Stanford Pines had been prepared to hate Carla Anne McCorkle for weeks before he actually met her. In fact, he had been prepared to completely detest the girl. After all, if someone got along well with Stan, then they rarely cared for Ford's company - and vice versa, for that matter. It would be a lie, however, to say that this was the only reason he was so ready to condemn someone he had yet to even exchange words with. Put frankly, Stanley had made it increasingly apparent that he'd rather spend time with Carla than with anyone else in existence, including his own twin. For almost a month now, the entire Pines residence had endured his brother's seemingly endless babble about the young woman. In the evenings, when he was actually home, anyway. Ford could count the collective hours he has spent with Stan outside of school and before their curfew since the whole thing started on only one hand! ...Without being facetious about his own polydactyly.
The first few days had been a little nice if he's honest with himself. He'd used the peace and quiet of Stanley's absence to complete some of his personal projects, do some extracurricular reading, and finish studying for his sophomore year's final exams. But then a whole week went by in that manner, culminating in Stan actually forgetting their birthday. It was at that point that he began to worry Stan gaining a girlfriend may equate to Ford losing his best friend. Three weeks later, and Stanley's afternoon disappearing act was still going strong.
Glass Shard Beach, NJ
June 21, 1968
Ford blinks in surprise and looks up from the book he's been reading upon hearing a familiar voice. What is Stanley doing in the library? And on a Friday, at that? For a moment, Stanford is certain he must be mistaken, but then his brother passes by an aisle he has a clear line of sight down. "Stan?"
"There you are!" his brother exclaims, a wide grin stretching his face, "I guess that old lady at the front knew what she was talking about after all."
"I told you!" a higher-pitched voice chimes in from behind his brother with a giggle before announcing in an over-dramatic tone, "Librarians know all that goes on in their domain!"
Stan rolls his eyes, but the smile remains. "Yeah, yeah. Not like anyone but you expects me to know anything about libraries." He begins picking his way through the cluttered aisle toward Ford, one hand tangled with that of the girl following behind him.
It doesn't take much to conclude that the brunette with a flower in her hair is the infamous Carla McCorkle. He's proven correct seconds later when the two arrive at the secluded table Stanford has claimed as his own and Stanley takes it upon himself to make introductions.
"Ford, this is my girlfriend," he says, obviously still giddy over the title, "Carla McCorkle."
"Hi!" the girl chirps with an excited wave.
"Carla, this is my twin brother, Stanford."
Ford nervously drums his fingers on the book he's holding and fumbles through his response, "Um, I, ah, hello."
Stan goes on to chatter something else, but Ford is too busy taking in Carla to pay what his twin is saying much mind. More specifically, he's busy watching how the girl's smile is dimming and her brows are furrowing. It takes until her lips begin moving silently and she starts tapping her fingers one at a time against the side of her leg for it to finally dawn on him that she's counting his fingers.
Ford tenses under the scrutiny, his knuckles turning white as he clutches the book he's holding like he believes it can shield him. The action turns out to be enough to snag the girl's attention.
Carla stiffens upon realizing she's been caught. Her eyes quickly refocus on his face, and, for one awful moment, Ford finds himself trapped in the single most awkward staring competition he has ever taken part in. One impossibly long second later, Carla pastes a shaky smile on her face and turns to her boyfriend. "Uh, Stan," she quietly interrupts the other teenager's oblivious rambling with a gentle tug on his arm, "Silly question, but how many fingers does your brother have?"
"Oh, uh," Stan scratches the back of his neck with his free hand and shifts his weight from one foot to the other sheepishly, "twelve."
"Good to know I haven't forgotten how to count, I guess," Carla mutters before turning back to Stanford and saying, "Could you excuse us for just one minute?" She doesn't wait for a response from either of the twins before spinning on her heel and dragging Stanley with her back the way they came.
"Woah!" Stan stumbles along behind her. "C-Carla?"
Ford blinks at their retreating backs. She can't honestly expect him to continue sitting here passively when it's so blatantly obvious that she's pulling his twin away in order to talk about him, can she? ...On second thought, does he even care what Carla McCorkle does or does not expect of him? Ford follows after the two, careful to keep some distance between the dating duo and himself.
