A Friend (Stanford Pines x Reader)

I Promise

Truth be told, you weren't sure why you were down in the basement to begin with. The basement should have been the very last place you wanted to be, and for a moment, you entertained the idea of going back upstairs. As soon as the idea surfaced, though, it repelled you. The basement was in shambles. The portal room was a wreck, and you didn't even bother entering to sort through the damage. You could get to that another day, but for now, you were content to sit at your respective desk and look into it from a distance.

The mess was too chaotic to have been created by your brain. In dreams, things are fuzzy and easily excusable, but the mess scattered before you was solid; a physical reminder that everything that transpired that evening was true.

You lowered your gaze. The desk was cluttered with papers, but you weren't compelled to pick them up and get back to work. There was no work to be done that involved them. They had no use anymore. Nights spent hunched over the same papers, sifting through equations, and tampering with different machines were behind you. What were you supposed to do now? Nothing. Nothing at all.

"I had a feeling I would find you down here,"

You stopped, the voice unfamiliar for a moment, then peered over your shoulder. Ford stood in the threshold of the space, rocking on his heels and looking around as though he had entered for the first time. He had changed out of his black cloak and was now clad in black pants, boots, and a maroon turtleneck. "You still have that old thing?" you asked. 

Ford looked at you, then looked down at his attire. "You mean the trench coat?" He tugged on it for emphasis, and you nodded. "Of course I still have it!" he said, seemingly surprised that you thought he would have gotten rid of it. "Why wouldn't I still have it?"

You shrugged. "It's old,"

"But you got it for me," Ford shook his head and stood beside you, clasping his hands behind his back. "I couldn't get rid of something if you were the one who got it for me."

You smiled, but had no response to offer him. Silence fell over the room again, but you didn't know how to break it. Too much time had passed. It was unnatural. Usually, Ford was the last person you thought you'd have a difficult time striking up conversation with. The void of quiet seemed to stretch on for an eternity before Ford broke it. "I missed you." 

His words only partially broke the spell. You blinked, settling back down in reality and turned to face him. "I... I missed you, too." Ford deepened his frown and gingerly placed a finger beneath your chin, guiding you to meet his gaze. He studied you with more intensity and interest than he had shown any other anomaly he had ever studied before. You could see your reflection in his pupils, unsure of what he could be looking to find on your face. "Your eyes haven't changed," he said finally. "They're still the mesmerizing (E/C) I remember." 

You rose to your feet and placed your hand on his sternum. Through the thick fabric of his turtleneck, you could feel his heart beating against your palm. When he began to speak, you could feel the low rumble in his chest. "Y/N, I know that our departure wasn't on the best of terms. I was... very much not myself, and I realize now that I was not the man you deserve. I was petrified that I would lose you if you were too caught up in the mess that I made. I was too focused on keeping you safe than I was on being there for you, and I... I can never apologize enough for that."

"Shhh," you whispered, leaning the side of your head on his chest and lowered your arms to wrap around his waist. He placed a steady hand on your upper back, rubbing it slowly. You closed your eyes, absorbing the moment and wallowing in the euphoric bliss his touch produced before continuing. "Both of us weren't ourselves. I know it wasn't your intention to hurt me,"

Air brushing against your leg caught your attention, and you looked down. A yellowed, rolled up piece of paper landed on your shoe. You picked it up and unfolded it without thinking. Rather than the equations and notes you expected to see, you found yourself. Or rather, a younger, illustrated version of yourself. Each stroke of ink was done with precision and care, noting down every detail that was there. You looked up at Ford. "Is this yours?"