(Ford x Reader) Hickory Pines

CH. 25 The Bard & The Artificer

Y/N POV

Crickets chirp around the cabin, the three of us sitting in silence aside from the blaring TV static coming from the small table in the living room. Fiddleford hisses under his breath, air sucking through his teeth as he bites his tongue hard enough to leave a bruise.

"Hold still..." Stanford scolds, his six fingers tightening around his friend's arm as his other hand deftly wraps a much cleaner cloth over a new splint.

"Can't blame the guy for moving..." I sigh softly, swallowing the thick bile in my throat as I stare at my untended, mangled legs.

Stanford rolls his eyes, his gaze knitted in concentration.

"Not blaming anybody, I just—" He finishes wrapping up Fiddleford, ensuring the makeshift cast is held firmly in place.

"I just—" he repeats, "didn't want to mess things up. I've caused enough pain as it is."

"Well, you came back for us." Fiddleford smiles, using his free arm to pat Stanford's shoulder.
I watch as Stanford visibly stiffens.
A warbled grin crosses his features. "Of course I came back. I couldn't just leave the two of you."

He scuttles closer to me, lifting one of my legs to begin sanitizing the skin. As the alcohol solution soaks into the cotton, I start to feel a little pale.
Stanford's gaze flicks up from his measurements, catching the shift in my expression. He glances at Fiddleford, then back at me.
After a blank stare from Fidds, the two of them begin shifting around.

Fiddleford takes the alcohol and gauze, while Stanford moves behind me.

He locks my arms with his elbows, restraining me like a feral animal.

"Don't kick," he says lowly, leaning close to my face as I start to squirm anxiously.

"I– I'll try," I stammer with a nervous laugh, only to yelp a moment later as the burning cocktail of terror rips through and soaks into my injuries.

A strangled gasp escapes me.

Every ounce of restraint is being poured into the effort of not thrashing around.

Fiddleford already has his own injury — God forbid I make it worse.

Eventually, the pain subsides.

Stanford wipes a stray bead of sweat from my brow as my chest heaves with quivering, battered breaths.

"You dead?" Stanford asks, almost playfully. I might've laughed, if I weren't so...

"Not the time." Fiddleford comes to my defense, my breathing still unsteady. Stanford looks to the ground, ashamed and awkward. He speaks softly, "I know..."

Stanford eases me into an upright position, his eyes scanning my face as though searching for any hint of discomfort. When he finds none, a heavy sigh escapes him. "Safe to say we're never doing that again." I quip, but it doesn't land as one.

"I need to see my family." Fiddleford drags a hand over his face, the deep bags under his eyes even more pronounced since the mess we made in that UFO, the anxiety from it still dangling over us like a noose.

"We've only just begun. You know we can't stop now." Stanford frowns, his gaze flicking over our disheveled bodies, conflicted. His eyes look hazy. "We're on a time crunch, Fidds. You know this."

Fiddleford sighs, defeated, but then his expression hardens. "Darn it, Stanford...! We almost got ourselves killed!" He snaps, making me flinch at the sudden shift in his usual composure.