Carla, knowingly or not, leads both of the Pines twins on a winding route through several aisles before stopping in the middle of the history section. "Stanley Pines," the young woman manages to shriek in a hushed voice as she whips around to look accusingly at her boyfriend, "is there a reason you neglected to tell me that your brother has twelve fingers?"
Stan is not nearly so concerned with keeping his volume at a library-appropriate level when he replies. "Ah jeez, Carla," he gripes as he crosses his arms over his chest, "You're not going to make a big deal about my brother's hands, are you?"
Ford has to admit, it's been a long time since he's had to deal with such an overblown reaction to his polydactyly. The fact that the one to have such a reaction is his twin's first girlfriend does not bode well.
"Stan, you're missing the point!" Carla insists, hands flailing in agitated gestures, "Six-fingered hands aren't exactly something you see every -" The girl abruptly cuts herself off and snaps her mouth shut so quickly her teeth click. Carla groans in frustration and speaks in a pained tone, "Never mind that last bit. Point of fact, you have probably literally seen six-fingered hands every single day of your life." The teen buries her face in her hands for a moment. Carla takes a deep breath and lowers her hands in order to look at her boyfriend again. "Okay. Okay. What I mean to say, is that most people, myself included, don't generally expect to run across other people with six fingers on each hand. And, when people see something they aren't expecting to, there's a good chance they are going to do something really, really dumb."
"C'mon, Carla," Stan says, tone softening and posture loosening, "You've only just gotten a 'hi' out so far. You literally haven't said two words to Ford yet. You can't have done -"
"I stared," she interrupts flatly, hands finally stilling as they fall to her sides. "I stared, and he saw, and now he's always going to think of me as that, as that, that -" Carla struggles to find the words she wants before bursting, "Inept idiot! Or, or some hapless harpy! A completely clueless clod! That brainless barbarian his brother is dating for no conceivable reason who stared like a lobotomized loon!" By the time she finishes, her agitated gesturing has returned in full force.
Ford can feel his eyebrows inching up his forehead. Reality is lining up with his expectations less and less with every passing moment. He's just not sure whether that's a good thing or not.
Stan shifts his weight and uncrosses his arms before asking, "Don't ya think ya might be blowing this outta proportion?"
"Stan," she whines, "he was obviously uncomfortable. I did that! At best, he thinks I'm insensitive." Carla leans forward and lets her head fall against Stan's chest. "I feel like a schmuck."
Stanley rubs his girlfriend's arms for a short moment before his hands settle at her elbows. "Well, it's not like this is the first time someone has, ah, done something kinda silly or, you know, stared," Stan tries to reassure her, "Ford's pretty used to it, by now."
Another miserable moan leaves the girl's lips before she says, "That really doesn't make this any better."
Frankly, Ford is inclined to agree with her. Still, he can probably forgive her this once, at least.
"Well, uh, um..." Stan peers at his twin through the two bookshelves separating them. He dips his head toward Carla and looks at Ford with pleading eyes.
Stanford isn't surprised that Stanley knows he's eavesdropping, but he isn't exactly prepared to offer advice, either. He shrugs helplessly, drawing his shoulders up almost to his ears to ensure that Stan can see the gesture past all the books between them.
Carla speaks again, drawing both of the twins' attention back to her. "Stanley, I've really liked being your girlfriend," Carla leans back and lifts her head to look up at him. "This past month has been great."
Ford feels himself tense up again, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"Yeah..." Stan draws the word out as he agrees cautiously. It appears Ford isn't the only one wary of where things are about to go.
"But we really need to work on your communication skills," she finishes.
Ford struggles to choke back the incredulous laughter that is trying to crawl up his throat. The teenager draws a hand through his hair and allows the feeling of his nails passing over his scalp to ground him. 'Pot, meet kettle,' he thinks a bit hysterically, even as he finds himself agreeing with her for a second time. After all, Ford is well aware that Stanley sometimes prioritizes all the wrong information to pass along.
