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Chapter Text

It’s one of the first things he learns growing up. Like he knows that Stanley is a safe space, like he knows that Pa’s frown will never ease no matter what he does, like he knows the best places on the Boardwalk to fold under and pretend you don’t exist, Stanford Pines knows that there’s something wrong with him.

At first he thinks it’s his fingers. It’s what everyone tells him, after all. You can’t make friends? Must be those fingers , his mother would hum into his hair as she brushed it. Those girls would give you the time of day if it weren’t for those damn fingers, his father would glare. It’s not you, Stan would reassure him as he curled in bed crying, it’s just…

It wasn’t just the fingers, Ford bites back from saying. It’s me. It’s me that’s the problem.

Ford tries to tell Stan that one day, curled tight into a corner on his bunk. “Stanley,” he says, hands flitting around the pages of the physical science textbook. “I think something’s wrong with me.”

“Whatcha mean,” Stan crawls onto his bunk, sprawling on the bed sheets, making himself as much in the way as possible. Ford tries hard to fight back his smile. “Are you coming down with something? Here, let me check.” Stan sticks his hand near Ford’s forehead. This time Ford can’t hold back his laughter, dodging the hand and falling to his side on the bed.

“No,” Ford says, trying to contain himself. “No, nothing like that.” He takes a deep breath, trying hard to gain his composure and keep his nerves. “I think I’m broken,” Ford admits, voice soft.

Stan stills, the smile falling from his face. “What’s making you say that, Sixer?” Stan shakes his head, and when Ford catches his eyes they hold such sadness. “Is it the hands?”

“It’s not the hands,” Ford says, voice high and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. “Okay, it might be partially the hands,” he admits, “but Stanley, it’s mostly me. I’m not...I’m not like the other kids.”

“And I’ve never been gladder,” Stan says. “Fuck those other kids, Ford, I wouldn’t want you anything like them.”

Ford sighs. “Stan, this is serious. I don’t have friends, or a girlfriend, or - ” 

“You’ve got a friend. You’ve got me,” Stan says, eyes hurt.

Ford curses under his breath. “Of course you’re my friend. You know what I meant. Hell, you don’t have anyone else either, because of me.”

“As for that other stuff,” Stan says, plowing on, “dating is overrated. Do you even want a girlfriend?”

“I should!” Ford says, face red. “That’s what boys our age want. Lots of friends, a girlfriend, and I just...don’t.” Ford buries his head in his knees and lays his arms atop them. “I tried, but I just don’t. All I want is one, maybe two people to talk to, not to be hated and...” Ford looks up, eyes locking with a poster of a mad scientist. It’s a tacky one they found at an old flea market but Ford loves it. The ruffled salt and pepper hair on the man’s head, the goggles attached to his face and the wide grin. “And science. I want to make something. To do something worthwhile.”

“Then you will,” Stan says, like he knows it’s true. Like it’s a decree. “You and me will sail away from here and it won’t even matter. Nothing will matter when we get out of here.”

Ford smiles. “When we get out of here,” he agrees.

And even though Stan doesn’t get it, he helps. He smiles at Ford, sending his support, as Ma interrogates him about why he’s never been on a date, when Pa insists he at least ask some girl to the Prom. Stan never asks him why he never blushes when pretty girls walk by, he simply regails him with stories of the sea, and for a while that’s enough.

And then Stan is gone and Ford sits through his parent’s questions alone.

***

“What’s love supposed to feel like?” Ford asks one evening.

Fiddleford sits up from his bed, bookmarking his page, and turns towards Ford. “Pardon?”

Ford’s face flushes. “I just...I can imagine that you’ve been romantically involved before.”

Fiddleford rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “What, you mean by the hickeys?” He asks, pointing to the marks on his neck. All Ford can do is nod. “That’s less romance, but sure, I’ve been in love. Or at least, I’ve had crushes and the like. Have you not?”

Ford looks around the room, at their posters, at the pile of scrap metal that isn’t technically supposed to be there, at anything but his roommate. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like,” he admits, “so I can’t say.”

“Always a man of science,” Fiddleford laughs. The sound traps itself inside his chest, flutters around, resonates through him. “I guess it feels like something’s sitting on your chest. And your heart beats a little too fast, and your voice is a little too loud and your face too flushed but you can’t find it in you to care. You just can’t help but scoot a little closer, even if it burns.”

“Huh,” Ford says, staring at the ceiling. 

“You’ve ever felt that?” Fiddleford asks.

With the first boy in town who didn’t laugh when he held my hand in his, Ford thinks. With the bored junior boy in the dining hall who has a coffee ready for me every morning before lab. Ford looks over and finds Fiddleford staring. With you.

“No,” he says, feeling shame burning in his chest for some reason. “I’ve never felt that for any woman.”

***

Ford is in Gravity Falls looking for mysteries. He’s looking for the unknown, the unexplained, the impossible.

And maybe, maybe he’s one of them.

He doesn’t go towards town often, just when needed. People have never been easy for Ford and friends have been fairly impossible. That doesn’t matter, however - he has his research, and the anomalies of Gravity Falls serve as great distraction during the day.

