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The first thing Fiddleford considers as he walks out into the freezing Oregon air, is that he remembers seeing a cheap motel a few miles away from the diner he’s currently leaving.
It's tinged with the aftertaste of guilt, anger, and an ever present sense of fear. Ford's words still linger in the air, “Be there or get left behind. The choice is yours.”
Guilt, because for a brief moment he really considered taking his friend up on his offer, and skipping town faster than you can turn on an interdimensional death machine.
Anger, because his friend is the smartest idiot he's ever had the fortune of meeting.
And fear, because he knows he’s staying.
He sort of expected this, really. Ford is plenty of things to him: hardworking, thoughtful, dedicated, charming (in an odd sort of way). But between you and him, if he had to describe his friend in one word, it's stubborn.
Frustratingly so at times. Like right now.
When they were in Backupsmore (which is starting to feel like a lifetime ago), that stubbornness manifested in the form of enough coffee to give someone a heart attack, and late nights turned to early mornings studying for whatever he had to pass that week.
“How come you’re always studying like you have something to prove?” Fiddleford joked after one particularly long session.
“Well that’s simple, I do.” Ford replied. “If I don’t work twice as hard, I’ll fall behind. If I fall behind, I’m not on track to that PhD, and if I’m not on track to that PhD…” He trails off, losing his train of thought somewhere in the near 24 hours he’s been awake.
Fiddleford figures that’s what all of this has ever been about. Everything about Ford, he means. A desperate, stubborn drive to prove himself to a world that will hardly give him the time of day.
Guess this is what it led to, he thinks with a frown.
Back in college it was for the lofty goal of achieving a PhD three years ahead of schedule. Now that drive is being put into something else, something he still can’t quite wrap his head around, something dangerous.
Ford still drinks an obscene amount of coffee, that’ll probably never change, as much as he wishes it would. Still sleeps as little, heck, maybe less than he did in college.
That’s just Ford though. He knows what to expect of Ford! After all, he lived with the man for nearly five years. All his odd quirks and traits, his routines and his little annoying habits, forever ingrained into his mind.
What he doesn’t expect of Ford is the “ahead of its time,” unbelievably advanced blueprints. Something no man on earth should be able to make, ‘specially not someone like Ford, as much as he’d hate to hear it.
What he doesn’t expect of Ford is to wake up to a stack of perfect calculations, despite the heavy bags under his eyes and manic look on his face.
What he doesn’t expect of Ford is the hidden bruises they're both pretending he can’t see, always tucked out of sight, out of mind.
What he doesn’t expect of Ford is the sleepwalking.
Stanford stays up so late, and Fiddleford tries his damndest to have a sleep schedule, so as not to go completely nocturnal. But sometimes, not very often, but enough to worry him, before he falls asleep, he can hear him late at night. The sound of slamming doors and cabinets, wild laughter echoing throughout the house.
He just drowns out the noise with a pillow and tries not to think too hard about any of it. Which has become increasingly difficult.
“Good morning Fiddleford. Or afternoon I guess, you slept like a rock.” He smiles, a cup full of steaming coffee in one hand, and a piece of graph paper in the other. “You won’t believe how much we managed to get done last night! I think we might actually be able to finish this before the new year. Wouldn’t that be-”
He cuts him off. "Ford, do you mind if I ask you about something?”
Ford frowns. “Is something the matter?”
The taller man shifts uncomfortably. “No. Well, yes. Uh, you don’t happen to sleepwalk do you?”
Ford freezes like a deer in the headlights as Fiddleford continues. “There's just been a lot of weird noises at night. Doors slammin’, stuff falling off counters, things like that.” He gives a strained, awkward smile, trying to defuse the clear tension in the air.
A few seconds pass before Ford realizes he has to respond. “I think those are just racoons.” He tugs on his gloves. “The noises you’re hearing anyways. I leave that window open a lot, they’re probably just sneaking in to raid the kitchen. That or a gnome, I suppose.”
