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Stanford woke up with the feeling that something was both wrong and very right. He just couldn't remember what. While he was trying to get a clear picture of anything that happened the night previous, his world turned gray and chilly.
“Woah-ho-ho! Look who's awake!”
Stanford groans and claps his hands over his ears. He hears muffled laughter that swiftly becomes un-muffled despite his palms.
“C’mon, Sixer. You know better,” Bill says in a sing-song voice.
“I do.” He sits up, grimacing at the, admittedly dimmed, sunlight streaming in through his window. Bill is nestled in a lump of blankets, resting upright on a pillow. Something's different about him, but Stanford can't quite make it out. “What happened?”
“You finally took me up on my offer of getting some liquor into your digestive system!” He floats into the air, reclining on nothing and keeping himself in Stanford's line of sight so that he doesn’t have to bend his neck to look him in the eye. When he takes in Stanford’s pinched face, he snaps his fingers and cures his hangover. It was little things like that that made Stanford feel so appreciated, and it makes him smile. “And baby, let me tell you what . It was so the right decision!”
The pleasant warmth Stanford had been feeling turns icy with dread. “Oh, god. What did I do?”
“What did we do, you mean! First of all, you have a lovely voice. If your goal is to wake the Slumbering Demon-Snakes that live in the outer core of Mars! Hey-oh!”
Stanford smiles despite himself and rubs his eyes. “Yes, I do vaguely recall singing with you, now that you mention it. If I were you, I wouldn't be so eager to flaunt my stones from my glass house.”
Bill flutters his eyelashes. “Fordsy! After the ten-second rounds of applause you gave me? For every song? Is nothing sacred in your dimension?” He pauses before laughing. “Well, after what came next, I guess that doesn't matter for you! Because in no reality were the things we did morally permissible to any deity!”
He realizes now what’s different about Bill. His face heats up against his will and he ducks his head and covers his eyes. “Get dressed!”
Bill cackles and tries to slap Stanford's hand away from his face. “It's nothing you haven't seen – nothing you didn't want to see, I should say! You might've been the one to proposition me, but when it came to actually propositioning, you clammed up.
“I had to go rooting around for some of your deepest, darkest desires, and wow! They are dark, pal! I can see why you hid them so well.”
Still mortified, Stanford lets his hand fall but refuses to look up. He does remember. Bits and pieces, at least. Things he’s never, ever said aloud offered to him like it was nothing. Like he could have that and whatever else he wanted.
“Hey! Sixer! I'm dressed, you prude. There you are! You do know it's literally just a hat and a tie, right? That there's nothing to see?”
“I know that! It's just– it's different,” Stanford says, unable to stop from wilting in on himself. God, this was a mistake. He somehow let his secret feelings about his Muse slip while he was under the influence. The only logical conclusion is that, pitying him, Bill indulged him for a night. He doesn't understand how Bill can manage to look him in the eyes. And to top it all off, he's making a fool of himself.
“Hey!” A small hand swats his cheek.
Stanford winces. “What–?”
“Stop being so weird about this in your head! It's loud and annoying. And wrong!”
“I– I don't know what you want me to think,” Stanford says, picking at the quilt on his lap. “You're you, and I'm just a guy. What else can this be?”
“Uh, the greatest opportunity of your life? Duh? I'm about to say something I've never had to say to you before, so listen up.” He clears his throat – or makes a noise that equates to clearing his throat, at least – before leaning into Stanford's personal space. “I'm gonna spell it out for you.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “I like you. I chose you. I know you. I knew about your little crush, and it was amusing at first. A human, somehow thinking he had a chance with me?” Bill leans back and laughs.
“I know, Bill, you don't have to–”
“Ah-bup-bup-bup! Let me talk, jeez! I was saying that I began to feel it too. Me! Who knew it was possible? I thought I was cursed to be the only person who could truly understand myself. But Sixer – Stanford – I was wrong. Do you have any idea how insane that is to say?! I was wrong!” Bill stretches out his arms to grab Stanford by the shoulders and shake him. “What a novelty! You, Stanford Pines, have rocked my reality irreparably!”
