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It’s a little past 2am on a Thursday night. He’s sitting on his bed, studying, when the sound of gentle footsteps make their way over.
“C’mon”, Fidds says, placing his hand over the book currently in Ford’s lap. “Ya don’t even need to study for this one.”
”I don’t need to study for any of them. You know that.” There’s a traitorous smile making its way up his face, he can feel it. “I don’t study because I need to, it’s because-“
“-ya gotta be the best, and all that, I know, but Stanford…”
Fidds draws his name out like it’s made of honey, all good natured exasperation, and Ford elects to not unpack why he’s flustered at it. “Fine, fine. Just let me wrap up this chapter. The theories presented here—“
“Will be just as interesting after a night of sleep”, Fiddleford retorts, but he’s clearly given up the fight, walking over to sit beside him and frown at the pages.
He cracks a small smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve only got ten pages left.”
“Mhm.” Fidds’ eyes are already half lidded as he looks over at the textbook.
He's just finishing the chapter when he notices Fiddleford’s head on his shoulder. His friend is completely dead to the world, fast asleep at his side. Stanford, true to his word, closes the book, but makes no other movements, sitting there listening to the bugs outside and Fidds’ breathing. It’s overwhelmingly nice, stirring up feelings he's been trying to keep under wraps for a good couple months.
Oh man.
—
By the time the door is closed, with his back to the wall beside it, the only thought Stanford can muster up is how much he wishes he’d said something sooner.
The change of pace brought on by starting a relationship (Him! In a relationship!) for the first time is near overwhelming, but the urge to turn every molehill into Mount Everest is subdued somewhat by the care Fiddleford puts into things. And that care is still so apparent, even now. Like a lifeline, a hand moves from bracketing him in to cup his jaw, thumb tracing tiny circles as they break apart from a kiss.
“Hey there, sugar”, Fidds whispers, catching his breath between the words. It’s adorable, and cheesy, and Ford is pretty sure that southern drawl could make anything sound endearing (He finds cheesy things endearing now! Adorable! Good lord.).
He knows this can’t ever become much, knows that after the bubble of university pops they’ll have families to make proud, knows that the timeline laid out for them will never be nearly enough. They’re friends, best friends, and it’d be safer to keep it that way instead of creating a romantic interlude in the middle of their lives.
And yet, when Fiddleford reaches out to pull him onto the bed, Stanford goes willingly ( oh so willingly ) down.
—
It’s…strange, having Fiddleford around.
It’s even stranger when things pick up where they left off.
Sure, Fidds’ marriage is completely and mutually dissolved, but it still feels wrong to want him again in any sense of the word. They’re supposed to be researching paranormal activity, not rekindling an old fire. And then, he goes and throws a giant log in said fire by adding only one bed to the bunker. It’s an accident. Maybe.
“So, you wanna spend a night down here?” Fiddleford looks around the now-finished bunker, eyeing the lack of…well, anything cozy. It’s all cold metal and spiderwebs down here.
“Just one night. If, god forbid, we ever need to take cover here, we should test out the place, make sure it’s habitable and all.” In all honesty, he’s just been itching to spend more time down here. He’s spent hours building this hideout, after all, he should at least get a chance to try it out.
It can’t have been more than a couple years since they last shared a bed, but it feels like the first time in the worst way. Stanford’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since he stepped into the sleeping quarters. Sure, one of them could take the floor, chicken out and accept their past as something to not be repeated. But then Fiddleford pats the other pillow, his smile warm and familiar, and Ford jitters his way over to the mattress. The look Fiddleford gives him is warm, and it’s like he can see right through him. It’s almost like they’ve done this whole song and dance before, almost like Fidds knows him better than anyone...anyone he’s still speaking to, at least.
“You okay?” The question is asked as softly as possible, but it still adds to the butterfly garden growing in Ford’s gut.
“…Y-yeah. I’m fine.”
“Ya know, if you’re…uncomfortable, we can figure something else out—“
“No!” He says it a little too loudly, and Fidds jerks back a little. Everything is going swimmingly. “I..I mean, I..I just don’t want to make things…weird, you know? You’re just out of a relationship, and..I still..” He’s floundering, face beetroot red as he strings together the world's worst attempt at confessing lingering attraction.
Fiddleford brushes his hair out of his face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. He shuts up after that, pathetic sentence dying on his lips. “You wanna try again?”
It takes Stanford a second to process the question, and another to wonder why it’s so easy , why all he needs to do to pick up where they left off is to say—
“Yes.”
And then, when Fiddleford softly laughs and leans in, he stops worrying about much of anything.
—
He’s not being unreasonable. Fiddleford knew this day was coming, knew how important and monumental it was, and he should damn well know that there’s no backing out now.