"Oh, uh, yeah. Okay," Stan says, too relieved to argue.
Carla draws away in order to resume her wild gesturing. "I mean, a day - twenty-four hours! - to try to wrap my head around the idea of having twelve fingers," she wiggles her own for emphasis as she says the words, eyes wide, "and I might have managed to avoid staring. Or making Ford self-conscious! Just... Why didn't you warn me?"
"I..." Stan pauses, honestly considering the question, "Guess I kinda hoped you wouldn't think twice about it, 'cause I don't."
"Pfft. Not only have I thought twice about it, but I going to spend the rest of today thinking up and convincing myself not to ask really, really stupid questions."
"What kinda questions?" Stan can't help asking. Ford finds himself rather curious, as well.
"I don't know," she says, waving one hand dismissively, "Like, like... Does he have twelve toes, too? Is he a shadow puppet master? If I gave him six-fingered gloves for Christmas, would he be jazzed or hacked over it?"
"Just ten toes. We haven't done shadow puppets since we were kids, so he's probably really rusty, but, yeah, he was pretty good at it. And," Stan blinks and looks at his girlfriend dubiously, "you realize Christmas is still half-a-year away, don't you?"
"It is never too early to start looking for someone's Christmas gift," she replies with complete seriousness.
"Right," Stan laughs a bit, "Kinda hard to find gloves with more'n five fingers, but I'm sure Ford would like having a pair that actually fit."
Carla looks at her boyfriend hopefully. "Yeah?"
"Yep!" Stan grins and chances another quick glance his brother's way. "But I think ya oughta be asking Ford these questions."
Stanford's eyes widen and his stomach fills with ice. He might be a bit more inclined to give Carla a chance than he had been before, but that doesn't mean he wants to play twenty questions with the girl. His frantic gestures to stop go unseen by Stan. In fact, he has little doubt that Stan is purposely ignoring him right now.
"Stanley, I can't just ask him!"
"Why not?" Stan asks, half challenge and half honest curiosity.
Carla sputters, but it doesn't take her long to fall into a heavily sarcastic, if somewhat hysterical, tirade over the idea. "Oh, yes, I'll just go back there and ask your genius brother all my daft questions! I'm sure it'll all be totally copacetic! It's not like I've already made things awkward or anything! Why wouldn't he be thrilled to have such a conversation?"
"Woah, Carla! Dial it down a little. You're starting to sound like Ma after she's had her first seven cups of coffee," Stanley says. He pulls a reluctant Carla into a hug before continuing, "This is only a small hiccup. Everything's gonna be fine. But you need to talk to Ford so that can happen."
Carla groans and lets her forehead fall to rest on Stan's shoulder. "I'm going to make a fool of myself, and he's going to hate me," she states.
Stan looks through the bookshelves again to meet Ford's eyes. "Nah, the two of you are going to like each other." Ford shoots his brother an uncertain look. "Promise! Ya just need to get past this first bit."
The girl takes a deep breath and steps out of the embrace. "Alright," she tells her boyfriend, "but I want you to remember later that this was your idea, Stanley Pines."
Stanford attempts to fight down the panic suddenly bubbling up inside him. He needs to get back to his table. Now. Quickly and - this part is important - quietly. Ford suppresses the need to run, to the best of his abilities, and tries to trust that Stan will buy him enough time to escape without getting caught in the act.
Stanley shrugs easily. "'Course. I'm going to enjoy saying 'told ya so' all week." He grins as Carla rolls her eyes.
"Remind me why I'm dating you," the girl says, though there's an answering smile pulling at her lips.
Stan's response is nothing if not cheeky. "Pretty sure it has something to do with the kissing."
"Ah, yes. I do enjoy the kissing," Carla agrees, unable to completely smother her amusement over her boyfriend's antics.
Ford manages to use his familiarity with the library's layout to shave several seconds off the time it would have taken him to get back to his table if he had followed the same meandering path Carla had originally laid down. He scrambles to reclaim his seat and the book he'd been reading earlier.
