Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Y’know, outta the two of us, I never expected you to be the one with ties to the goddamn mafia.”

Ford hates to admit it, but he choked on the water. It has only been an hour or so since he’s sat up for the first time in a perceivable amount of it, and Stan has nearly broken all of his progress. Ford has not seen his old study with normal eyes since thirty damned years ago, and by hell would he let Stan ruin it with his sudden entrances with sacks full of fairy dust. 

The mug in his hand thumps to the floor. It does not break, but the thick blue paint surrounding it cracks unpleasantly. It’s still ruined.

Stan sits beside his brother silently, putting down the most recent load of ingredients for their Egregious Elixir as collected by him. Only three days after that cursed ‘heist’ and Bill’s final invasion into Ford’s mind, and they had already run out of fairy dust and tree roots. The kids were busy today, something about messing with the agents in town, so it was just Stan and Ford for tonight. 

Stan pats Ford’s back while he coughs the rest of it out, trying his utmost not to tease him for his misfortune. The outburst was sudden, after all. He wracks his brain—did the mafia move into the town during his time away? It certainly sounded unlikely, but anything was possible with time and human whims. He can’t assume, though, at the moment.

There are still moments where it’s hard to speak full sentences, but right now is when Ford can make the exception “Mafia? Stanley, who have you been seeing with me stuck in the house?!”

Stan lets out a chuckle, scooting away a little for Ford to make room to sink in despair. “No one! Except a gnome who's part of a gnome mafia for our dust. So… yes, the gnome mafia.”

Gnomes… Ford remembers the gnomes. Not many of those memories are pleasant, but they are vivid. Considering how muddled (but still strong) those connections must be, he must’ve forgotten about them. Either or, hearing it outloud after so long—

“...What do you know?”

“Oh, lots of things.” Stan smirks, as if infinitely proud of Ford’s life being pried open like a coconut. “Lots of ‘em. Like—and you’re gonna love this—you can do things. They get you the equivalent of coke in there! Without question! And a good few of ‘em still remember you. You’re a legend there, Ford. Almost makes me want to leave them alone… heh.”

Ford’s expression sours intensely. He thought they would’ve abandoned that by now. He refrains from wringing his hands together—burns would not help over even more burns. Despite their miracle working, there was still damage to be repaired. A lot of it.

Damned timing. 

“Look, I get it.” Stan interpreted the silence correctly, for once. Ford picks at his wrapping, to avoid looking up.  “You don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine by me. But— I know it’s true. You know it’s true. Don’t you dare deny that this whole… thing doesn’t exist. I dunno how deep it goes, but… it looked deep.”

Stan is smiling, Ford can see from the barest corner of his eye. He should not be smiling. Ford is not nearly as happy as him. It would be a different story if they’d… found those gnomes together. Or admitted at utmost confidence in the middle of the night. Not during such a strange and intense time. That wasn’t ideal. 

Ford’s face is contorted in unmissable dismay. This would be haunting him to the end of his days. 

Stan, like always, picks up on the gap. “So how deep does it go?”

Ford glares. He swipes the full bag of goods into his lap, fumbling with the fangled rope tied around the top. His hands are shaking, but they always are these days. “Did they give you the roots too?”

“Wendy got them for us. The whole tree, I’m telling you.” This is a casual song and dance by now—Ford tries to do something on his own, struggling but clearly able to finish it, and Stan takes over like he’s too weak and soft to do it. Ford’s never confronted him about it, because yes, it was nice to not have to say that his nerves are too shot and he needed help opening this can or that his legs were too wobbly at the moment and he needed to make it to the porch. Pathetic, but nice. He could indulge for a little while.

“Got enough for us to last to the end of the summer,” Stan rounds off, because Ford stopped listening after he was told his answer. “Now, how deep?”

