Chapter Text
Fiddleford went downstairs, not only to escape the demon currently possessing his boyfriend but also because he was needed elsewhere. Holding Stanford’s body down wasn’t what he needed to do. Stanley could hold him down just fine and if he couldn’t, he’d always holler down to him for help. Instead, Ford needed something made to keep that demon out of his head.
He opens up Ford’s journals, looking into any kind of information on Bill's type of demon he might’ve written down. Say what you might about Stanford’s gull, he took extensive notes on whatever he researched, even if he might not take to mind how a reader might read them if they needed something quick. He doesn’t find anything in the first journal about the demon, and albeit there are some things in the second journal that allude to him, there’s not much about Bill personally. Third time’s the charm, as they say, as sure enough, Ford made notes on his deal with Bill in the third, a drawing of his six fingered hand shaking a hand of pure black surrounded by fire greets him.
The self-importance in Ford’s tone as he writes about accepting a deal from his Muse, as he calls that wretched thing, leaves a disgusted taste in his mouth. Ford truly thought this creature was some sort of angel sent from heaven to guide brilliant minds like his, he realizes as he reads Ford’s reverent words. He knows pride comes before the fall, and that arrogance often leads to ignorance, but seeing it so plainly in his best friend is something horrible.
He reads words from Ford’s own hand as they talk about him. Words that were never meant to be read by his eyes spoke of Ford’s attempts to stay awake for long hours. He remembers all the nights they spent working their tails off to finish components or blueprints for the portal, nights where Ford never came to bed, despite not making much progress after he went to bed himself. Ford would fall asleep soon after he went to bed despite how hard he tried to continue to work, at his desk rather than in their bed. He was frustrated at the rate they could work before the train, then when they had Stanley helping them, he was so excited to finish since they were so close that he would make such a deal with a demon to work day and night.
He reads what Ford thought of him, in how Fiddleford didn’t understand and would fret if he said anything about Bill.
Damn right he would ‘fret’ about his and Bill’s deal. He thinks just about anyone would find the idea of a demon manipulating their boyfriend distasteful at best and downright terrifying at worst. Anyone with any sort of common sense, at least.
He shouldn’t blame Ford. He doesn’t, really, he knows that Stanford is the smartest person he’s ever met but even the most brilliant people can be manipulated and hurt. The people who are manipulated aren’t really to blame.
It’s not fair, honestly. Despite everything that happened with Stanley, Stanford is a good man who doesn’t deserve this; no matter how it came to happen.
All that matters now is getting that demon out of his head and saving the world.
That’s the plan, anyway.
To be completely honest, he’s a might bit scared. Between the terrifying meeting with the gremloblin and other terrifying Gravity Falls anomalies and this Bill situation, he itches to do something drastic to sooth himself. He knows that itch is a demon of itself, addiction, calling to him like it called to so many of his cousins and grandparents before him. His family, namely his auntie Myrtle, who seemed older than time itself from when he was a kid even to now, would tell him that there would come a time when the soul itches for something to poison itself with. Something to make the mind slow and soft when times were at it’s hardest. Be it alcohol, drugs, or infidelity, the mind longs for something to burn itself with.
He thought his itch would be tobacco, something to rot his teeth or lungs as it soothes his mind. Stanford helped him quit, he made a patch that nearly made the itch disappear completely. He knew from then on that this was a person he ought to keep, something that continued to grow into a true love that could catch the moon with a lasso and bring it down to earth if it wanted to.
Now though, he itches for something else, something he knows for a fact could work but, like Ford said, could be extremely dangerous in the wrong hands.
It could make another problem when the one they’re dealing with is already so stressful, not to mention that it could make him useless in helping solve the issue.
He had to be strong. He had to help Stanford.
He copies down his own notes on the demon from the journals and everything they’ve found out about him during this whole mess, gently correcting the fake information Ford had written down before. Once that’s done, he gets to work brainstorming.
It’s about three hours later that Stan and Stanford come downstairs.
“Stanford, how are you feeling?” He scootches his chair away from the desk to look at him properly. He straightens, his back popping more than a few times as his spine protests being bent back into alignment; Stanford would chide him about proper posture, warning him of becoming bow legged and hunched if he wasn’t more careful.