It’s a sorry excuse, but it almost sounds reasonable enough to be true, so long as he doesn’t question it too much. “Guess we’ll have to start closing that. Wouldn’t want them to destroy the house.”
Ford smiles, nodding.
It only takes three days for the noises to come back. He almost wants to go and face whatever's out there head on, but something holds him back. Like some part of his brain subconsciously knows exactly what he’s about to see if he walks out there and is begging him, just this once, to let sleeping dogs lie.
And so he does.
Fiddleford empties his pockets, tossing his napkin doodle in the trash, and stuffing the thesis paper into his bag. Ford has already started the trip back home, opting to walk instead of being driven back.
As hurt as he is by it, he's almost thankful. He doesn't think he could stand 15 minutes of awkward silence. There’s no way he could sit through 15 minutes of arguing either. It gives them both a chance to cool down.
He's just been real worried about Ford lately. Things have been tense for the past few weeks. Ford's never been the type to sit down and talk about his emotions, he can relate. Some people just weren’t raised to be all touchy feely. But if he thought it was annoying throughout college, it's almost unbearable now. It's like for everything he lets him in on, there's two secrets he's keeping!
Though, Fiddleford considers, You’re not really one to talk.
They both live in the same space again, but he’s never missed him more. He’s been doing that too lately, missing Ford. Some days it feels like he’s talking to a stranger. Someone who won’t trust him. Someone Fiddleford can’t trust.
And he likes Ford, he really does! Between his sense of humor, his willingness to indulge in his mad scientist fantasies, his thoughtfulness when he grabs something for him on a grocery trip, the sheer passion he has for everything he's ever loved. When he first met him over a decade ago, he just knew they were on the same wavelength.
Even when he's being all secretive and weird, he really does miss him. He can't stand knowing that he doesn’t want to talk to him about any of this. Or doesn't think he can.
It's early winter when Stanfords increasingly clear exhaustion starts to become a problem, more of a problem than it already was anyways.
Fiddleford wakes up and mentally prepares himself for another long day of quadruple checking calculations, welding metal together, pushing past his discomfort for the death machine being built in their basement, and bantering with Ford.
He pours an extra cup of coffee for his research partner (lots of creamer with just a touch of sugar), and heads downstairs. The lights are on, and the smell of coffee hits him smack dab in the face. A sure sign that he's already up and at ‘em.
He's at his desk, hunched over with his head in his hand like he's trying to suffer through a headache. Probably pulled another all nighter knowing him.
Fiddleford frowns a little, “Mornin’ Ford. You get any sleep last night?”
He drops the mug in shock as Ford turns around to respond, managing to scare both of them. The reason is staring him in the face. “Oh my God, what happened to your eye?”
Eye. Because it's only one. The left one, to be specific. Bloodshot isn't the word he'd use to describe it, this is just blood. A fair bit of it too, streaming down his face.
Ford looks almost as scared as him. “What? Why, what do you mean? What's wrong with my eye?” He asks, a bit frantically. He rubs his eye and manages to put two and two together when his hand comes back bloody.
His assistant sets down the other cup of coffee, still intact. “How did you even..? Are you okay?”
Ford looks away, uncomfortable as Fiddleford moves closer to examine him. “It’s okay, I’m fine. If I had to guess, it’s probably just strain. I’ve been using that monocle for a few days now, but I didn’t think..” He trails off.
Fiddleford stares at him, waiting for an answer. “You didn’t think..?”
“I didn’t think my eye would actually start bleeding.”
“Wait, you said it was strain right? How’d you manage to strain your eye enough for it to bleed?” He questions.
“..I have been staying up pretty late.” He looks up at his assistant as he silently glares at him. “What?”
Fiddleford pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Ford, we've talked about this! What have I been saying about getting more sleep?”
The hum of active machinery is all that fills the room for a minute, Ford unable to meet his gaze. “Why don't we both take a break? Your eye isn't gonna get any better staring at a bunch of graph paper all day. I'm tired, you're tired. It's almost Christmas! We've earned a break.”