A little over two full minutes later, though the seconds seem to drag on unbearably as he waits, Ford notices Carla hovering uncertainly beside Stan at the end of the same aisle that he had first spotted the two. He watches from behind his book as Stan's blurry form nudges Carla's. His brother's encouragements must be working, because the girl suddenly draws herself up and makes her way toward his table in quick, determined strides.
He would be lying if he said he wasn't at all nervous over what is about to happen. He always is, after all, and this time feels a lot bigger than it usually does.
Carla's splayed hands land on the table with perhaps a bit too much force. Ford tips his head back to meet her gaze and then waits.
"Hi! I'm Carla!" the girl says with a stubborn cheer that is probably not entirely natural, but doesn't seem to be completely fake, either, "And you're Ford! Stan's told me a lot about you. But I think it's pretty obvious he left some stuff out."
Ford glances at his twin. Stan just shrugs and seats himself in a chair at the end of the table, silently declaring his intention not to intervene unless he has to. Ford's eyes are drawn back to the teenage girl in front of him when she continues speaking.
"I'm sorry I stared. That was rude. But I did, and you know I did; so, that leaves us with two options." Ford raises his eyebrows, but Carla ignores his skeptical expression and begins gesturing as she talks. "Option one is that we both pretend it never happened. Drawbacks include a high likelihood that in trying not to stare, I will, inevitably, end up staring again. And a whole bunch of awkwardness for everyone. Option two is that I ask you a bunch of dumb questions, and hopefully we can get over most of that now."
Ford takes a deep breath. He already knows what it's going to have to be, but that doesn't mean he's going to enjoy it. He lets the breath out and rattles off the usual spiel, "It's called 'Polydactyly.' Basically, it just means I have extra fingers. And, no, those are the only 'extras' I have; everything else falls within the expected norms. It's a birth defect, and not contagious, though it is hereditary." Ford decides to deviate from his normal speech slightly at this point. "Stanley doesn't seem to carry the gene, though, so I suppose that's one thing you don't need to worry about."
"Hey!" Stan interjects. Both he and Carla have gone tomato red at the implications of that one sentence.
Long practice allows Ford to continue talking as if Stan had never interrupted. "My case is postaxial on both hands; which is to say, I have an additional little finger on each. I have twelve fingers in total and all of them are fully functional. Discounting the number of fingers, my hands are just like anyone else's."
Carla blinks when Stanford's rapid-fire fact list comes to an end as abrupt as it's beginning. "Oh. Okay," she says before pulling out the chair that is nearest to where she's been standing and slowly sitting down in it. Ford watches as Carla's lips begin moving soundlessly again and her brow furrows. Apparently giving up, the girl says, "Um... Sorry. 'Poly'-what-now? Could you say it again? And... Maybe a little slower?"
"'Polydactyly,'" Ford makes sure to enunciate the word clearly, "I would be called a 'Polydactyl.'"
"Polydactyly," Carla repeats carefully, practically tasting the word as she says it. She offers him smile that's a bit wry around the edges, but it feels more genuine than her previous too-wide grins have. "Well, that's a few questions answered, I guess. So..." Carla places her hands back on the table and taps her own fingers against the surface in pairs of two, listing them off as she goes, "Thumb, Pointer, Middle, Ring, Pinky." She looks at him expectantly once she's done.
Ford suppresses his desire to sigh. Perhaps he had gone through his little speech a bit too quickly. "My case is postaxial. That means the little fingers of each hand were effectively doubled."
"No, well, I mean, yes, but -" Carla fumbles before cutting herself off and starting over, "What I mean to say, is that sounds a lot like a reciting of a medical text or something. It's just really... really..." Carla casts about for a suitable word and settles on, "impersonal, I guess. Everyone names their fingers. Are you really going to tell me that you settled on 'Pinky One' and 'Pinky Two'?"
Ford blinks. Slowly, feeling less confident than he wishes he was, Stanford closes the book he's been holding and sets it aside. He spreads his hands over the tabletop in full view and copies Carla by tapping his fingers against the solid surface between them. "Thumb, Index, Long, Middle, Ring, and Little," he says. It's more of a relief than he wants to admit that when he looks at Carla again, although the girl's face holds more interest than he's comfortable being the focus of, there is no fear or disgust reflected in her features. Actually, she's starting to look a little giddy. Something tells him he may have been worried about the wrong extreme.