It’s the nights that are difficult. He sits at night, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the things he’ll never know, the things he’ll never understand. He tries, once, to romance a siren, but it’s impossible to feel anything other than curiosity about her species as she flirts with him. Maybe he’s just too weird, too much of an oddity for romance.

That doesn’t stop the dreams, though. Dreams of dancing, six-fingered hand in five fingered one, the figure just a few inches taller than him. They lead and Ford is happy to sway along, never one to learn the moves but content to try. He trips and they catch him, and their laugh is low and warm, spreading through his chest.

And when he wakes up he’s even lonelier.

When Fiddleford comes it’s a relief, a distraction from the isolation of the woods and Ford is content to have a friend again. 

But there’s...there’s something about Fiddleford that’s distracting. He finds his thoughts slipping, at times, from the portal. It’s a diversion he cannot afford, he knows, but he still finds himself going out to eat more, spending more time laughing at the dinner table and more time out in the woods researching and grabbing parts instead of working like he should be. There’s a warmth that spreads through his chest, and he finds his heart beating faster, his smiles growing larger. He feels...frightened. He feels alive.

He tries to ignore it, and by the time he wonders what the feeling was he’s already gone, sitting knees against his chest in a cave in some galaxy he’d never dreamed of, Earth and Fiddleford impossibly out of reach.

***

“Before I go,” Ford says as Parallel Fiddleford looks over the gun one last time, “I have a question.”

Parallel Fiddleford pauses, body tensing. “I figured you would.” The man straightens up, hands tenderly resting on his lower back. “So what do you want to know? About the Institute? About the research, or the awards? About - ”

“Are you happy?” Ford interrupts. Fiddleford’s mouth falls open just a little, his eyes going wide and Ford fights against his urge to snort. The man looks like a fish. “I just. You and...you and your Ford. Are you happy?”

For reasons Ford can’t understand, Parallel Fiddleford blushes. “What do you mean by that? Of course we’re happy, we’re successful.”

“Oh.” Ford shakes his head. “Of course, I should’ve known better. I’m a fool.”

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says, voice surprisingly soft. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I just,” Ford admits. “I know myself. Even if this is another universe, I know myself. And I know I wanted knowledge, research too. But I also wanted to make you - to make my Fiddleford happy. I think this other me is probably the same.”

Fiddleford looks up at him, eyes wide, before smiling. “I am happy,” he admits. 

“Good,” Ford can barely whisper. His heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his chest. He doesn’t know why. “Good.”

***

“Grunkle Foooooord,” Mabel whines, stretching out his name as she sprawls against him. He smiles at her and pats his chair. She eagerly scrambles up to lean against him. Ford has to admit that he doesn’t know Mabel as much as Dipper but, despite Stanley’s warnings against him getting any closer to the kids, he really does like her. She’s filled with energy, all creativity and bright lights and glitter, but she also knows when to be soft, he thinks as she leans into his sweater. “Grunkle Ford, you have to take this quiz with me!” Somehow she’s procured a magazine from her pocket (although, upon further inspection, she has no pockets. How did she get that?) and a feathery pen to match. 

“What kind of quiz?” He asks, leaning in closer, delighted when Mabel leans in, too. 

“It’s ‘what’s your dream boy,’” she replies, flipping through the pages to a bookmarked one. “I took it earlier and made Stan take it, too. It’ll help me figure out who in town to start matching you with!”

Cold fear pools in Ford’s stomach. “Mabel,” he warns, voice soft but guarded, “no one in town knows I exist.”

“This is for after they do,” Mabel explains, not blinking an eye. “I don’t have a ‘what’s your dream girl’ quiz, but it’s the same basic types of people. I’ve sorted the townspeople into jocks, nerds, bad boys, and preps. Now we just need to figure out what's your type and then we’ll go from there.”

Ford sighs. He tries to be gentle. “Mabel, I’ve never been one for romance. I’m not good at it.”

Mabel frowns, looking back up at him with a different look in her eyes. “Grunkle Ford, we don’t have to do this. It’s just a quiz. If you don’t...if you don’t like people like that, that’s okay.”

“What?” Ford can barely contain the raw panic from showing in his voice. “Of course I - of course I do. I just, I don’t have any interest in the people of Gravity Falls.” 

Mabel looks at him knowingly. “How would you know that? It’s been thirty years.”

Ford sighs. “We can take the quiz,” he concedes, “but I ask you to wait on the match-making.”

“It’s a deal,” Mabel says, and if she feels Ford’s flinch she politely doesn’t say anything about it. “Okay, question 1: what’s your ideal first date? A. A movie or dinner? B. A private evening alone? C. Someplace outdoors? Or D. The mall?” Mabel looks over at him, waiting for his answer.

Ford thinks it over. “I think B,” he finally decides. He knows Stan’s answer, remembers the man taking dates to movies or restaurants, but he had never understood why. Not when he preferred a night alone reading. And even in college, even if there had been a girl to take out, he’d much rather spend a night lazily studying and talking with Fiddleford.

Fiddleford, who he hasn’t thought about since he left the parallel dimension. It hits Ford quickly that they’re in the same universe, on the same planet, for the first time in thirty years. He almost thinks about asking Mabel about the lanky scientist, before reminding himself that Fiddleford is fine without him. He had no reason to stay. He’s long gone by now.

