Work Text:
“Hey, Fiddleford?”
Fiddleford hums under his breath, scrawling down another line about the portal humming quietly behind them.
“Uh, hello? You in there?”
He readjusts his glasses, scans through the notes he’s copied down so far – Ford’s been trying to apologize all morning, but Fiddleford needs to get this work done. Just a few more minutes-
“Glasses.”
Ford’s voice is almost the same, but it’s stretched, high-pitched. It sounds teasing. Fiddleford clutches his pen so hard it digs into the paper.
“What do you want?” Fiddleford tries to keep his tone low, but his voice cracks in the middle. There’s shifting from behind, and Ford slides up next to him, lays a hand on his shoulder.
“Well, Glasses,” he says, “it’s not a question of what I want – more what Sixer wants, you know?”
Fiddleford looks up from his notes. Ford’s sclera is yellow, his pupils slitted like a cat’s, but Fiddleford knows it’s not him. Those eyes are lit up with a shine far too knowing, too cruel, too amused for Ford’s demeanour these days.
Fiddleford swallows, shrugs the hand off his shoulder. “His name is Stanford,” he mutters, looking back at his notes. “Not Sixer.”
“Really?” A heartbeat passes, and Not-Ford’s mouth is next to his ear. “He doesn’t seem to have a problem with me calling him that.” The words are smooth, calculated, and Fiddleford knows they’re designed to get to him. He takes a breath, stretches out his fingers. “At least I’m calling him something.”
Fiddleford stands up from his desk, grabs his notes, and crosses to the door.
“Aww, come on, Glasses!” Not-Ford runs to catch up with him, slides to block the exit from the lab. “You’re no fun!”
“If he wants to open his mind to – to whatever you are, fine,” Fiddleford says, glaring, “but that doesn’t involve me.”
Not-Ford raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorway. “So,” he purrs, “you think you’re not involved?”
“I’m here to help with research and construction,” Fiddleford says, casting his eyes down. “Nothing else.”
“Glasses,” Not-Ford says, “we’ve barely gotten any work done up in here because of you.” He knocks on the side of Ford’s head.
Fiddleford narrows his eyes, looking back up. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh,” Not-Ford says, “Sixer’s been so distracted today! Talking about that fight you two had, how annoyed he feels-”
“-shut up,” Fiddleford cuts in, clutching his stack of notes closer.
“-how much he wishes he could just get rid of – well, I’m getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?” Not-Ford grins, straightening back up. “We all know that won’t happen.”
Fiddleford bites his lip, and moves to go back to his desk. Not-Ford grabs his collar, and drags him back around to meet his eyes. Ford’s face drops into a distressed one, but his pupils remain sharp.
“Oh, Bill,” Not-Ford says, in a voice much too close to the real Ford’s, “you’re the only one that understands!”
“Let go of me.”
His voice returns to his own, high-pitched strain. “Glasses is nice, and he’s smart enough, but he doesn’t get the big picture, you know?”
“Shut up,” Fiddleford says, pulling himself away. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Not-Ford pulls him back, so close that their noses almost touch. “I do know,” he says, grinning. “You’re not gonna see the end of this project, Glasses.”
“I said let go-”
Ford’s grip loosens, suddenly, and Fiddleford almost falls backwards. Ford’s head hangs, for a moment, before it jerks back up. His pupils are round again, and they flick frantically about the room before they land on Fiddleford. He opens his mouth, closes it.
“Fiddleford,” he says, his hands still outstretched. He drops them to his coat, smoothing out the lines, and swallows. They watch one another, for a few moments. Fiddleford’s heart is thundering in his feet. “I’m sorr-”
“-I don’t know what your plan is,” Fiddleford says, pushing past him into the hallway, “but I hope you know what you’re doing.” Ford goes slack against the wall, doesn’t try to stop him.
The elevator dings as it reaches him, and Fiddleford steps inside.
“Hey,” Ford calls, “where are you going?”
Fiddleford hears the croak in his tone, and tries to ignore the way his heart aches. “Somewhere I can get these notes done.”
Ford pushes himself off the wall, walks to the elevator. “Hey,” he says, hands still smoothing out his coat, “stay here! I need my best assistant, right?”
“It’s fine, Ford,” Fiddleford says, quiet. He steps back, and presses the 1. “I don’t want him coming back.”
“He won’t,” Ford insists, not moving from the doors. “Fiddleford, please.”
“Stanford,” Fiddleford says, “it’s fine. I understand that you need him in there, but,” he cuts himself off, sighing. “Just - be careful.”
Ford watches him for another moment, and steps back. He swallows again. “I will,” he says, his eyes wide. “I am.”
Fiddleford nods, and the doors swing shut. The elevator rises, and Ford disappears from his view. Fiddleford’s notes drop from his hands, feather-float to the ground. He lets out a choked sob, covering his mouth with his hand.
“Stanford,” he whispers, collapsing against the wall, “what have you gotten yourself into?”