Ford looks at him and sighs. “I wouldn't be able to convince you I'm fine, would I?”
Fiddleford smiles fondly. “Not a chance. C’mon, before I have to drag your corpse upstairs.”
They go upstairs, and for a few days everything is peaceful. Ford manages to get some rest, they watch one of their many, many overdue movies from Gravity Falls local video rental shop that night. Ford's eye stops bleeding, and he swears up and down it was a one off issue, and it won't happen again.
Until it does.
Again, and again.
It's the third time he finds Ford like this that he starts to really lose his temper.
He sighs. “I just can't understand why you're not listenin’ to me about this! The portal isn't going anywhere, it'll still be here if you take a break. A real break. Not this ‘take a nap and call it a day' bullshit!”
Ford looks up at him. “We’re already so behind schedule, there's no way I can afford another extension. Not now! Not when we’re so close!”
He frowns. “Really, Fiddleford, you’re making it sound worse than it is. It’s not that bad. We just need to push through a couple more weeks, and then we'll be done.”
“Christ, Ford, your eye is bleeding! I know you, I lived in the same room as you during finals week, and I never felt compelled to call an ambulance!”
The silence is heavy as they both glare at the floor. “Maybe you should see a doctor?” Fiddleford suggests.
And he must've touched a nerve because Ford looks at him like he just suggested to burn down their house. “Excuse me?”
The inventor holds his hands up in mock defense. “This isn't normal Ford! The sleeping stuff, I mean. I'm just thinking, I mean.. Insomnia doesn't happen to run in the family, does it?”
Ford relaxes a little as he shakes his head. “No, and it's not insomnia- I'm fine, Fiddleford. Can we just drop it?”
He throws his arms in the air, exasperated. “This is what I'm talking about! I can't drop it when you're-” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “How ‘bout this? I'll drop it when you stop trying to work yourself to death.”
His partner tugs at his sweater, “It's not as easy as you think it is.”
“Well if it's so hard then enlighten me!”
The conversation ends on a stalemate. Ford says he'll get some rest, but he's not seeing a doctor until he feels it's necessary. Which is to say, never.
It's a few hours afterwards when Fiddleford is finishing up downstairs that the portal catches his eye. It's silly really, it's not alive. It's cold, unfeeling metal, blissfully unaware of the harm it's doing. Still, he can't help feeling some resentment towards it.
He glares at the object of Ford's obsession with more hate than he should for an inanimate object, ‘specially one he's helping build. “You're gonna kill him y’know?” He winces as the words come out of his mouth. “Well, that’s a tad dramatic. You really are hurting him though.”
“You shouldn’t even exist. I mean, a gateway between dimensions is already ambitious enough, but this?” He rummages through his memories with Ford in college, all the classes he’d talk, or, depending on the teacher, rant about. It comes up surprisingly empty. “..Has Ford ever even taken an introduction to engineering?”
“It could be worse though. Ford could be drivin’ himself half crazy trying to learn how to weld. How long before he snaps and starts duct taping you together?” His laugh echoes throughout the silent lab.
Despite it all, or maybe because of it, he’s glad he's here with Ford. The thought of him doing this all by himself, being alone through it all? He can’t imagine it. Nobody deserves to live in isolation, even if his partner insists it’s better this way.
He’ll never forget the look on Ford's face when he first arrived in Gravity Falls. The sheer joy and excitement on his face, the way he eagerly showed him around their house, the banjo strings he had given him his first night. It was all so much, and they’d both somehow managed to forget how much they missed it.
But lord is he tired. He’s so tired.
Engineering is his expertise, not doctoring. He didn't come up here to take care of Ford, to clean up this mess, to make sure Ford is alive and well at the end of the day, because God knows Ford wouldn't make sure himself.
The worst part is he knows Ford doesn't like it either. Everytime they have one of these conversations, he’s trying to end it as quickly as possible. He doesn't like taking care of himself, and the thought of being taken care of is even worse. But he’s not giving him much of a choice.