Even still, throughout the quiz Ford can’t help his thoughts from turning to college, to nights spent debating the nature of the universe. To lying on the roof of this very house watching the stars, abysmal home-brewed moonshine in hand. He shouldn’t be thinking of Fiddleford now, he reprimands himself, he should be thinking of the siren, or of Cathy Crenshaw, or of nothing at all.

“Well,” Mabel announces, hands moving over the page as she reads, “I’ve tallied up your score and you got mostly Bs. Grunkle Ford, I didn’t know you were into nerds! It’s a nerd-nerd relationship.”

“I…” Ford doesn’t know what to say. His mouth feels dry, his heart beating in his chest so loud he swears Mabel can hear it. 

Mabel, thankfully, ignores his stammering. “If you still want, I can set you up with one of the single lady nerds in town, although that group is pretty tiny.”

Ford’s blood runs cold, for some reason. “Look at the time,” he exclaims, standing up. Mabel adjusts herself on the empty seat with an “oomf.” “I’ve got experiments to run in the basement. See you at dinner!” And before Mabel can say anything else, Ford is gone.

***

A lot of things have changed while he’s been gone, Ford thinks to himself, but the one thing he is truly amazed at is current technology, the most fascinating and painful being updates in personal computers.

Fiddleford could’ve made millions doing better work than this, he thinks bitterly, and instead I brought him down with me.

Although, Fiddleford is part of the reason he’s now booting up the old computer the shack houses. The kids and Stan were gone for the day and Ford meant to spend his free time working in the basement, but curiosity led him to the internet browser. Thoughts of Fiddleford swim in his mind and despite the bitterness and pain that should be there all he can think about is soft hands moving him towards the kitchen when he overworked himself, of strumming and singing in a scratchy southern twang, of looking over and taking in his companion’s presence when he thought no one was looking.

Stanford Pines has never loved a woman but, he realizes with a painful jolt, he can’t say with certainty he’s never loved a man.

The first thing when presented a possibility , Ford reminds himself, is not to panic . That’s all this was, was a possibility. Nothing was guaranteed. Research is his best option, and is the preferred remedy. And that leads him to the browser in front of him. After several attempts to navigate the website he finally finds a search engine.

Homosexual, he types in. 

The website answers back, rather quickly: a person attracted to one’s own sex. Ford frowns. He knows the definition, but that does nothing to answer the fear pooling in his gut. 

He sees a related search and clicks on it. Another website pops up. Homosexuality in animals. Ford reads through a few articles the search provides - a fascinating read. No, focus.

Am I a homosexual? Ford types. He fidgets in his chair before hitting enter. To his surprise, a few quizzes pop up. 

“Am I gay?” Ford reads, before clicking to begin. To his frustration, most of the questions are simply asking him if he has had sex with men (he hasn’t), if he wants to (he isn’t quite sure), or if he ever will (the jury is still out). Nothing defines attraction, no one clarifies if the burn in his stomach is love or gastrointestinal issues, and nothing leaves him feeling any better on the subject. 

Growling in frustration, Ford closes the tab. He runs his hands over his face, guilt washing over him.

“If my father is in fact dead,” Ford speaks to the empty house, “he’s rolling in his grave.” He knew what Filbrick’s reaction would be if he found out he was gay. He’d be kicked out of the house just as fast as Stanley was. He pretends like his mother would have been kinder, but he knows she would have let the door close. He’s not sure about the science world, he’s already a bit of an oddball there due to his interests in cryptozoology, but what would his contemporaries think? What would Fiddleford say?

Why did he care so much what Fiddleford would say?

Ford huffs out a morose laugh and stands on shaky legs, stumbling his way down to the basement and to work more on containing the rift. Does it matter if I’m a queer if the universe ends? He reminds himself. It doesn’t help, but he pretends it does.

Chapter Text

“Grunkle Ford,” Dipper asks one day, “what happened between you and Fiddleford McGucket?” 

Ford stops, hand reaching out to grab the spoon in front of him. Mabel and Stan were off in town doing errands and gathering knitting supplies, but Dipper had wanted to stay here to spend time with Ford. He’s not sure how he feels about that - pleased, certainly, but also frightened, not only by Dipper’s worship of him but also by how similar the two are. He can’t help but wonder how many of his own mistakes Dipper is making. Dipper had convinced him to have lunch with him and the older man had agreed, leaving his basement sanctuary for the warm summer light streaming in through the kitchen windows.  

“Nothing happened between me and Fiddleford,” he stutters out, “what are you talking about?” He laughs, but it’s an awkward, breathy laugh that betrays him.

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “I know that there was a falling out between you too and that he left after the testing went wrong,” he explains. “You were friends before then, right?”

Ford lets out a small chuckle, feeling foolish. Of course the boy’s not asking about their relationship in anything other than a platonic sense. Why would he? “He was my best friend,” Ford says. “I’ve never met anyone smarter, anywhere in the multiverse.”

Dipper’s eyes shine. “Really? I mean, I knew he built things fast, but I had no idea…” The boy trails off, frowning a little.

