Quick A/N before we begin: the timeline of this is a little wonky. basically, i'm pretending that five years was long enough for ford to go through undergrad, get his phd, and start his work on the portal with fiddleford. just play along and try not to think too much about the logistics.

"Fiddleford, I think that I'm ready to forgive my brother."

When Stanford entered the lab with his bold statement, a firm look of determination on his face, Fiddleford turned around and raised his eyebrows at his colleague.

"I know, I know. I mean, he was moronic and rude and obnoxious and undignified. He ruined my life for his own selfish purposes and didn't even try to understand how I felt." Stanford began pacing the floor, hands tight behind his back as he explained himself. "He's the sole reason that I wasn't able to attend West Coast Technical Institute, and if I had been admitted into that school, I could have done great things!"

"But I've been thinking," he went on, not giving the engineer a chance to speak. "He's my brother. My twin. For seventeen years, he was my best and only friend, and while he seriously derailed my life, I suppose he didn't ruin it... Without West Coast Tech, it took much more work for me to get where I wanted to be, but I'm still here. And... if I hadn't been forced to attend Backupsmore, I suppose I wouldn't have met you."

Here, Stanford stood still and offered Fiddleford a small smile, then took his hands from behind his back and started wringing them together as he resumed his pacing.

"I think that I miss him, Fiddleford. It's been five years. Who knows where he is now, or what he's doing? I want to reach out to him, so I've decided to call up our ma and ask if she has his address. I'm still angry at him for what he did to me, and I'll never forget it, but I think that I'm prepared to forgive."

Stanford stopped again and clutched the fabric of his sweater, closing his eyes. "Maybe he'll be ready to forgive me, too," he whispered. Then, he heaved a deep breath to signify the end of his spiel and looked up with wide eyes to regard his colleague. "I just want to call or write to him, maybe invite him over for a few days, if he's willing. What do you think?"

Fiddleford was squinting now, lips parted just slightly. After a long, pregnant pause, he said, "Y'ain't ever told me you had a brother."

Stan woke up in his car to a guttural growl followed by bellowing barks. He shot up, ignoring the way his scrapes and bruises ached in protest, and instinctively reached under his seat to grab his switchblade.

"We got trouble, boy?" Stanley asked, voice low. Since he took it upon himself to adopt this dog eight months ago, the mastiff had obediently guarded his human every night while he slept, waking Stan at the first sign of any impending danger. This meant that for the past eight months, Stan had never woken up in an unfamiliar alley with a knife to his neck; he really appreciated ridding that inconvenience from his life.

He pat the dog on the head to let it know he was aware of the danger, which silenced the barks, but a growl continued to rumble like deep thunder. Then, Stan slid out of the car and held the blade out toward the shadowy figure approaching him. The mastiff followed Stan out and stood at his side, ready to attack if needed. "Settle," he said firmly, giving his dog the command to stand by until further notice. Stan tugged his hood over his head to hide his face before snarling into the night, "Get any closer, and I'll send the dog."

The figure stopped in its tracks about ten feet away. Stan squinted, trying to get a good look at him. Maybe he wouldn't need to send the dog... This guy sure didn't look like a huge threat. He was lanky and tiny, and he dressed like a nerd. What was a guy like that doing in this part of town?

They stared each other down for a long moment before the stranger spoke in a thick Appalachian accent.

"N-now- now- now- I don't want no tr-trouble, sir, I was just hopin' I could ask you somethin'."

Stan narrowed his eyes. He glanced at his dog, who was still crouched at his side, hackles raised. "Alright, babycakes," he said quietly, slapping the mastiff on the back. "I got this for now." The dog seemed hesitant, but sat at his human's side and relaxed, keeping a wary eye on the stranger.

Stan figured he would regret calling the dog off. But the absolute worst case scenario was Stan having to fight this guy, which he wasn't worried about in the least. He probably weighed less than half what Stan did when he was soaking wet.

"Whatcha want?" Stan spat, making a point of keeping his knife drawn.

The stranger was visibly shaken. He adjusted his glasses and stuttered, "I, uh, I-I- I recognized yer car."

Stan widened his eyes. Shit. The Stanleymobile was, indeed, used as an escape vehicle in a large number of various crimes. So if this guy was accusing him of something, it was paramount for Stan to keep cool. He quickly regained his composure. "It's a common car," he defended. The dog sensed his human's apprehension and stood back up.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, but I ain't seen hide nor hair of any car like yours, and I've been lookin' for a long while."

Stan tightened his grip around the knife and stepped forward with a threatening scowl. "I dunno what ya saw me do, pal, but I didn't do it!"

The stranger jumped back and scrambled to pull a crumpled photograph from the inside pocket of his jacket. He reached the photo out with trembling hands. "I-I just wanted to know if you seen this man before! Th-that's all!"

