(Ford x Reader) Hickory Pines

Ch. 3 Matrignomey

"Is that you again?" A fuzzy, familiar voice jolts me from my slumber. I squint against the brightness, hissing in complaint. "God, it's bright..." A chuckle responds, and I wonder who's interrupting my sleep. Can't an author catch a break? Through the slits of my weary gaze, a figure begins to take shape above me. I rub my eyes, and as the world sharpens into focus, I gasp and shout, "Stanford!"

He jumps back, clutching his book as his glasses slide down his nose. He pushes them up and clears his throat. "Shh! Yes—it's me." He approaches cautiously, his eyes scanning my face, hair, and clothes. "You look more exhausted than I do," he remarks. "And trust me, that's not a title you want..."

I sit up, using the beanbag for balance, and push my hair out of my eyes. Stretching, I meet his gaze. "I didn't get any sleep. I—" I swallow, and he tilts his head, concern etching his features. He kneels beside the beanbag, giving me space to continue. "I found something. At least, I think I did?" I force a crooked smile. He shakes his head, a small grin appearing.

"So, you believe me now?" He pulls an unfamiliar book from his jacket, looking a bit too excited, while I feel a twinge of embarrassment for having doubted him. "Yes..." I lean back slightly, feeling the closeness. He notices and scoots back a bit, but his teasing smile remains. He shifts from in front of me to beside me. "I won't hold it over you..." He takes a pen from his coat pocket and twirls it. "So, what happened?"

As I recount my encounter, he writes down every detail in a journal with a golden cover. Is he an author too? "I've encountered these creatures before," he explains, and I find myself leaning in closer. "You have?" I ask, awestruck. He chuckles at my intrigue before nodding. "They were arguing over politics with a stuffed bear's head."

He flips through the journal's pages, each one showcasing a different creature. Mesmerized, I stare at the illustrations, my curiosity piqued. So many things I've never seen before. Is all of this real? "Y/N?" Stanford waves his hand in front of my eyes, breaking my reverie. I flinch. "Oh! Sorry." Heat rushes to my cheeks as I realize I was lost in thought. He nudges an open page onto my lap. It's a page about gnomes! Quickly, I forget my earlier thoughts and thumb through the paper, eager to learn more.

"That's a really good sketch," I comment, tracing the outline with my fingers. Stanford flushes and scratches the back of his neck. "I dabble in art now and then... If I want my research to be accurate, I should be a well-rounded individual. I—" he scoffs again, "I mean, it's important to capture the essence of everything I observe. I need to do it justice, so..."

I snicker at his over-explanation, and he laughs nervously.

"After seeing one myself, I can say it's perfect," I add. Stanford doesn't respond but makes a gruff "Mhm" to acknowledge me. He shifts the topic. "As far as I know, gnomes don't have specific weaknesses and are deadlier in larger numbers." He points to a section in the journal. I lean in to read before looking back at him expectantly. "They have a remarkable ability to make themselves appear larger, like a school of fish! But more—" his eyes shift away, "malleable."

"What does that mean?" I ask, reaching to turn the page, but he holds it down.

"It means gnomes, though tiny, can become very deadly."

"Huh..." I reply, then hand Stanford's journal back. He slips it into his inner jacket pocket and stands up. "Thank you for the extra information. This should be helpful."

I blink, surprised by his sudden rush. He was so friendly just a moment ago.

"No problem..." I say slowly. "Good luck?"

He nods and offers a brief smile before heading toward the front of the library, acting as if nothing happened. That's it? Confusion settles in as I pause, thoughts swirling in my mind—mostly questions. He just leaves? I exhale, frustration bubbling beneath my exhaustion. There's no way I can sleep now! Not yet!

Determined, I roll off the beanbag. There's only one way I know to ease my mind: writing. I need a distraction. With a flick of my wrist, I pull out the floppy disk from my coat. I write at the library until the sun begins to set.

As dusk falls, I retreat back outside. In a moment of déjà vu, I stare at the sky, but this time, instead of questioning Stanford's sanity, I wonder what secrets he's hiding in that simple journal.

Back at my rental, I finally manage to turn the doorknob and face-plant into my pillows. It's soft—much softer than the beanbag. Staring at the ceiling from my couch, I realize that the term "starving artist" applies to authors too. I haven't been able to afford proper furnishings since moving here. At least I can sleep now. I glance out a dingy window next to the door. The sky has shifted from purple to a deep velvet blue.

I didn't even realize I had fallen asleep until something jolts me awake.

A sharp snap in my ear startles my eyes open. I can't see around me in the darkness, but I feel pressure along my sides and chest. "What the—" I attempt to speak, but a small hand presses against my lips. "Shhhh... shhhh." A whisper comes from the darkness, and I squint to adjust my eyes. Suddenly, it clicks.

It's the gnome from earlier! "Whatever you do, don't take this personally!" he exclaims, leaving me confused. What does he mean by that? Before I can finish my thought, I'm lifted off the couch. "H-Hey!" I shout, thrashing, but my arms and legs are tied! "Put me down!" I demand, scowling down at my side. There's a mini army of gnomes... carrying me?

"Sorry, no can do," the gnome perched on my chest replies, looking rather pleased with himself.

The gnomes begin banging on my door until it pops off its hinges. I can barely gather my thoughts as the gnome seems to notice my confusion. "We need a new gnome queen after our last one," he says cheerfully. "Well—" he adds with a grin—"we don't talk about her! After our little encounter in the woods, I decided you'd be perfect. So there's no need to worry about your safety; none of my boys will touch a hair on your pretty head."

The gnomes carrying me nod in agreement, their expressions serious. I look around in a panic. "And—" I stutter—"who are you?"

He bows, tipping his hat in a surprisingly polite gesture. "You may call me Shmebulock."

"Shmebul—huh?"