“Dipper,” Ford says, “what happened to Fiddleford?” He’s tried asking this question before but the members of the shack avoid it time and time again. Stan leaves the room, Mabel changes the subject, Soos starts reciting movie speeches instead of answering. Ford knows something happened, and he knows that Fiddleford is still in town for some reason, but besides that he’s not sure. If anyone will give him an honest answer, he knows it’s Dipper.

Dipper frowns. “That’s, uh, that’s a lot, Grunkle Ford. I’m not sure you’re ready for that.”

“Whatever it is, it’s my fault.” Ford says. Dipper’s head whips around to him, eyes wide. “I drove him to a dangerous place. I should have listened to him, gone with him, but I was too foolish to realize that until it was too late. I don’t blame him if he doesn’t forgive me.” Ford places his head down on the table. “I just want to apologize.”

Dipper bites his lip. “Do you remember the Society of the Blind Eye?” He finally says.

***

The junkyard is filthy when he arrives, the air curling with the scent of trash, and yet that’s not what makes Ford’s stomach sink.

There’s a hut in the middle of the yard where Fiddleford must stay, as shown by the scraps of parts surrounding it and the graffiti that reads McSuckit . Ford thinks about the friend who used to keep his side of the room a pigsty but always made his bed nice and tidy and cannot imagine that person and this person are the same.

He takes a step forward and hears a banging inside the shack. A racoon tumbles out of the door, running towards the other side of the yard. Ford waits for the sounds of rustling, for a familiar southern twang, and he doesn’t find it. No one else is here.

Feeling worse than when he came, Ford heads back to the Mystery Shack.

***

Even without Bill’s interference Ford’s dreams are never easy. He’s in a long hallway, at a party it seems. The people around him are dressed elegantly, women in formal gowns and men in fitted suits.

Ford allows himself to size the men up as he passes them, to let his gaze stay on their shoulders and jawlines. It doesn’t fill him with anything more than a dull spark, but he’s never got the chance to openly look before. He waits for someone to call him out, to call him a freak. He hears a throat clear behind him and turns slowly, tense, ready to run.

Fiddleford McGucket is older than the last time he’d seen him, looking more like Parallel Fiddleford than the one he remembers but Ford knows that the man in front of him is his. He wears a brown suit, and it’s fitted nicely. His tie is red, and he smiles at Ford that open grin that’s always made him flustered for reasons he never understood. He understands, now.

Fiddleford takes his hand, slowly, five fingers intertwined in six. They sway for a minute, body pressed against body, and Ford lays his head down against the other’s shoulder. His hand travels cautiously to the other man’s waist and lightly stays there. He has no idea what he’s even doing. That doesn’t stop him from trying. Fiddleford hums lightly, happily, in his ear.

Ford wakes up that morning with the ghost of a hand in his.

***

When Ford and Fiddleford finally meet again it’s the end of the world. Ford kneels, holding the kids against him when he sees a face he almost doesn’t recognize staring his way.

His beard is long, white, and raggedy. His clothes are loose brown overalls and he’s thin as a stick. He’s shrunk a solid few inches, as shown by his hunched back and bad posture.His hands are shaking where they hang. He’s missing teeth, and his eyes, hiding behind goggles, look clouded. 

This is the consequences of my actions, Ford thinks. It’s hard to recognize the man in front of him as Fiddleford, and yet - there’s the same nervous shake of his limbs, the same lankiness, the same long nose and, when he speaks again, the familiar drawl.

There are so many things that Ford wants to say in this moment, so many passes at forgiveness, and instead he leads the man into his arms.\

You were right, he thinks. I should have listened to you. I love you.

Whether Fiddleford hears his confessions he never says, but as they break away Ford can’t help but marvel at the way the engineer has always fit into his arms.

And then the world really, truly ends.

***

“So am I forgetting something, or have you never gotten along with women?” Stan asks. Ford laughs.

The two are sitting together in the living room, gathered around Stan’s armchair. It’s been four days since the world ended and began again and Stan’s memories are coming together rather nicely. Ford hadn’t allowed himself to hope that he’d ever have his brother back, but Mabel hadn’t given up. Ford’s glad that she didn’t - Stan still had gaps and ways to go but he had successfully remembered the kids and the last summer. The most work to do now was in their childhood and the years Stan spent on the run. Ford wouldn’t give up, now that he had hope, though, and the two of them spent hours into the night working on Stan’s memories. There is a stack of pictures in front of them, the one open now from after their junior Prom. 

“I get along with women rather fine,” Ford says. “Unless you’re speaking romantically. In which case, no, I’ve never gotten along with women.”

“Did that change at all in college?” 

Ford fakes a frown. “I can confidently say I am, as an old man, worse with women than I was as a child.” That earns a laugh from Stan, and Ford can’t help but break the façade and chuckle in return. It’s nice, this newfound ease and comfortability with his brother. He’s missed it.

“You never know,” Stan laughs, “that could change. There’s still time, if you’re interested.”

Ford runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit he’s been trying to break. This isn’t a conversation the two of them have had yet, and yet Ford can’t help but speak. “I don’t think I am. Interested, I mean.”