It makes him so angry sometimes, as ashamed as he is to admit it.
He doesn’t wanna think about what would happen if he wasn’t here. If someone couldn’t ask Ford to stop, to urge him to take a break, because he knows he never would. It’s why people can’t live in isolation, people like Stanford. Someone needs to be able to stop the Stanfords in the world, otherwise they burn themselves down to the wick.
People like himself.
He stares up at the portal, its shape looming over him. “What do you even want with him? Hm? Why him?”
And in the one person staring contest he’s having, he could've sworn he saw something blink.
Fiddleford rubs his eyes and stands up, cracking his knuckles. “Look at me, talking to a hunk of metal. Maybe I need to get some sleep.”
The car headlights illuminate the still paved road in front of him. He hasn’t driven far enough to reach the bumpy, dirt path leading to him and Ford's house. On his way, he spots a motel on the side of the road. It’s cheap looking, run down from years of use, or maybe just poor management. The sort of place you only go to if you have no other options. A brief glance at the sign outside informs him it’s thirty dollars a night.
He could stay there. He ain’t stupid, he knows this isn’t gonna turn out well. Whatever happens tomorrow, it’s not gonna be pretty. This is his last chance to listen to his head for once, to run and never look back. And despite his complainin’, there are much worse motels out there.
Some rational part of him finds himself thinking about Tate. Whatever laws of physics we may or may not break down there, are you really gonna be able to live with yourself if you know you weren’t with your son when that portal opens?
Fiddleford grips his steering wheel hard and pulls into the motel parking lot, sitting in his seat and briefly taking in the night sky. His mind is already made up as he gets out of the car and heads toward the payphone.
With shaky hands, he pops a quarter into the slot, dials his own house number and waits to hear Emma on the other end. The voice that comes through is clear. Calm, though a little annoyed, probably at the fact that she’s being called this late. Emma’s always been an early sleeper.
He hopes it’s not too late, he really doesn’t need to get into an argument right now. After all, there’s something he needs to do first.
“This is the McGucket-Dixon house. What do you want?” Emma asks, blunt as ever.
“Emma, good to hear you, uh, do you mind putting Tate on the line?”
She sounds surprised, “Fiddleford? What are you calling so late for? It’s almost 10.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just really need to talk to him, alright?” He replies, anxiously running his fingers through his hair.
The line is silent for a moment. “And you can’t talk to me?”
“Emma please, this is important. It’ll just be a moment, I swear.”
His wife sighs. “Fine. Give me a minute, he should be asleep right now.”
It’s actually a little under a minute before he can dimly make out Tate’s voice on the other end, a ray of light shining through his grim, dingy surroundings. “Hi Dad!”
Fiddleford smiles. “Hey Tater Tot! It feels like forever since I’ve heard you, how have you been? School been alright?”
“Mhm! Schools been okay. We just got back from winter break. Oh, but something did happen in class a few days ago! So, my teacher told us-”
It all becomes pleasant white noise as he just listens to his son talk about school, or baseball, or the books he’s reading, or whatever else comes to mind. And for a moment, he forgets he might be responsible for a tear in the whole of space and time tomorrow.
Just a moment though.
“Are you gonna be back soon?” his son asks, still beaming from the other side of the phone.
Fiddleford freezes, a sudden lump forming in his throat. “Dad, you still there?”
He nods, forgetting he can’t actually see him. “Mhm! Yup! Uh, I’ll be back soon, okay? I promise.”
Tears already beginning to form, he swallows. “You know how much I love you, right?”
“Mhm! I love you too.” There’s some shuffling just beyond the phone, and he can vaguely pick up Emma's voice.
“Uh, Mom says I have to start getting ready for bed. Plus she wants the phone now.”
He clutches the phone like a lifeline and smiles. “Alrighty. Goodnight Tate, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
After a few seconds, Emma's voice comes through. Despite everything, he can hear the smile in her voice. “Caught him reading under his blanket instead of sleeping. Think he gets it from you.”