Ford pulls the thick coat around his waist, which is currently hiding four jars of butterflies strapped across his body. The middle of the night this was, 1978, and Ford was going to get his test subject. They demanded butterflies, many a one to turn in their own brethren, but Ford was nothing if not determined. He couldn’t test growth crystals on other humans, certainly not, and inanimate object were far different from the living, so he came up with an alternative. 

This is Ford’s fourth time making a fuss like this with the Bob sector. All named Bob, all prickly and loyal. There were many sectors like this, such as the Steves, and the Johns, the Henrys and the Jeffs. They were fearsome in their own ways—to each other. Not humans, and certainly not Ford.

It’s near midnight when he reaches their usual rendezvous. The gnome, a baggy-eyed and tattered one, waits alone. He doesn’t bother to hide the gnome-sized box next to him, with little holes poked at the top for breathing and for his hat to sit comfortably. Only the stars guide Ford his way, and he relaxes. There is no one else around. They are that afraid of him. 

Ford shucks off his lab coat at the gnome’s request, revealing the duct tape wrapped over the butterflies with utmost precision. They are separated and labeled by pattern, wing span, and type of flower they liked most. Which is mostly daisies, but he digresses. The gnome whom Ford never got to learn the name of pushes the box to his feet, eyeing the jars with intense care. The insects flutter, pat against the glass, begging to be freed.

This is standard protocol for a scientist. For a gnome, it is a display of disgustingly morbid intrigue. Ford would take it.

Ford rips the jars off him, handing them off to the gnome one by one before he is balancing the two stacks very un-secret like. Ford takes the box, making sure the gnome won’t be too jostled on their way back. He wasn’t a monster, after all.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Pines,” the gnome says, because that’s what he always says to round off their meetings. Ford doesn’t doubt that this won’t be their last meeting.

“Of course,” Ford says, nodding warmly to the entity below him. “I’ll take good care of…?”

“Shmebulock Senior. He’s a complacent one.”

“Ah. Good. Al-always need test subjects like that. Heh.”

The gnome lets out a sigh, tipping his almost brown hat in courtesy. “From one dealer to another, Pines, if I can—you’re too soft. Keep it up.”

Ford shakes the memory out of his brain to never be thought of again. That gnome—no matter how he looked, he was a kind fellow. That, he would never choose to forget.

“Very.”

“As I expected,” Stan says triumphantly. “Not reassuring at all, though, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t expect it to be.”

Silence was never uncommon to Ford. It was beautiful, it was awkward, and it was calming. Before knitting contests, before movie nights and blood and help, it was always calm. Now, it was beautiful, with a splice of awkward on certain days. Ford can’t list what this particular day is like—is it calming, with not having to talk, or was it awkward, with recent revelations? A large mystery, that was.

“If I can ask—” Ford takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with air that he would not have been able to get a few days ago. “Are you… angry? I-I know this is strange, and that things really have changed, and this is quite a strange one, and it doesn’t even really matter, I doubt we’ll ever hear about this again, so if it really does I—”

Stan asks blankly, “You’re asking me if I’m mad at you for committing crimes?”

Ford opens his eyes a crack, revealing a very surprised but bemused Stanley. “Y…Yes?”

And that really was a silly question, wasn’t it?

“Ford,” Stan says pointedly, like his brother is completely crazy. “No, I won’t rat you out to the gnome mafia! Obviously! And this is me you’re talking to. If I celebrated Christmas, this would be the best gift you ever get. That or money. Money’s good too.” 

Stan turns back to the supplies and hand, grumbly fondly of overthinking brains and no circumstances being allotted to not tell the children of this development. Ford suspects that they already suspect, but he doesn’t say. He starts helping—separating the smaller burlaps and the root, which remain coated in rich soil. Stan takes great care in not getting on his clothes—but the floor and Ford are fair game. This would irk Ford, but as with most things, he doesn’t have the energy to care. And, for once, he doesn’t mind that.

This silence was beautiful. That was why Ford never realized what it was—the thought of even considering that was just as rejecting as gnome mafias. But there was no denying it—this was beautiful. 

He’ll just have to trust that neither of them would ruin it.