If he’s concerned about his Muse, too bad. Cipher has opened his mind to endless possibilities, and he’s not going to let anything throw a wrench into the wonderful deal they’ve got going on. He’s pretty sure Bill and Fiddleford have met via Bill’s “night shift” anyway. If Fiddleford hasn’t put two and two together, that’s his own problem. He should be smart enough to leave well enough alone.
The portal is ready to go for tomorrow, so Ford decides to treat himself to an earlier bedtime. He’s in bed by eleven, head buzzing with excitement as he tries to sleep.
Fiddleford isn’t next to him.
It’s been the other way around for the past couple months. Fidds retires to bed, and Ford staggers his way into their room when Bill’s done his work. If it’s an all-nighter, Fiddleford sleeps alone, waking up to Stanford making coffee and decidedly not bleeding from the eyes. It’s...strange, being the lonely party for once.
He’s half asleep when he feels the bed shift, and tries to keep his breathing even as Fiddleford settles next to him. Almost every night, provided he’s got his body back, they always end up spooning in some regard, even if it’s just an arm slung over the other’s body. Fiddleford doesn’t shy away from being clingy, and it’s always been a nice constant to look forward to. Even when things are testy, even if they bicker all the way into the bedsheets, there’s always some form of physical contact, some reassurance of I love you.
He glances over, and Fidds’ back is very much facing him. Not a single slung-over arm in sight. Well, if Fiddleford wants to sulk, that’s just dandy. If the idea of making huge advancements in the field of paranormal activity is so upsetting to him, he can get over it or walk away.
And Fiddleford wouldn’t walk away, no matter what.
Right?
—
Sleep does not come easy after confronting Bill. It’s jarring, the abrupt shift from resting outside of his body to sleeping while voices and guilt fill his head.
His dreams are the worst part. Bill circles around in his head, tossing memories and faces at him while he’s helpless and struggling to wake back up. He’s not even sure how much of it is the demon himself—some of it may just be his own distraught conscience. After all, it’s been weighing a little heavy lately. Waking up isn’t even a reprieve, either. The initial second of relief is quickly sniffed out with the truth. He’s lost a partner in every sense of the word, lost his shot at uncovering something huge, lost his mind.
He's sending a postcard out to Stanley tomorrow. He's not thrilled at the prospect of meeting his twin again (if anything, it's adding to the nausea), but he's got no other choice, no one else he could confide in. But, even if all goes well, even if the books get buried and Cipher never rears his smarmy eye again, where does he even go from here? His huge pet project is nothing but a hunk of hellish garbage, and his research will all be six feet under. Can he even go back to his original life here of solitary research? Will it ever be enough, knowing his questions will never be answered? Will there ever be anyone else to share the bed, and why does that suddenly matter to him now?
Staring at a ceiling too dark to see, Stanford's not sure he'll ever rest well again.
And, for 30 years, he never quite does.
—
Maybe it’s the glee of surviving the apocalypse, maybe it’s the personal growth Stanley’s spurred him into achieving, but smoothing things over with Fiddleford is easier than it should be. For once, Stanford feels he’s earned the right to stop and smell the roses. He’s not in college, trying to make up for where he landed. He’s not in his late twenties, breaking physics and shaking hands to become someone bigger than he needed to be. He’s older, and he’s weathered, but he’s done running after the next best thing. He’s content with what he has and knows what he wants, and the two circles heavily overlap.
It’s shaky, at first. They’ve been literal dimensions apart for thirty years, and they hadn't exactly been on good terms before that split. Catching up is a bittersweet affair. There’s more than enough near-death-experiences on Ford’s end and enough tragedy on Fidds’ to shock them into silence. There’s awkward silence, and repeated apologies, and everything that could be expected from finally catching up.
But, when Fidds twangs his banjo, looking at him the way he used to, things start to click back together.
Ford might never have been as much of a romantic, but he ends up giving into a million sappy impulses while on the Stan O’ War. He’s pretty sure Stanley will never let him live down some of those tacky souvenirs he’s mailed, but he’s been operating under a very rational rule: if it reminds him of Fiddleford, it’s getting rung up. After all, he’s got a lot of years to make up for.
And, at the end of every voyage at sea, he comes home. He drops his things on Fiddleford’s mansion floor, shaky arms out, tears stinging his eyes as Fidds rounds the corner to barrel into his arms. It’ll never get old; they’ll be doing this song and dance until they die.
Today is no exception. It’s been a couple of months since Ford was last in Gravity Falls, and the way Fiddleford shakes with laughter in his arms has him melting at the joints. They’re kissing, but it’s more just smiling against each other, unable to keep their joy under wraps. They barely break away at all the whole night, always touching at the fingertips and shoulders as they eat, shower, get ready for bed.
Sleep comes easy now. It’s not the exuberantly priced bed, not the pillows (although they’re not exactly hindering things), but Fiddleford. They could be out in the junkyard, and Ford would still give all twelve fingers to spend his nights next to him.
Under the blankets, against his body, it’s like they’re right back where they started: two brilliant minds, together against the odds.
And so, they rest.