Work Text:
The lab was quiet. Dark. In silence, small sounds filled the air easily. The scratching of a pen scribbling harshly across paper was the only sound now to suggest the existence of life beneath the ground in the midnight space. It stopped just for a moment as the cause moved his hand up to rub the bridge of his nose under his glasses, pen laying an accidental mark on the owner's cheek before resuming its lone performance upon the book lying open upon the desk.
Equations riddled the sheet, crossed and reworked- formulas and solutions. Materials had been listed along the side, notes of their limitations and benefits following each, dotted and ranked. Visually cluttered though it was, the page held company in the form of hundreds below it- all formed of hours upon hours of work, all worked to the same intent: the machine.
Fiddleford paused again to raise his wrist, bleary eyes unfocused for a breath. Nearly two in the morning now. He laid down his pen- pushing himself to his feet on knees that cracked with lack of use.
He had intended to stay longer, until his lab partner had returned. Stanford had left at nine for some materials which he would not name the location of, and McGucket thought briefly that he should be worried for the other's whereabouts. He knew momentarily that he was- a sort of gnawing within his stomach which he quickly dismissed. Ford was an adult, and he could take care of himself.
The silence of the lab was imposing, and it seemed to place pressure on its sole occupant from all sides. The sigh Fiddleford released was only made louder by the ringing in his ears.
He pulled his jacket off of the back of his chair and threw it over his shoulder with a small rustling before he turned to leave, each footstep echoing within the space. First, second, and third- and then a noise which made him freeze and straighten, unable to stop a smile from lifting the corners of his cheeks as his eyes met the entry of the lab. The familiar sound of the vending machine moving from the door, and the heavy clomping of steel-toed boots.
The Stanford whose face emerged from the shadows of the staircase was almost unrecognizable, and Fiddleford's grin fell into that familiar, gnawing worry as quickly as it had risen to anticipatory joy.
There was a gash across the top of his head- deep enough that blood was dripping down his face and to his chin, a delicate tinkle upon the concrete below him whenever his chin moved far enough past his turtleneck that the liquid didn't stain his clothes. Smaller marks scarred his arms and torso, cutting through the fabric of his clothing as he held a sack by one hand over his shoulder, whole body hunched forward as if to balance it. Fiddleford almost rushed to his side, almost fussed, heart dropping into panic, but he was frozen by something primal. Something within him was stronger than the panic which screamed at him to move, something which told him to stay before his mind could catch up with his gut.
It was only a second later that his brain processed that which his body had already seen.
A smile stretched the corners of Ford's cheeks, uncanny and inhuman. His skin was pulled like a mask back to his ears, and his eyes shone gold in the darkness. Flat pupils shone darker than the darkest shadow, and when it saw him, the smile stretched further.
That primal urge won out slightly, and Fiddleford stumbled backwards in fear.
“Aw, don't be like that!” It said, this thing that looked like Ford but wasn't. Its body straightened, head falling back as if it didn't fully understand how to control the parts. Those eyes did not leave him. “C'mon, Fiddles, I got him back here. You should thank me!” The head rolled along Ford's shoulder, and the thing inside of him laughed- loud and long, and echoing somehow inside of his own head.
When it had finished, the head rolled forward, and it seemed to take great effort to hold it up. “Well, tough crowd. Mind if I borrow your skin?” It asked, and took a couple of steps towards him. When Fiddleford once again stepped backwards, that eternal smile finally fell to a frown, and he didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“I know you care about this sack of meat, Fiddles. I can see everything he does, and I catch hints way quicker than the genius,-” it smiled again. “-Don't worry, he's not listening. Went quiet a while ago. Now all I'm asking for is a fix. Give me your skin, so I can fix him.”
Something clicked, then, and Fiddleford released a quiet, tense laugh.
“What are you?” He asked, terrified of the answer.
“Not important!” It answered, and the smile twitched. It moved closer, but this time, Fiddleford stayed put, slowly dropping his jacket to the floor. The twitch in its grin softened. “Finally gonna comply?”
“You can't fix a human with another human's skin,” he breathed, brows low, and the free hand of his friend stopped inches away from touching him. His eyes flashed to it then- six fingers, farthest pinky flicking in something uncertain, confused. “At least, not unless you're an actual surgeon.”
“Then how-?” It asked, something vulnerable leaking through. Fiddleford took it as permission, and the panic over Ford's physical state was given allowance to rise above the fear he held for the creature inside of him.
“Sit, there,” and the creature did so in Ford's body- collected materials finally falling ignored to the floor by the table as Fiddleford rushed to their first aid.
He started with the head wound, chewing his lip and trying to ignore his terror at being so close with whatever this thing was. It sat patiently as he tended to it, and the fear grew easier to forget as his worry expanded at the amount of blood lost already, at the fact he wasn't a doctor, at the idea of having this creature take Stanford to the nearest hospital in Gravity Falls and have Ford taken permanently to a psych ward immediately after for whatever it had done in his body.
The wound was bad, but not as terrible as it had first seemed. He was able to sew it up on his own, cleaning it thoroughly before moving to clean off his face. The thing within made disconcerting eye contact through the entire process, and the smile did not budge- but it did not move, and it was easier to take care of the gash with Ford sitting up than if he had been laying down, so Mcgucket chose to say nothing. He chewed on the corners of his lips as he took care of the smaller wounds, trying to pretend he could not feel its eyes on him.
Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.