Stan pauses for a second, his face contemplative, before he grins. It’s nervous, cautious, and Ford doesn’t know where to go from here. “Nothing wrong with that.” 

“Yeah?” Ford says, looking anywhere but his twin. His hands find each other and clench behind his back. Another nervous habit.

“Six - Ford,” Stan corrects himself. “If you’ve got something to say, you can say it. And if you don’t, we can move onto the next picture.”

Ford thinks about his brother’s offer. He could move on. They could have this conversation, this painful admission, sometime later. When he’s prepared, when he has something planned. Ford looks over at Stan and makes up his mind. He’s had enough delaying important conversations for a lifetime.

“Stanley,” he starts. He pauses, unsure where to go from there. Stan, for his part, simply waits. “It’s come to my attention,” Ford tries again, “in recent years - well, in the past two weeks, really, although it’s closer to thirteen days…”

“Ford,” Stan groans, “you don’t gotta - ”

“I’m gay,” Ford admits, heart pounding rapidly. “I like men. And, er, only men.”

Stan looks at him, expression neutral. “Am I forgetting something or is this news to me?”

“We’ve never had this conversation,” Ford says. “I wasn’t sure, and then we were fighting, and then Weirdmageddon happened. It was never the right time.”

Stan whistles, straightening in his seat. “Do you drink?” He asks Ford, abruptly. Ford can barely talk, he barely knows where this is going, so he simply nods. Stan nods in return before rising. He groans as his back audibly cracks at the movement. “I’m getting two beers,” Stan calls as he leaves. “One for you and one for me.”

For a moment Ford just watches his twin walk away. Was that...was he okay with it? Was he disgusted at him? Did he never want to see him again? He went to grab a drink, true, but he was grabbing two, and seemed to be offering one to Ford. The data is inconclusive. Ford tries to calculate any sort of theory of what was happening but cannot get past the feeling of his hands shaking. He wants to flee, to hide, but a sense of duty and stupid, stupid hope keep him in his seat.

Stan returns, two beers and a bottle opener in hand. He sinks into his chair before opening one bottle and handing one to Ford. Stan tilts his glass towards Ford, and the older scientist freezes. “It’s a toast,” Stan explains, as if this isn’t scarier to Ford than fighting a sadistic demon. “You ever toasted before? It’s to celebrate.”

It takes a moment for that to click. “Are you celebrating me coming out to you?” Ford asks, breath high and airy, almost hysterical.

Stan’s smile sinks a little. “Yeah? Is that okay?” He asks, voice hesitant. “I’m just proud of you, is all. That shit’s hard.”

Ford shakes his head, smile growing wide on his face and tears pooling at the corner of his eyes. “You’re a knucklehead,” he exhales in disbelief, raising his glass to mirror Stan’s. “Okay, a toast. To coming out? To honesty?”

Stan shifts in his seat, almost looking uncomfortable. “To being queer?” He tries.

Ford simply blinks. “You?” Is all he thinks to ask. Like a genius.

Stan bites his lip and looks away, a nervous smile plastered on his face even though Ford can read his fear. “I’m bisexual,” the conman admits.

Ford laughs. Why was he so afraid? “To being queer,” he repeats. He hopes that Stan can read his acceptance, his love, his joy, in the way he says the words.

By the way tears fall down Stan’s cheeks, by the smile he proudly wears, Ford can tell that he knows.

Chapter Text

Sitting in front of Fiddleford McGucket once again, Ford’s not sure what he feels. There’s regret and guilt over the state he’s left the man in, the way his former roommate has warped and changed. There’s pride in the resilience of his friend, in the way he’s survived and the ways he hasn’t changed. More than anything else, there’s love. There’s love pooling in his gut, a familiar feeling that he’s never had words for until now. 

“This is brilliant,” he says, looking over a blueprint. “Honestly, your work is years above anything that’s being currently produced. Have you considered selling this one in particular?

“Aw, shucks,” Fiddleford says. A blush starts to spread across his face and Ford has to bite his lip from commenting on it. It’s very, very cute. “I don’t think they’re that good.”

“They’re incredible,” Ford argues back, “and I won’t stand for this slander.” Fiddleford laughs, and Ford takes a second to breathe in that sound. He’s missed it so much, more than he could ever say. 

“Now you’re just being kind,” Fiddleford teases.

Ford’s smile falls, just slightly. “I wouldn’t call myself kind. Especially as of late.”

Fiddleford moves forward, shaking his head. “Nonsense. Stubborn? Yes. Prideful? Sweet sarsaparilla, yes, but you’ve never been unkind, Stanford. You need to be less hard on yourself”

It’s Ford’s turn now to blush. “I appreciate it. And I’m trying, I’ve just...I have a lot to make up for.”

Fiddleford leans forward, and for a moment Ford’s not sure what the man is doing before he pulls him into a hug. Ford reciprocates the touch, tears threatening to spill. He feels Fiddleford rest his head on the scientist’s shoulder. “We all do,” Fiddleford mutters.

For a moment they stay there, deep in each other’s embrace, before Fiddleford moves apart. “So, you’re setting sail?”