"Do you actually think of any of your fingers as being 'extra?' Or are they all simply your fingers and there are no 'extras?' Do you think having just five fingers is weird?"
Ford sends a panicked look Stan's way as the questions keep flowing.
"Are there things that are difficult with more than five fingers?"
Stan plays at thinking it over, but he soon decides to take pity on his brother. Kind of. "Carla."
"Have you found things that having six fingers makes easier for you?"
Stanley tries again, louder, "Carla!" This time, he succeeds in interrupting his girlfriend's eager stream of inquiries, "You're going to overload his poor nerd-brain with all of that! One question at a time or his head might explode and I'll be out a twin."
Ford rolls his eyes at that, but he supposes it's an effective enough way to get the point across.
The girl's receding flush flares back up to paint her cheeks a bright pink. "Sorry."
"It's... alright," Stanford says awkwardly. He decides to focus on answering questions. The sooner he starts, the sooner he can be finished, right? "Just 'my fingers,' I guess. I don't consider any of them to be any more or less 'extra' than any of the others, at least. I've always had six fingers, so having only five seems like it would be... strange. Of course, whenever I have to use something that's obviously made for five fingers it becomes rather inconvenient to have more than the norm." Ford stops with a frown. Carla had been openly and unabashedly examining his hands since he placed them on the table. Now, she seems to be trying to avoid looking at them altogether. "Is something wrong?"
"What? No, no, no! Keep going! Please." She's stopped talking with her hands, though; instead, she is quite suddenly opting to keep them still where they are.
It's something Stanford had noticed early on, so the sudden reining in of the habitual action is somewhat jarring. Ford spares Stan another glance. Stanley looks like he's also noticed the change in his girlfriend's behavior, at least, so Ford isn't alone in that much. "Are you sure?"
The young woman bites her lip, eyes flickering down to Ford's hands and then returning up to his face. "I just thought of another way to potentially make this even more awkward, and I'm trying very hard to behave myself and give up the idea."
Ford has to admit, Carla isn't the only one with perhaps too much curiosity; and, despite his better judgement, it prompts him to ask, "How's that?"
Carla's eyes dart over to Stan, but he offers her as much help as he's been giving Ford: he shrugs and stays out of it. Finding no support or direction from her boyfriend, Carla gives her full attention to Stanford. "You can totally say 'no.' I'm probably crossing all kinds of invisible lines here, but -" Carla speaks quickly before cutting herself off, leaving the half-spoken sentence unfinished. Her uncertainty is clear in her demeanor, but it doesn't stop her from extending a hand out to the midway point between them and asking, "May I?"
Oh. He supposes he should have seen that request coming. Still, he doesn't see any real reason - beyond his own insecurities - not to humor her. He offers her his left hand, palm up.
Carla brushes her fingertips over his and then looks up at him with a cautious smile. For his part, Stanford fights to keep his face impassive, uncaring one way or the other, and refrain from tucking either of his hands out of sight like he normally would when he feels uncomfortable. It seems to be enough for Carla. She cradles his hand in both of hers, lightly stroking her thumbs over his palm.
Ford tries desperately to beat back the sudden heat climbing up his neck at the attention.
At this point in his life, his mother is the only person to touch his hands with any regularity. Stan used to; their shared childhood has been dominated with various hand games altered as necessary for his additional digits, but that had slowly been left behind as they'd grown older. His father has never been the kind of man overly given to displays of physical affection (or any sort of obvious affection) so it went without saying that he rarely did, either. Ford had almost forgotten how reassuring he'd always found the simple contact to be. He doesn't remember it ever feeling quite like this, though.
"And things that are easier with six fingers?" Carla prompts without looking up, "You didn't answer that one."
"R-right," Ford stutters and does his best to ignore his twin's muffled laughter. "Well, I suppose it makes it a little easier to play certain instruments."