Stan leaned forward and squinted at the picture in the dim streetlights of the Richmond slums. His switchblade dropped to the ground when he saw it.

"Th-that feller in the white T-shirt on the left there. That's who I'm lookin' for."

It was Stan. It was Stan when he was seventeen, standing next to Ford with an arm hooked around his neck, grinning in front of the Stanleymobile.

Where did this guy get this picture? Why was this guy looking for him?

The jaw-dropped look on Stan's face suddenly turned into a scowl. He violently snatched the photograph from the stranger and jammed it in his pocket before tugging his hood further over his head to make sure he wasn't recognized. "Who the hell are you?"

Fiddleford's gentlemanly nature trumped his fear and he forced himself to stick out a hand. "F-Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, at your service."

The man eyed the outstretched hand in confusion and took a small step away. "Okay, Fiddbucket. The guy you're lookin' for-"

"Ya seen 'im?" Fiddleford clutched his hands together hopefully, widening his eyes.

They'd been searching for a couple of weeks now; Stanford had contacted his mother after explaining everything (well, most things) to Fiddleford, but unfortunately she came back with the disheartening news that her little free spirit had been drifting from place to place over the years and she had heard nothing of his whereabouts in months.

This news filled Stanford with a profound sense of worry, a deep feeling of guilt, and a gripping determination to find his brother and make sure they were on good (or, at the very least, okay-ish) terms.

Mrs. Pines was able to give them the last phone number that Stanley had called from, which belonged to a seedy bar in a seedy town just north of Fresno, California. Stanford got them on the road without any delay; Fiddleford was the hesitant voice of reason to his old friend's manic determination, but despite his quiet protests he was wholeheartedly a part of the mission, wanting to find Stanley almost just as much as Stanford did.

That seedy little bar was where they started their investigation, asking around with photos of Stanley and a description of his El Diablo. All the people who recognized him seemed to feel nothing but contempt toward Stanley Pines (whom they knew by many different names), and while the engineer was deeply unnerved by the amount of hatred most criminals felt toward Stanley, the idea of his twin getting into trouble with the law in order to survive only added fuel to Stanford's determined flames.

Stanford hadn't gotten more than five total hours of shut-eye in the last week, and the only way Fiddleford was able to convince him to get some rest tonight was to promise that he would continue the search for Stanley while he was asleep. That's how Fiddleford ended up in the eerie neighborhood, driving cautiously through in search of some clue that might lead them to Stanley's whereabouts.

So when he saw the El Diablo, Fiddleford was filled with hope. If he could get the license plate number then he could find the owner of the car, then that might lead them right to Stanley!

When he pulled over and started approaching the car, he didn't expect a man to be asleep inside it. And he certainly didn't expect an enormous killer dog to threaten him with low growls, loud barks, and large teeth.

The crippling fear that he'd been feeling since that moment started to fade away, driven out by the return of hope when the man seemed to recognize the photograph. "I don't reckon you could help me find 'im?"

"Let's just say I could help ya... Why're ya lookin'?

Fiddleford scratched the back of his head nervously, chewing on his lip as he struggled for something to say. His pa did always say honesty's the best policy. "W-well, actually, a good friend of mine's the one lookin'. I'm just aimin' to help out, I reckon. My friend is the other feller in that there photograph that you just, uh, that you took from me just moments ago."

The man almost his balance, putting a hand on his dog to keep himself from toppling over. Fiddleford lunged forward instinctively to help, but he quickly backed off when the mastiff snarled a warning.

"Hey, no, no," the man said quietly, patting his dog on the back after successfully straightening himself out. "Babycakes, alright? This is a friend."

"Babycakes..." Fiddleford mumbled in confusion.

"It's, uh, it's like our safeword. It calls him off."

Fiddleford nodded once, a jerked motion of the head. As confusing as that was, he didn't want to think about what would have happened if the dog had been allowed to attack the engineer. He decided to be thankful that the man called his dog off and not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"So, this guy you're lookin' for... What's his name?"

"Stanley Pines."

A visible shiver passed down the man's spine. "And your... friend. What's his name?"

Fiddleford was confused by the sudden quiz but decided to answer whatever questions this man had. He could clearly help, and Fiddleford wanted him on his side. "Stanford Pines."

He almost seemed to lose balance again, but he was able to stay upright this time.

Stan was gonna see his brother. All reason left his mind as he realized this, and he didn't care why Ford wanted to find him or what would happen once they saw each other. He didn't care about anything but the idea of seeing Ford's face for the first time since they were seventeen.

He removed his hood, letting the yellow streetlight hit his face, and the Fiddlesticks guy gasped.

"Y-you're-"

"Stan Pines." He reached out a hand, which Fiddlefry quickly took in a (surprisingly firm) handshake. "At your service."