“I am. Stanley and I are heading off as soon as we can get the paperwork for the shack transferred over to Soos and find a boat.” 

Fiddleford nods. “I’m happy for you,” he says, “although I must admit I’ll miss you.”

Ford fights against the blush threatening to turn him into a cherry tomato and loses horribly. “We’ll video call,” he says. “I mean, if you’d like to, we can. Because I’d like to.”

Fiddleford laughs, sounding almost nervous. “I’d love that! And when you stop by you’ll have to visit me and tell me all about what you’ve seen.”

“I will,” Ford smiles. “Will you be in the mansion soon?”

“I don’t like calling it a mansion. That seems too fancy.” Fiddleford shakes his head. “It’s just a house. A really stupidly big house.”

“That sounds a little lonely. Are you sure you’ll be alright?”

Fiddleford laughs in disbelief. “That’s what I forgot to tell you. Actually, Tate’s agreed to move in with me.”

“Really? Fiddleford, that’s incredible.” Ford knew that things between Fiddleford and his son had deteriorated as the engineer’s mind had gone. He encouraged Fiddleford to reach out to Tate but hadn’t heard anything else on the matter. “I knew things would work out.”

“Stanford Pines, the optimist,” Fiddleford teases. Ford laughs in response.

“Believe me, it surprises me too. But after years of fighting against it, I’m starting to have hope.” Ford looks his former roommate, his research partner, the man he loves, squarely in the eye and smiles. 

Fiddleford smiles back, a soft smile that blooms and grows into something genuine. “That’s exactly what we need right now.”

***

The older Pines twins are crammed onto a bench together, smiling at a computer screen, when Ford’s secret slips to Dipper and Mabel.

It’s not a secret, really, Ford tries to tell himself. Just something I’ve kept hidden and only told one person.

“Have you met any other mermaids?” Mabel asks them, eyes wide. The older Pines are regaling the twins with their adventures at sea while the younger are filling in their adventures at school. 

“We ran into a group a few weeks ago that left gifts for you,” Ford informs her, grinning at Mabel’s squeal of delight. “And last week we ran into a siren’s nest accidentally.”

“Did something happen?” Dipper asks, always observant.

Ford smiles as Stan groans. “I had to save Stanley from being lured overboard,” the man tells them with delight. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan groans, although there’s a smile on his face. “You just got lucky you were listening to music when we passed them, alright? Otherwise I’d have to save your - er, your butt.” Ford smiles and concedes.

“Was she pretty?” Mabel asks.

Stan frowns. “She was covered in scales and sharp teeth, Mabel, of course she was beautiful.”

Ford doesn’t comment that it was a male siren they’d encountered. He’s learned enough now to know that Stan will tell the kids that at his own time. 

“How about you, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel says. “Have you met any lovely ladies on your journey?” Stan looks over and shoots him an apologetic look for the question. Ford’s mind goes blank for just one moment, but it’s enough for Mabel to notice. “Is everything okay?” She asks. “I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

“It’s alright, Mabel,” Ford finally says. “I just...no, I can honestly say I have not met any ladies that interested me on our journey.”

Besides him, Stan snorts, the asshole. Probably thinking about the werewolf they’d met in Iceland that Ford had spent equal time asking about his condition and staring at his tattered shirt. So sue him, he was making up for 60 repressed years. Besides, Stan was staring too.

“Okay. It’s also…” Mabel looks down, nervous for some reason. Ford wants to comfort her but doesn’t know how. “It’s also okay if you don’t want to meet any ladies? That’s okay too.”

Ford’s mouth goes dry. “I, thank you, Mabel.” He stammers. 

“We love you no matter what,” Dipper adds, and Ford has fought creatures three time his size without blinking so why, why is he crying now? 

Stan places a hand, reassuring and firm, on his shoulder. Ford smiles back at him, appreciative. “Thank you,” he tries again, voice soft and hesitant. “I…” For a moment Ford wants to move on, change the subject. He’s spent so much of his life being the freak, being the oddball, being a danger, being unsafe. But here, among his family, he knows he has no reason to hide. He is loved. And so, hesitantly, he speaks it aloud for the second time. “I’m... I don’t like women. Well, I do, but not like that, I mean. I mean, I am gay.”

“And we love you!” Mabel exclaims quickly. “Grunkle Ford, I’m so proud of you.”

“Coming out is hard,” Dipper says, looking away, and Ford is reminded of earlier in the summer when the boy came out to him as transgender. Ford feels pride bloom in his chest for the boy. “We’re here for you.”

“Thank you,” Ford tries to say, but his voice is still soft. He clears his throat, trying again and ignoring the pinprick of tears. “Thank you, children, it means a lot to me.”

“All this means,” Mabel clarifies to him, “is that we have more nerd men to set you up with!”

Ford flushes at this, thinking of a soft white beard and quick and nimble fingers working on a Cubik’s Cube. “Okay,” he says, and Stan, ever the asshole, laughs. He knows about McGucket, about Ford’s feelings towards the man. It was late-night gossip one night when they talked about flings, about identity, about Stan’s adventures on the street with men and Ford’s denials at college. Stan insists he make a move but Ford is content to wait. He’s been waiting for so long, anyways. What’s a few more years for things to settle down?

