tw: homophobia, panic attacks, angst, gay people also its very long It was dark out. He didn't know how late, but that wasn't his main concern. He had woken up, in gasping for air, from a nightmare that was so strange and vague he felt it slipping from his mind as he tried to remember it. Something about a yellow shape. He didn't know. But when he had woken up, gasping for air and disoriented, something was wrong. The bed was cold. Empty. Ford was gone. Logically, it meant nothing. Logically, he was probably just getting some water, and he would be back before Fiddleford knew it. So he waited. Then waited some more. Then decided he would go look for Ford, find him, and go back to sleep. He sat up out of the bed, hazily putting on his slippers (Brown, lined with plaidypus fur) before he walked out of the bedroom and started his search. But he wasn't in the kitchen, or the living room, or the bathroom. Where was he, capturing moths? He checked the outside, just in case. Nothing, and no fresh footprints in the snow, either. There was only one place Ford could be left, so Fiddleford went downstairs. He stepped out of the elevator shaft, bumping into long cold bunson burner caked with some kind of ash, and stepped into the portal room's hall... And there Ford was, hunched over the controls for the portal. "Ford, are you feelin' alright? Did something happen?" No response. He stepped forward. "Stanford? Yer startin' to scare me.. Nothing. Fiddleford walked over to Ford until he was right behind him, and rested his hand on the his shoulder, and gently. shook him. "Stanford?" Ford turned to face him, and Fiddleford stopped dead on his tracks. His eyes. Something was drastically wrong with Stanford's eyes. His pupils were cat-like, thin and almond shaped, and his eyes were yellow, a shade so startling they seemed to glow in the dark room. "What something on my face, hillbilly?" Stanford's mouth said, in a distinctly NOT STANFORD VOICE. Fiddleford opened his mouth, but he couldn't speak. His throat felt dry as he stared at this... thing wearing Ford's face. "Hey, i get it, i'd be speechless too in the presence of the most important person i'd ever met!" Fiddleford finally managed to gasp out a handful of words, the rest of his body frozen as his brain yelped at him to GET OUT FAST. "You... you're not Ford..." The thing burst into laughter, a high, shrill laughter, one that made Fiddleford's skin crawl. But even so, there was an opportunity here, and he intended to use it. He grabbed the nearest object he could get his hands on, which just so happened to be one of Ford's journals, and brandished it above his head, ready the slam it down onto Not-Ford. (Cont)
(Cont) He could tell from the heft of the book that it could do damage, and a considerable amount of it. But he faltered, and Not-Ford noticed. "Y'know, Fiddleford, i don't think Stanford would really appreciate waking up injured, and with you standing over him holding a weaponized diary. You would've betrayed him, Just like how you betrayed your wife and your kid by leaving them so you could go frolic with a nerd all day. I don't know too much about human 'culture, but your hick hometown probably isn't so tolerant of 'freaks of nature' like yourself!" Fiddleford grimaced. Not Ford was right. He would probably get hate-crimed or worse if they knew. And it had a point. What if when Ford came to he thought Fiddleford had hurt him? He dropped the journal. This was hopeless. his legs felt like they would give out any second now, his skin felt feverish, and he was somehow also spontaneously developing a nasty headache. "Hah, i almost thought you'd stand up for yourself! I should just twist you into a meat pretzel here and now, but i wouldn't want to disable you or your six fingered home-wrecker, you've got an important job!" Not-Ford voice was already starting to get fuzzy, and Fiddleford was on his knees, barely processing what was happening anymore. His vision was getting blurry, and his throat felt tight, and honestly, he was slipping in and out of consciousness. He could very vaguely sense commotion, but he had no idea what it was or who was causing it, and soon enough, he was out like a light. When Fiddleford woke up, he was lying in what felt like a puddle of his own sweat, uncomfortable and chilled to the bone. At the very same time, his skin pricked with fever, and overall, he was disoriented, sweaty, and shaking. Then he remembered. Not Ford. He gasped, and frantically scanned his surroundings. He was in bed. He checked him self, panic increasing, and his eyes settled on a smear of chalky ash on the sleeve of his pajama shirt. So it wasn't a dream. And someone, likely Not-Ford, had carried him up to the bed, Not-Ford. Who would be sitting at the end of the bed, or in the living room, or downstairs, just waiting for Fiddleford to show himself up before it continued to torment him. At this point, Fiddleford was hyperventilating, and was starting towards a breakdown, so he jumped when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and twisted around defensively to who had touched him. Not Ford. Ford. His eyes, they were normal. Concerned, maybe, but normal. And familiar. Before Ford could ask if he was alright, he had an armful of a sobbing mess draped over him, crying into his shoulder. So he held Fiddleford close, and he stayed with him