Now, Ford just swallows hard before croaking out an answer. “I’m okay now.”
“Sweet lord, Stanford,” he breathes, “you sound worse than a half dead toad’s croak.”
“Gee thanks” Ford grimaces.
“It’s the yelling.” Stanley explains, “Bill was pissed I was ignoring him and well..”
Ford rubs his throat and looks away. He wants to comfort him, but he doesn’t want to let Stanley onto their relationship while they’re dealing with the Bill situation. He sighs quietly.
“I’ll fix up some tea, it’ll getchu healed up in no time.” He nods to Ford who peeks up at him before turning to the kitchen. He listens as the twins flip through his notes, seeing what he came up with. Most of the ideas, he’s sure, are likely to be as helpful as a trapdoor in a canoe when it comes to Bill, seeing as he doesn’t quite know enough about his physicalities to properly prepare a tool of any kind against him.
He’s still feeling bruised, a reminder of their brawl in the basement only a dozen hours ago. He doesn’t even quite know what time it is. He’s tired and just wants everything to stop for a few minutes so he can rest, but it won’t. They need a solution and they need it immediately. He goes through the motions of making tea, too tired to mentally think through the whole process as he worries about their predicament.
He isn’t so sure what to do but there has to be something.
He makes his way back with three cups of tea, remembering last minute that Stanley was here and might enjoy a cup. The boys are bent over his notes, reading and discussing the plans like he thought. He hands them around and sits back down at his chair.
“Thanks” Stanford croaks as he takes his cup. He drinks some down immediately, not minding it being mildly scalding, as usual. He measures for that, and doesn’t boil the water completely when making tea for Stanford. His mama always said to boil the tea or coffee thoroughly to bring out the whole flavor, but Stanford would just burn his taste buds right off if he did, and Stanford drinks it too fast for him to notice the flavor either way.
He nudges his twin with an elbow. Stan looks over at him with a grunt and eyebrows raised in question. Fiddleford watches them have a silent conversation with amusement. Stan catches on and scoffs out a “thanks” to Fiddleford. He smiles at the two as Ford rolls his eyes and punches Stanley in the arm.
He’s just so happy to see them behaving like brothers. Despite everything else being wrong and broken and fragile, at least they’re all in this together now. No more secrets, no more going behind the other’s back. He remembers tales that Ford would tell him about the two of them against terrible monsters and bullies alike and knew that if anyone is able to overcome this mess, it would be them, together.
Almost no secrets, but he suspects that Stanley might be more perceptive than he lets on about that.
Nevertheless, he doesn’t think that’ll be an issue right yet. They have few secrets between them and together they could take on the world and that’s all that matters.
“So out of all these,” Stanley begins, turning around to him and leaning back against the desk. “which do you think would work best against the guy?”
Ford looks back down at the notes, shuffling the papers around.
“Well, I was partial to the mind scanner, that way we can at least see where he is in Stanford’s mind.” Fiddleford scratches at his stitches on his shoulder, the darn things itching like bed bugs. “As for a long term solution? I had a few ideas about some kind of electromagnetic emitter or something like that that could push Bill’s presence away. Since I don’t know much about him, I don’t think any of my ideas will be very useful, but it’s a start.”
“I don’t think he’s affected by much in our world.” Stanford croaks. He sends him a pointed look and Stanford takes another drink of his tea. “We need to make me more difficult for him to possess, somehow. He can only possess me when I-“
Fiddleford gets tired of hearing him speak like that, cringing whenever he clears his throat and instead shoves a pencil and notepad to him. Stanley snickers and Ford gives his brother a glare.
‘he can only possess me when I’m asleep’ he writes quickly. ‘so I’ll just have to stay awake until we can come up with something.’
“Well it’s not much but it’s something” Fiddleford sighs, leaning back with his cup held up near his chest. He takes a small sip in thought. “It gives us more time, I suppose. You can’t stay awake forever, no matter what some people may think.”
“We could tie him to the bed every night, just like what I’d do during finals week when we were kids” Stan grins at him and nudges him with an elbow. Fiddleford laughs and Ford’s face turns a bright red, making him laugh harder.