They both laugh and Fiddleford notices the time left on the machine. A little under a minute. He checks his bag for an extra quarter or two, but can’t find any. “Welp, I’m running out of change. I should probably start heading-”
Emma blurts something out, abruptly cutting him off. “When are you gonna be back home?”
He frowns, softening. “Soon, alright? I promise, we’re almost done.”
“That’s what you’ve been saying for the past month. I want a date, Fiddleford.”
30 seconds left. “And I’ve meant it! Soon, okay? Why do you want me to come back so badly anyways? You weren’t thrilled to see me during Christmas.”
“Oh, for the love of-” She cuts herself off with a sigh. “That’s different and you know it. Just stop dodging the question, I wanna know when you’ll be back.”
15 seconds. Each one counts. “If things go well, probably next week. Okay?” He blurts out.
“And if things don’t go well?”
10 seconds. “Longer.”
5 seconds. “I really have to go. Love you.”
Emma sighs. “Love you too. Take care of yourself.”
The line goes dead, and Fiddleford shudders through his layers of clothing. He did it though, he was able to tell Tate how much he loves him. He can sleep tonight. There’s nothing left to do but drive back to the cabin. The moment he sits down in his car, he immediately finds a spare quarter in his cup holder. Another minute.
He almost regrets hanging up. Almost.
The truth is he made up his mind a while ago. Maybe even before this night. He isn’t leaving Ford. He can’t do it. To leave Ford is to leave him to this, to whatever monster is tearing him apart. Driving back to California, while his friend suffers silently and alone. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing he ran.
It’s not just about his friend either, there’s a community here. Individuals with their own fears, and troubles, and worries and baggage. He knows what Ford thinks about the memory gun, but he knows better. This is helping people. He’s helping people. This invention can change the world, it changed his life. To leave now is like spitting on all the people who need his help. It would just be cruel.
So, no. Whatever this is, he’s facing it with Ford. With Gravity Falls.
It’s the wrong choice, but fuck it. At least it’s his.
“You should visit sometime.” He comments during a phone call one afternoon. “Emma likes you, you know?”
Ford sounds surprised. “Really?” He asks.
He absentmindedly fiddles with the phone cord. “‘Course! Remember during the wedding? She thought you were funny. Really, I’m sure she’d be happy to see you again.”
“Besides, we’re finally all settled into the new place. You’d like it up here.” He says, grinning.
“I mean, it’s not that I don’t want too exactly. Just, y’know.. busy.” He says, awkwardly.
He frowns, unconvinced. “Right, yeah. I understand.”
The silence is almost unbreakable, and for a moment Fiddleford thinks one of them is gonna hang up.
“Have you been talking to anyone up there?” He asks suddenly. “You just.. It seems lonely sometimes.”
The moment the words come out of his mouth, he’s already cursing himself for making things awkward. This isn’t his business, Ford doesn’t have to talk to him about this. When the silence persists for more than a few seconds, he speaks up again. “Sorry, ignore me. I’m just thinking, that’s all. Uh, good luck with your research though!”
“No, no it’s okay.” His friend is quiet for another moment. “I guess.. yeah. It does get kind of lonely up here.” Ford says, quietly.
“I think it’s better this way though, you know?”
He frowns, “Not really.”
Fiddleford pulls into the makeshift garage Ford made for him before he arrived. The lights inside the cabin are still on, a soft amber hue illuminating the woods. He hops out of the car, stretches, and admires the beauty of the forest surrounding him.
The trees stretch on for miles out here, and when you look up, you can see every star in the sky. He remembers hiking with Ford when he first arrived, and watching him confidently name every constellation in the endless pitch black. They made up new ones for the few neither of them could recognize.
You don’t see many stars in Palo Alto.
He's just biding his time before he has to go inside, he knows that. There's no going back after this. Entering that house is a point of no return, the moment he'll be able to pin down where everything changed.
He pulls the compiled thesis paper out of his bag, his mind already made up.
He's not leaving until he's ready too.