“I’ll start a pride sweater for you right away,” Mabel gushes. Ford simply nods, a smile on his face.

Stan coughs, scratching his arm. “Er, hey, sweetie,” he starts, looking anywhere but the screen. “Make me one of those too? I’m, uh, I’m bisexual.”

Mabel’s scream of delight is loud and piercing.

***

True to their word, Ford and Fiddleford call each other regularly. They spend their time talking at first about projects and discoveries before slipping into the personal. They talk about recovery, both Fiddleford’s and Stan’s and, hesitantly, Ford’s as well. They talk about town gossip, about the fight between the selkies and the narwhals. Eventually they reminisce about college as well. Ford leaves each call smiling widely, a light blush dusting his face. Stan teases him mercilessly about it but the conman seems happy for him and keeps insisting he make a move. 

Ford thinks about it, considers it late at night. For one, he doesn’t even know that Fiddleford likes men. That, combined with their complicated history, makes him hesitant. He doesn’t want to lose what was so difficult to get back, doesn’t want to miss the man again, and so he waits.

When Ford tells Fiddleford that they’re visiting Gravity Falls for the week in early spring the engineer insists they stay with him.

“I don’t know how much room Soos has got,” he says, “but we’ve got plenty of room over at McGucket manor and we’d be glad to have you.”

“I’ll ask Stanley,” Ford replies.

Stan, as expected, is unhelpful. “We can stay with your boyfriend as long as I don’t catch you two doing anything.” He tells Ford.

Ford blushes. “There will be nothing of the sort. Besides,” Ford sighs, sitting down at their kitchen table. “I don’t think he likes men.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Stan chuckles. Ford raises his eyebrows and the conman explains. “I’ve lived in Gravity Falls thirty years with your face and I can’t count the amount of times that guy has checked me out. At first it made sense, I mean, I’m a good-looking guy, but now I wonder if it’s because I look like you.”

Ford’s heart feels like it’s going to break out of his chest. “That’s...that’s probably a coincidence.” He stammers.

Stan grins. “Just calling how I see it.”

They agree to stay with the McGuckets for the week, spending the week before with Dipper and Mabel in Piedmont.

“Why can’t we come with you to Gravity Falls?” Mabel begs. The four of them are sitting on the younger twins’ bedroom floor.

“You have school,” Ford reminds her. The girl groans.

“That’s not important,” she says. 

Stan snorts and Ford quickly elbows him. “Stay in school,” Stan says instead, winking at Mabel when he thinks Ford isn’t watching.

“We’re staying with Fiddleford, anyways, not with Soos.” Ford says and Dipper raises his eyebrows.

“Is there a reason for that?” Dipper asks.

“It’s only for a week,” Ford explains, “and Fiddleford insisted. He has plenty of room at his house so it seemed best to visit with him. Besides, I’m eager to see how he’s doing.”

Mabel wiggles her eyebrows. “Is that the only reason?” She says, teasing. Ford flushes. Mabel shoots up, grinning, finger pointed at Ford. “I knew it! I knew it. You have a crush on McGucket.” 

Stan rolls on the ground with laughter at the sight of Ford, bright red and shocked. Ford considers elbowing him in the gut this time but decides against it. Violence isn’t the answer all of the time, only most times. “Anything that could’ve happened between me and Fiddleford passed a long time ago,” Ford says instead. “We’re simply friends.”

“But you’d like it if you were more than friends?” Dipper asks.

Ford pales. “That’s, uh, that’s not important.”

Dipper and Mabel look at each other. They seem to have some sort of conversation through looks and not words, but Ford can’t tell what they’re saying. He recognizes the routine, though, one that he and Stanley used to have perfected. “Grunkle Ford,” Mabel finally says, voice soft. “I think McGucket likes you back.”

“What?! No, he doesn’t.” Ford scoots back instinctively. He looks around the room, anywhere but at the children gazing his way. “Not after everything I’ve done.”

“You don’t see the way he looks at you. I think you should give it a shot.” Mabel says.

Stan shakes his head. “That’s what I’ve been saying. But ultimately, it’s up to Ford.” Stan looks his way, and Ford nods. He doesn’t know what to say about the twin’s statement, and he doesn’t know what to do next. Stan, thankfully, reads his expression and moves onward. “Hey, how is school going, anyways?” Thankfully, the kids move along with him.

When they finally get to Gravity Falls Ford is still thinking the whole thing over. 

Fiddleford stands in the doorway, hands absentmindedly scratching his arms, when they arrive. The hillbilly’s eyes light up at the sight of the twins and he’s over quickly, helping with their bags and asking about their travels. He looks better than the last time Ford saw him in person and even better in person than he did over the computer. His beard is trimmed and shorter than it was, his clothes a soft sweater and a pair of jeans, and his eyes are bright and clear behind the glasses that he now wears. Ford feels a familiar warmth as he looks at the man.

“You’re looking at me weird,” McGucket flushes as they move the suitcases inside. “I got something in my teeth?”

“It’s just good to see you,” Ford stammers out. 

Fiddleford smiles widely. “It’s good to see you, too,” he says.