"You play?"
"Some. Not particularly well, but I know how."
Stanley snorts and cuts in, "What my bro means is that he doesn't think he could cut it in an orchestra or whatever, but he'd sweep the school talent show if I could ever get him on stage."
"Stanley," Ford says irritably.
"What?" Stan asks, "It's true!"
Carla giggles, sparing the two brothers an amused glance before returning her attention to the hand she's holding. "So, what instrument do you play, Ford?"
"Mostly piano, sometimes guitar," he answers. Stanford thinks he might actually enjoy this on some level if he weren't currently so hyper-aware of each and every little touch. "Once in awhile, something else will come through our dad's pawnshop. I generally spend a few days learning it, if it's something I haven't come across before."
Carla's eyebrows rise as she looks up and meets Ford's gaze. "That sounds like a lot of instruments," she says.
Feeling self-conscious for different reasons now, Ford looks away with a shrug. "It's not overly difficult. Once you learn the basics, it's just a matter of learning new muscle memory to pick up a new instrument. It's not like I'm in practice with all the instruments I've ever tried, or anything like that."
"Piano and guitar," Carla repeats with a considering hum at the end. "I still think that's pretty boss."
Ford isn't sure what to say in response. After a moment's hesitation, he decides to simply remain silent. While Ford wouldn't go so far as to claim the quiet that settles around the table is comfortable, really, it also isn't so oppressive or awkward that he feels like he's sitting on pins and needles.
By this point, Carla has moved on from examining his palm to studying his fingers. She trails one of her own fingers along his: up one side, down the other, and then repeating with the next finger, as if tracing his hand's silhouette in the air. The touch is almost playful.
Stan must be serious about letting them work things out (mostly) on their own, because he manages to hold his tongue long enough for Carla to be the one break the stretching silence with another question. "You're ambidextrous?"
"Ah, yes! I am," Ford frowns, feeling just a little confused. Had Stan really told her that and still not mentioned that he was a polydactyl? There's an easy way to find out, he supposes. "How did you know?"
Carla wears a smile as she explains, "The callus, here, on your middle - I mean, long finger: it's from writing, isn't it? This is your left hand, so that means you're either left-handed or ambidextrous. I've noticed that Stan is, so I guessed you were, too."
Ford blinks. Actually, writing English left-handed typically leads to smudging, so he does that almost exclusively with his right. He does use his left quite a bit for sketching, though, and the action of putting ink to paper in both practices would result in the same kind of calluses building up. "That's... rather impressive, actually. Do you read hands?"
"Pfft, no," Carla laughs. Stanford wonders if his twin has ever brought up the fact that their mother claims to be a psychic on a regular basis. "Nearly everyone has that callus, so it's easy to recognize. It's just usually only on the right hand, is all," she holds her own right hand up and wiggles the fingers. Carla pauses, and then, "Oh! Jeez, I've been pretty selfish, huh? I mean, I know my hands aren't anything special, but, well," she lets go of Ford's hand completely and instead holds out both of hers, "fair's fair, right?"
Ford can't help being a little dumbfounded at the turnabout. Has anyone ever offered him one of their hands for his inspection before? If such an incident ever took place, he was too young to remember it. He does his best to ignore Stanley's smug, self-satisfied expression; he can already tell that there will be a lot of 'I-told-you-so's coming his way later.
He hesitantly reaches out for Carla's left hand with both of his. Carla grins encouragingly and uses the hand he didn't take to rest her head against. "So..." Carla says as she allows Ford to play with her digits, "What other advantages have you found for six fingers?"
"Well," Ford draws the word out as he thinks over how he wants to answer. Stanley, however, seems to have reached his limit and cuts in before Ford can decide on what he wants to say.
"He had the best handprint turkey our kindergarten had ever seen," Stan declares.
Stanford can't keep the blush from his cheeks and doesn't even try to banish the annoyance from his voice, "Stanley!"
Carla snorts and attempts with poor success to smother a short fit of giggles. "I suppose he would, wouldn't he?" she agrees.
