Set in an AU where Fiddleford’s memory gun didn’t work quite as well as it should’ve, he realized Stan wasn’t Stanford, and, when he tried to confront him about it, Stan managed to rope him into helping him.
R, 1525.
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Fiddleford’s mistake is shoving Stan: Stan is stronger by leagues, and burning up with anger that Fiddleford couldn’t ever hope to touch. Stan swings, hard, and Fiddleford goes down with an anticlimactic thump. But Stan’s anger doesn’t work like that – downing him isn’t enough. Before Stan can consider how dumb this is, he’s on his knees, straddling Fiddleford’s chest, and he latches his hands around Fiddleford’s throat.
“Coward!” he spits. Fiddleford struggles, bucking and thrashing under him, making sick little hiccuping noises. “You’re a coward! He’d help you!” Fiddleford’s face is turning a beet red; a string of drool slides down his chin. He scratches Stan’s hands, then fumbles for Stan’s eyes, clawing at his face.
It hits Stan, very suddenly, that he is acting like a total fucking maniac. He releases him with a gasp and scrambles away. Fiddleford wheezes and coughs, rolling onto his stomach. The red imprints of Stan’s hands are already bright, a mottled ring of color. Stan yanks at his hair and groans. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “Fiddleford, I – I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” He crawls toward him, desperate to help, to make this right. Yeah, fuck this one up, too. That’ll help everyone. “I didn’t mean…”
He’s shocked that Fiddleford doesn’t shove him away, but he doesn’t, letting Stan rub his back as he sucks in deep breaths. When he finally lifts his head, there are tear tracks on his cheeks. He looks more confused than angry. “You really don’t get it,” he rasps. He spits, then sits up. “I don’t reckon you ever will.”
Bordapanic fo rrel 