Ford almost says something then and there, but then Fiddleford drops a suitcase down in the main parlor and the moment is gone.

There are many moments like that, almost confessions, throughout the week spent at McGucket Manor. Ford hadn’t realized until then how badly he wanted to confess. Even if he said no, even if Fiddleford hated him afterwards, it would at least be doing something instead of sitting stagnant.

Stanley tries to help, loudly announcing where he is going, alone, and how long he’ll be gone. At first Ford is annoyed by the habit but even without confessing it’s nice to have time alone with Fiddleford.

So when Stan announces he’s going over to the Mystery Shack for two hours on the morning of the Saturday they leave, Ford isn’t surprised. What he is surprised by is the hesitant way Fiddleford enters the room afterwards. The man looks at the ground, one hand clenched onto his jeans and the other frantically messing with the tuft of hair growing on his head.

“Is everything alright?” Ford asks, moving forward.

Fiddleford looks up for one moment, eyes wide and hopeful. “Follow me?” He asks, and Ford obliges.

They head down the hallway, passing Fiddleford’s study and workspace, passing the bedrooms and kitchen, before taking a right down a corridor Ford doesn’t recognize and arriving at a ballroom.

“Fiddleford,” Ford says, voice breathless, “what’s going on?”

The engineer is bright red and refusing to make eye contact as he speaks. “The high school asked me to fix their sound system for the Prom so I uh, figured I’d practice here. Help me test it out?”

Ford simply nods, and they move towards a sound board. Fiddleford flips a few switches with practice, hitting a button on a connected computer. Familiar music pours out of the speakers and fills the room. Ford tries not to laugh. “Leslie Fish?” He asks, swaying slightly and tapping his foot to the sounds of guitar.

Fiddleford smiles, but it’s nervous. “We used to listen to this when we built the portal. It brings back good memories.”

Ford frowns. “Not all good.”

“No,” Fiddleford shakes his head. “Not all good. But it reminds me of you, so it can’t be bad.” Fiddleford hesitates a moment before holding his hand out as Banned From Argo blares out the speaker. “Dance with me?”

Ford’s heart stops. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t trust his traitorous voice, so he simply nods, taking five fingers in six. The two move closer, hesitant but curious. It’s not a song to sway to so they simply bop back and forth, laughter bursting through. Ford takes a hesitant hand and places it on Fiddleford’s waist. The engineer’s shorter than he used to be and they’re older than he would imagine but somehow it’s better than in Ford’s dreams. 

“Fiddleford,” Ford exhales over the quick and witty lyrics, “what is this?”

“I’ve missed you,” Fiddleford says, voice surprisingly quiet and soft.

Ford doesn’t know what possesses him at that moment. Later, when it’s over and his heart is done pounding, he’ll wonder what makes him take the leap. In the moment, however, he simply leans forward. “May I kiss you?” He asks, and at Fiddleford’s enthusiastic nod he closes the difference between them.

Ford, if he’s being honest, has never kissed anyone before. He feels like he may pass out, from nerves, and excitement, and from love, so much love it’s going to make him sick.

Fiddleford pulls away, grinning. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits.

“Really?” Ford can’t help but exclaim. “Me, er, me too.” 

Fiddleford laughs. “Then what took you so long?”

“It sounds silly now,” Ford says, “but I thought you weren’t interested in men. And from there it seemed like, even if you were, with everything I’d done to you - ”

“I’m gonna stop you there.” Fiddleford says, reaching out and squeezing Ford’s shoulder. The scientist leans into the touch. “I guess I don’t advertise it, but I do like men. And I could never hate you, Stanford, I’d thought you’d know that by now.”

Ford exhales, begging the tears forming to stop. “Even still,” he continues, “even if you never hated me, I’d never dreamed you would like me. Well, like me like that, that is.”

Fiddleford laughs and, not for the first time, Ford soaks in the sound. “I’ve liked you for a long time,” Fiddleford admits. “Even before I remembered who you were.”

“Yes, I heard you were checking out my brother,” Ford jokes. Fiddleford turns red. 

“Now I don’t remember that,” the hillbilly says, “but it sounds like something I’d do. I’d have dreams, sometimes, about taking walks in these here woods and sitting on the rooftop. Even before I knew what they were they made me feel so happy and so sad.”

Ford nods. “I’ve dreamt of dancing,” he says, six fingers holding tight to five. “Even before I realized what it meant, even before I knew I liked men, I knew I was in love with you.”

And there it is, out in the open. Ford tries to pull away but with a force he doesn’t realize the other man has McGucket pulls him close and kisses him again. 

“You’re the smartest idiot I’ve ever met,” Fiddleford exhales. Ford laughs softly on that, closing the distance between them again and catching the engineer in an embrace. Fiddleford leans his head against Ford’s shoulder. “I love you too. Why do you think I came in the first place? Why do you think I came back?”

Ford shakes his head. “I never let myself imagine. I never let myself hope.”

Fiddleford smiles, a hand rubbing against Ford’s back. It’s nice, it’s so fucking nice. “Me neither. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” Ford agrees.

If Stan finds them hours later still there, still holding onto each other, well, he doesn’t say anything about it.