"Oh, he won the competition hands down," Stan continues. The proud grin leaves no doubt that he is pleased with himself when his girlfriend bursts into laughter. Ford only rolls his eyes.
Carla's own wide grin matches Stan's when she finishes giggling. "Can't quite put my finger on why, but something tells me that was a bad pun, Pines."
"And if it was, McCorkle?" Stanley challenges with humor lighting his eyes, "Gonna try to put me under your thumb?"
"It'll be a snap!" the girl replies in a playful tone, going so far as to actually snap her fingers for effect.
Ford's eyebrows start inching toward his hairline again. A pun battle breaking out between Stan and Carla is not something he had been expecting. Though, now that he's thinking about it, perhaps he should have. Stan has always had a penchant for wordplay, and Carla showed an aptitude for alliteration earlier. Still, he's fairly certain it's an odd way to flirt. At least, he thinks that they're flirting.
Stan rests his hands on the table and interlaces his fingers. Leaning forward, he says, "I'll have you laced in before you even know what happened."
"Pfft, you'll be all thumbs, soon enough," Carla dismisses.
"Hey! Why do you insist on thinking so little of me?"
"Well, that doesn't ring true at all! I think the world of you!"
Ford decides to let them keep at it and turns his attention to the hand still cradled in both of his.
The size difference between his wide palms and Carla's more slender hand is almost comical. Paradoxically, Ford's fingers aren't all that much thicker than hers are. The reason for this, of course, comes back to his abnormal bone structure.
"So you do think we can find some middle ground here?"
"That doesn't sound like too much of a long shot."
Ford touches the tips of four of his fingers to Carla's and shifts them over one finger each in sequence. After that, he does the same going the other direction. He wonders how the rest of the world functions with only five fingers on each hand. It seems to him that it ought to feel lacking. Of course, he knows on an intellectual level that it's difficult to miss something you've never had. It's likely that same principle, if reversed, that impairs his own understanding of how the rest of humanity gets on so well without any sixth fingers adorning their own hands.
"Good, 'cause I'm on point today!"
"Guess I'll have to knuckle down."
Ford experiments with gently curling and then straightening her fingers. He doubts he should find normal, five-fingered hands to be so interesting. Really, the only differential is the quantity of fingers. That shouldn't be enough to hold his attention like this. That doesn't change the fact that he is fascinated by the absence. It's not too far removed from the way everyone else always seems to get driven to distraction by his hands, he supposes. He just wishes it was a positive kind of attention more often than the negative type he tends to find directed at him.
"Just don't try anything underhanded."
Carla's lack of reply is quick to draw the attention of both twins.
The girl is staring at - or, perhaps more accurately, beyond - where Stanford has intertwined his fingers with hers.
Ford shifts in his chair uncomfortably. Should he not have done that? Is this crossing one of those invisible lines Carla had mentioned earlier? Is it somehow inappropriate? He likes how it feels to have their fingers laced, but what if she doesn't? Should he -
Ford's panic is cut short when Stan clamps a hand over his mouth. Ford makes a disgruntled sound from behind his brother's palm, but Stan only ignores him. The fact that Stan's entire posture screams mischief is not helping Ford's anxiety over the situation. He trusts his twin not to be actively malicious, but Stanley rarely thinks things through very well. ...If at all. Whatever his brother is about to do, Ford gets the feeling that he is going to be the one who regrets it.
"Carla?"
"Hmm?" she responds absently.
Stanley is wearing a troublemaker's smile, clearly anticipating something, but he keeps his voice low and steady as he asks, "Watcha thinkin'?"
Carla tilts her head, blinks slowly, and without thought answers, "His hands fit better than yours do."
There is a beat of silence.
Ford feels like his whole face is on fire. In all honesty, he wouldn't be surprised if his current complexion matches that of a ripe cherry.
"Wow, Sixer," Stan bursts loudly, jolting Carla back to reality, "It hasn't even been an hour yet, and you're already trying to steal my girl!" The barely contained laughter and the playful punch to his shoulder make it readily apparent that Stan is only teasing. Ford, for his part, is too tongue-tied to offer any reply.