“Oh I bet he was terrible. He used to do back-to-back all-nighters back in college.” He tells Stan, ignoring the way Stanford buries his face into his sweater. “Would pass out in the hallway after class waitin' for me to finish my class. I’d drag him back to our dorm and he’d sleep the day away, absolutely dead to the world.”
Stanley laughs, slapping his hand against his knee in his giddy fit. Stanford sinks into a chair and pulls some papers closer to him, ignoring them. He chuckles, hoping Stanford isn’t actually angry with them. He doesn’t think it’s actually hurting him, considering Ford’s anger typically burns hotter than this. He leans over to him and claps a hand on his shoulder. Stanford looks up at him, still red in the face but more exasperated than angry, it seems.
“Ford told me that you would get the two of you into all kinds of trouble, I got him into a fair amount as well, if I do say so myself.” He tells Stan, changing the topic a bit right of what they were talking about before. “He helped me out with a stink bomb we threw up into a bully’s dorm. Made the whole level smell like devil’s grass so much that he got kicked out of the dorm the next day.”
“No way” Stan guffaws “I think if we tried that back in highschool they would know it was us. Sixer and I were the prime suspects for everything by then.”
“So I was told!” Fiddleford laughs back, “Although I also recall him saying that they were often right to think that.”
“You got that right.” Stanley grins to him, “Although most of it was just payback, so I’d say it was justified.”
“Mess with a bull and you get the horns.” He says, smiling into his cup.
“Damn right.” Stanley takes a sip on his own tea.
The whole room is so much lighter than it had been when the twins came down. It had been like a funeral it was so doomy. Between seeing Stanford’s notes on Bill and hearing what that monster did to Stanford’s voice, the room felt like all the shadows had eyes and the silence could swallow people whole. The world outside was empty and gone and all they had were these haunted walls and the dread in their hearts. Now, he feels like that slightest bit of reprieve was like bread to a starving man, like water to a desert. It was a healing balm that they so sorely needed right then. Memories from the past to laugh about when the future looked so bleak.
He thinks they can do this.
Together they continue to go through the possible plans Fiddleford had come up with, eventually moving on to brainstorming together. Stanford writes on his notepad as him and Stan talk, occasionally flipping to another page to comment on whatever idea they’re currently discussing. He’ll occasionally tear out a page and hand it to Fiddleford who reads it out loud, explaining it to Stanley whenever Ford devolves into advanced scientific lingo.
They do that for a while before Stanford passes him one that he immediately vetoes.
“We are not putting a metal plate in your head!” Fiddleford blanches.
“It’s not a terrible idea-“ Stanford begins, his voice sounding better now that he’s had something warm to sooth it.
“It’s a crazy idea!” Fiddleford interrupts “None of us can do brain surgery, Stanford. It’s not safe!”
“We’ve done surgery before-“ Stanford insists.
“Yes! On a gnome’s stomach. A gnome isn’t a human and a stomach isn’t a brain!” Fiddleford argues. He honestly can’t believe Stanford would suggest this seriously. “Too much could go wrong.”
“Yeah I’m with Fiddleford on this, Sixer.” Stan adds, “No way are we doing that.”
“It would just be a small one, it’s our best bet!” Stanford asserts, taking the paper back and pointing at different parts of his schematics. “If we use a titanium steel alloy carved with a protection ward then we-“
“We could kill you in the process.” Fiddleford refuses. “No way are we doing that. We’ll come up with something else.”
Stanford deflates but concedes.
They continue, but in the end come up with nothing.
They head to bed around 2am, securing Stanford to the bed with Fiddleford keeping watch. Bill doesn’t take Stanford’s body again, but his sleep is fitful. He tries to sooth Ford in his sleep, brushing his hand through his hair and his thumb over his brow, but nothing helps. When Ford wakes up, he’s covered in sweat and smells like a barn. He wakes Fiddleford up and he unlocks his restraints. Ford goes to take a shower as he rests for a few more hours.
He’s woken up by Stanley the second time around, having slept for far longer than he thinks he ever had before.
He can’t find Stanford.
The elevator to the basement isn’t at the top anymore.