called me ‘dad’ before.  Even jokingly.”  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.  “But he was joking, so yeah, it’s- it’s probably nothing.  I’m probably just a bit on edge about all of this.”

              “It’s understandable fer ya to be on edge.”  Without thinking, Fiddleford squeezed Stan’s shoulder reassuringly. Stan eyed him.

              “You’re a bit touchy, aren’t you?”

              “My apologies,” Fiddleford mumbled.  He removed his hand.  “I’ll grab what I need to.  You bring Stanford down to the lab.”

----- 

              By the time Fiddleford arrived in the lab, Stan had found an old blanket and covered the large window through which the portal could be seen.  It was a challenging task, in that he had to do it one-handed, with Ford constantly trying to break free of his hold.  Now, Ford ambled around the lab, standing on his tiptoes to try to see over the edges of counters and mumbling to himself. Stan couldn’t quite make out all of Ford’s words, but he recognized a few as frustrated swears.  Ford’s cussing was incredibly endearing as he puttered around in the distinctive toddling gait of a very young child.

              “Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Fiddleford said, finally arriving in the lab, carrying a cardboard box.  He looked around.  “Why haven’t ya turned the lights on?”

              “There’s a light switch?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford reached a finger out and flipped a switch that Stan had seen before but assumed turned on some sort of death ray.  The lab was filled with light.  Fiddleford glanced at the window tensely.  Stan was relieved to see his face relax.

              “I see you’ve hidden that bad decision.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan shrugged, passing off the action as inconsequential to him.  “It hasn’t done anything good so far, so I figured, why stare at it?”

              “Very sound logic,” Fiddleford said.  He flashed an appreciative look in Stan’s direction.  “Stanford, c’mere.  Let’s get you all tested.  Sooner we’re done with that, the sooner you can have lunch and take a nap.”

              “I don’t need a nap,” Ford protested, but he toddled over to Fiddleford obediently.  Fiddleford set the box on the ground, got down on his knees, and pulled a device that looked like a grocery store scanner out of the box.  “By the way, how long was I unconscious?” Ford asked. Fiddleford moved the scanner up and down Ford’s body.

              “A coupla hours,” Stan answered.  “Not too long.”  He glanced at his watch.  “We went on a hike around nine, you passed out around ten, it’s noon-ish now.” Ford’s stomach rumbled. “Fiddleford was right about lunch. We need to get some food in you. Any requests?”

              “I’d think somethin’ not too strong,” Fiddleford said.  He looked at the screen of the scanner, his face grim. “Toddlers should be restricted to blander food.  Maybe somethin’ like chicken nuggets or mac ‘n cheese.  Do either of those sound good to ya, Stanford?”

              “Either one should be fine.”  Ford craned his neck around to try to look at the scanner’s screen as well, but Fiddleford put the scanner back in the box.  “What were the results of that?”

              “Odd.”

              “Odd how?” Ford pressed.

              “Yer no longer givin’ off the energy of a dif’rent dimension.  Yer cells seemed to have realigned with this one.”

              “That’s good, right?” Stan asked.  Ford rolled his eyes.

              “Duh, dad,” he scoffed.  Stan’s chest tightened.  Fiddleford looked up at him.  Their eyes met.  Fiddleford nodded slightly.

              He thinks it’s weird, too.  For weeks, Ford never called me ‘dad’, even though I acted like one.  But since he turned into a toddler, he’s called me that twice.  Jokingly, yeah, but what if he starts saying it seriously?

              “On the surface, yes, it’s good,” Fiddleford said carefully.  He removed another item from the box.  Stan squinted.  It looked like a pair of tweezers.  “I’ll see ‘bout testin’ some of yer DNA.”

              “You don’t have much experience with that,” Ford said.

              “I’ve seen you do it plenty of times.  I think I can figure it out.  And if I can’t, I can always ask ya.”  Fiddleford plucked a strand of hair from Ford, who let out a small yelp.  “Sorry ‘bout that.  It’s not a pleasant feelin’, but I figure it’s better ‘n blood samples.” Ford paled.

              “Yes.  I prefer this over taking blood samples.  Needles…” Ford trailed off.  He shivered violently.  Fiddleford’s mouth pursed in concern, but Ford’s reaction didn’t surprise Stan.  He remembered well his brother’s childhood fear of all things medical.  As a medical anomaly, he was in and out of doctors’ offices near constantly, and not just to try to fix something.  Filbrick used to brag about the number of studies they’d been paid to have Ford participate in, back when Ford was too young to protest being treated like a lab rat.

              “Needles suck,” Stan said, trying to take some of the focus off Ford.

              “No disagreements here,” Fiddleford said, feigning cheer.  He took out a third device from the box.  This one looked like a cross between a satellite dish and ray guns on the shows Ford used to watch.  Like with the scanner, there was a screen on it directly facing Fiddleford.  “This is the last test I’ll be runnin’ fer now.”

              “Really?  There are so many others!” Ford said.  “You haven’t even taken my vitals, for one.”

              “Well…”  Fiddleford set down the satellite dish-ray gun.  He pressed the back of his hand against Ford’s forehead.  “You feel fine temperature-wise.  Hold out yer wrist.”  Fiddleford silently took Ford’s pulse.  “Heart rate is also fine.”  Fiddleford placed his hands on his knees.  “There ‘re plenty of other vital signs, but those two are the ones I’d be most concerned ‘bout.  I can listen to yer breathin’ ‘n whatnot later, but ya seem fairly healthy to me.” Ford’s stomach rumbled again. Fiddleford managed a small smile. “And ya sound pretty hungry, so goin’ through this as fast as possible to make sure ya get to eat soon is a good idea. Let me get a quick readin’ on ya and then Stan can take ya upstairs fer some lunch.”  Fiddleford held up the satellite dish-ray gun again.  He pulled the trigger.  There was a flash of light.

              “Well?” Ford prompted impatiently.  Fiddleford nodded slowly, staring at the gun’s screen.

              “Yer givin’ off a bit of magical radiation.”

              “Wait, Ford’s magic now?” Stan asked.  Fiddleford tilted his head one way, then the other.

              “Yes and no.  I’ll need some time to properly interpret these results, but just goin’ off what I see here, it looks like Ford has a slight magical aura.  Prob’ly from eatin’ that plant in the woods.”  Fiddleford playfully poked Ford’s nose.  Ford wrinkled his nose in response, eliciting a small smile from Fiddleford.  “Go on upstairs and have yourself some food, okay?  Once yer done with lunch and yer nap after, I can go over these results with ya if ya still want to.”

              “Okay.”  Ford looked over at Stan hopefully.  “Mac ‘n cheese?”  Stan nodded.

              “You got it.”  Stan strode over to Ford and picked him up.  To his surprise, instead of attempting to wriggle free, Ford settled against his chest.  He began to head upstairs.  “And this time, I won’t even make you eat a vegetable with it.”  Ford beamed up at him.

              “Thanks, dad.”  A lump appeared in Stan’s throat.  He choked it down and forced a smile.

              “No problem, Sixer.”