"...Wait. What?" Carla asks. It's easy to pinpoint the exact moment that she realizes what she has said by the way her eyes widen and her jaw drops just slightly. A second later, her face flushes to a shade almost as dark as Ford's own. "That's not what I - I didn't mean - They just do!" Carla attempts to cover her face with her free hand, "Oh, God."
Stan finally cracks and laughs openly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Somehow, Ford doubts that. "I just -" more laughter interrupts Stan's words, "Oh man, you two should see your faces right now! They're priceless!"
"Stan. Pines," Carla says through gritted teeth, "I have told you not to ask me questions while I'm distracted. I say dumb things when I'm distracted!"
It occurs to Ford that maybe he should let go of her hand. He moves to draw away but freezes when Carla's fingers give his a quick squeeze. What does that mean? Should he not pull away?
"C'mon, Carla," Stan manages around his continued snickering, "It was just a bit of fun. You know I wouldn't hold anything you said like that against ya."
Ford hesitantly returns the squeeze. The way some of the tension leaves the young woman's shoulders makes him hopeful that he chose the right action.
"Mark my words, Stanley Pines, I will have my revenge for this," Carla warns, removing the hand covering her eyes in order to glare at her boyfriend and resume her customary gesturing, "and it won't be long in coming."
"That's fair," Stan acknowledges, but the too-pleased smile still covering his face probably isn't doing anything to help him.
Carla huffs. She proceeds to ignore him in favor of Ford. "I meant it, by the way. I wish I'd said it better, but I do like your hands. I'm sorry Stan seems to delight in making things awkward for everyone."
It's weird to be the one receiving an apology about Stan's behavior, rather than to be the one giving it. Still, it somehow makes it easier to find his voice; unfortunately, he just knows that Stanley will be ribbing him for weeks (maybe months) over what he's about to say next. "It's alright; He's always been like that. And... I like your hands, too," he admits, glad his face is already covered in a deep flush.
Carla laughs, the remaining tension slowly draining from her. "Thank you." There's a pause before Carla speaks again. "Alright, alright. I'm sure I'll think up a bunch more silly questions later, but for now, I just have one more. After this, I promise you can be the one to ask the questions for a while."
Ford nods as the blush starts to fade away. He thinks he can handle one last question.
"Okay. Alright. So. How would you respond, if I were to say..." Carla raises her right hand in an immediately recognizable salute. In a mock serious voice, she intones, "Peace and Long Life, Stanford Pines."
Stanley interjects before his brother can fully process the most recent turn in the conversation. "No! Carla-Baby, why?" he whines loudly, "I told you not to bring that dumb nerd-program up!"
"And I told you not to ask me things when I'm distracted. Like you just did not five minutes ago. Really, Stanley, you can only blame yourself for this one."
"You're a Trekkie!" Ford finally bursts, unable to contain himself any longer.
"Well, I don't know if I'd call myself a Trekkie, but I do watch the show, so..." Carla starts then shrugs and finishes with a grin, "Sure, why not?"
"Ugh," Stan groans, "The one thing I was actually afraid might happen when I let the two of you meet each other has officially happened!" He crosses his arms over the table and buries his face in the crook of his elbow.
"Stan, your girlfriend is a Trekkie! How could you not tell me that your girlfriend watches Galaxy Trek?" Ford exclaims.
His brother doesn't lift his head, just grumbles from behind his folded arms. "Because I didn't want to end up in the middle of the Glass Shard Beach Scifi Nerd Convention. Now wipe that nerd-grin off your face, Poindexter."
Is he smiling? Probably. It would certainly explain why his cheeks are beginning to ache. It would also match up with the excited, fizzy feeling taking over him that's making it very difficult to reign in the impulse to bounce in his seat like a five-year-old hopped up on a sugar-high.
He holds his right hand up with his thumb out to the side and his fingers split between his middle and ring fingers. "Peace and Long Life."
Later that evening, Stanley is not the only one filling the Pines residence with ceaseless, excited babble.
Read the entire Dimension 297 series on Archive of Our Own: archiveofourown dot org slash series slash 457846