“Can you feel them?” He asked quietly, half hoping it wouldn't hear him. The sudden sound of its voice managed to surprise him, though he had been the one to break the silence.
“I can! They feel funny!”
“What happened?” Fiddleford questioned, eyes still focused on the smaller marks, his periphery ever aware of its golden eyes watching him.
“Attacked, gravely injured, and saved by yours truly! I know, I know- hold the applause!”
“By what?” Fiddleford mumbled, but it didn't answer that- just grinned. “Is he okay?”
That smile twitched again in his periphery. Mcgucket's eyes flashed to meet it. It was tense now- too sharp, fake.
It didn't know.
He gently took Ford's hand in his own, holding fingers down against the wrist to feel for a pulse. It was weak, but present, and he released a low breath.
“What's that?” It asked, head tilting curiously, and Fiddleford responded as he resumed his work on the smaller wounds.
“I was checking to see if his heart was still beating. It is, so he's still alive, for now. Unless you're doing that, too.”
It frowned, this one less in displeasure and more in a lack of understanding. He decided not to clarify.
When he'd finished with all of the visible wounds, he took a step back- grabbed a bottle of water from their shared mini fridge and handed it to the creature.
“Drink this, it should help him recover faster.”
It promptly opened the bottle and poured it into its eyes, most falling on the ground beneath the body. The thing handed the bottle back with a large grin when it was empty, Fiddleford's mouth gaping. He took it as the smile began to fall, again deciding not to say anything.
“Now what?” It asked, grin hiking high again.
“He needs to rest,”
“But he's been doing that already?” It paused, gaze searching, then nodded. “Yep, still resting!”
“His body,” Fiddleford clarified, once again wondering what this creature must be- the idea of an intelligent life form which could possess the human body without the slightest idea how it worked.
“Oh! Gotcha, Fiddles! I'll leave it to you then! Take good care of my puppet, or else.” It blinked in a way he thought was meant to be a wink, slow and deliberate, and it was the only warning McGucket had before Ford's body was falling limp off of the chair. He just managed to catch him, straining to cushion his fall as he lowered him to the ground. Within his arms, Stanford gave a small groan, and Fiddleford chose to ignore how his heart skipped a beat at the familiar voice- unfortunately pained as it was.
He looked so helpless, there in McGucket's arms. Like a battle-worn soldier, broad shouldered and scarred, innocence shining through the broken, injured expression he wore in his rest. His brows, normally pulled together in concentration, relaxed now with the rest of him. Fiddleford cradled his head to keep it from tapping on the stone floor through Stanford's rough, shaky breaths, and he made himself comfortable- settling in for a night of holding the other.
Fiddleford's eyes traveled the form of his friend, resting on his hands, and he allowed himself something selfish- interlaced his fingers with them from the back as his left arm continued to hold Ford's head. He leaned over, spine bent so he could rest his ear on the other's chest. He told himself he was just listening to his heartbeat, just ensuring it did not weaken. He knew the only one he could fool with such a lie was currently lying unconscious in his lap.
Hours later, Ford was the first to wake, his movements quickly stirring McGucket into his own consciousness. The latter dropped the former's hand as he sat up, embarrassed as he searched his partner's expression. Stanford was slow to gain awareness, and Fiddleford was grateful for it as those eyes within his arms tried to focus on him- the eyes of his friend, and not the eyes of a monster. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“Wh-” Ford croaked, and his voice was rough as Fiddleford remembered it, low with the morning. “What happened?”
Their eyes met, both searching- as if they could read each other through the silence between them. “What do you remember?” Fiddleford responded, answering the question with a question, and Ford finally sat up- slowly, holding his own head as he did so, consternation plaguing his expression as he gazed thoughtfully at the floor. McGucket missed the contact, missed the weight of the other on his legs, even as pins and needles rose along them from the extended period of time being crushed. He tapped his fingers along his own hands as if to distract himself.
“I had been gathering materials for the prototype of the machine,” the larger figure muttered, and his eyes found the bag discarded by the table the night before. “How did I get back?”
He had a few options here, Fiddleford realized. Could make himself out as a hero- could interrogate Ford about the creature from the night before.
“I don't know,” he said instead, choosing not to lie, choosing not to know. “You were unconscious and bleeding when I came in.”
Ford frowned- shook his head softly. Six fingers splayed across his face as he leaned forward, trying desperately to remember the previous night. Fiddleford could tell the moment he gave up by the resigned sigh that fell from his lips.
“Water,” the man rasped, and McGucket was happy to rise and grab him a bottle- the needles in his legs growing stronger with the movement before he handed it off. He stretched in an attempt to ward the feeling off quicker as Ford drank.
As Stanford lowered the bottle, his dark eyes lowered with it. He watched his partner stretch for a moment, and his vision slowly crossed to behind himself, where Fiddleford had been sitting moments before. Something glimmered in those eyes as he stared, some thought which Fiddleford knew he could never decipher. Then they rose again, meeting Mcgucket's own, and a smile passed over his lips- small, genuine. Nothing like the night before.
“You're a good friend, F,” he said, and Fiddleford felt his heart rise- felt his cheeks dust a light pink which he disguised with a smile returned.
He didn't need to know what happened. He didn't need to know what that thing was, which had worn Ford's skin like a coat. As long as he had this- that shy smile, that low voice, those dark eyes and this warmth within which rose up at Stanford's attention- Fiddleford was quite satisfied, working by his side.
May nothing ever change.