He doesn't think he's felt this kind of pride or joy before. He was the one to do this to someone so smart and powerful? It doesn't seem real. “What… what made me different?” he can't help asking, knowing he sounds desperate. He can't bring himself to care.
“You’re a genius. You can take a joke. Even though we know each other better than any married couple could, now in more ways than one,” he says, waggling his eyebrow (?), “you were still too embarrassed to see me without what are basically stickers! You're precious! Somehow in a way that doesn't make me want to squeeze you till you pop!”
Stanford’s face must've grown redder with every word, because he can feel how hot his cheeks are. “That's enough, come on.”
“I don't want to lose you to time, Sixer.” The words aren't exactly quieter, but they're said with more gravity than anything Bill’s ever said before. “After the portal is done, we’re traveling the dimensions together forever. You'll know everything! And, hey – once we’re at the top, I'll serenade you any time you like, Fordsy.”
“Please. As if I’d want to be subjected to that.”
Bill tweaks his nose before shouting out “You would!” and dissipating into thin air, taking the grayscale surroundings with him.
Stanford rubs his nose. He would.
◬
Having Fiddleford around awakens feelings he thought he'd long put to sleep. When they'd departed from Backupsmore, he’d written off the whole experience as his awakening and nothing more. He didn't pursue Fiddleford, but wished him the best from a distance. That effectively killed any romantic inclinations he had.
The operative word, however, is ‘distance’. Sleeping in a spare room right next to Stanford’s is not ‘distance’.
It's been three weeks. Fiddleford calls his wife – and wasn't that the surprise of all surprises? – on Sundays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Stanford makes himself scarce whenever he uses the phone.
It's wrong. It's shameful. It's such a violation of Fiddleford’s and Bill’s trust that the next time Bill appears in his dreams, he can't look him in the eye.
“Woah, hey! Why the long face?” Bill stretches himself so that he wraps around Stanford’s back and shoves his eye in his personal space.
“You– quit, I–”
Bill unwinds from around him. “I can smell the guilt radiating off of you. That and the sweat.” He swipes a hand across Stanford’s forehead and flicks his wrist. “Hoo boy! You're damp!”
“It’s… I just want to say that I am so sorry. I didn't mean to–”
“Chill out, pal! Whatever it is you managed to do, it's nothing that can't be fixed. You're not that powerful.”
Stanford rubs the back of his neck. “I… I…”
“Ugh. Do you mind?” Bill doesn't wait for an answer and digs his fingers into Stanford’s head.
It’s– not painful, but it's not a pleasant sensation either. He shudders when Bill withdraws his fingers and laughs. For some reason.
“Haha! Sixer, you're– ha!” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You thought I’d be mad over that? When I said you were a prude, I guess I didn't know how deep that particular well went!”
“You're… not angry?”
“Of course not!” Bill floats around him. “You might be it for me, but I’m an all-knowing, all-powerful god of reality! You're a fleshy human with messy emotions and disgusting hormones. I can't fault you for that!”
Something about knowing that he’s the one for Bill – it sends a shiver down his spine.
Bill’s eye narrowed playfully. Of course he sensed that, Stanford thinks with no small amount of rue. “Yeah? Listen. Have your fun! I know that in the grand scheme of things, I’m the one you'll always come back to, right?”
Stanford shrugs. “I don't know. I mean– yes, you're the one, but he's got a wife and a kid, and I can't just–”
“Waitwaitwait. Wait.” Bill leans back in and rummages around his head for a second more. “That's what I thought!” he exclaims before taking away his hand and showing off a tiny, glowing, orb. He tosses it into the air, and a scene that Stanford can vividly recall on his own unfolds around them.
He sees Fiddleford and himself lying on the floor of their old dorm room, the thrilling game of Go they’d played that night a thing in the distant past. They were both nursing beers, mildly buzzed and relaxing in the dim light of the setting sun.
“Stanford?” Fiddleford's voice was soft and hesitant.
“Yeah?”
“I…” He paused for several long moments. “I like men.”
The room was silent again. “I think I do, too,” Stanford whispered.
They’d never brought it up again.
“A wife, you said?” Bill says from behind him.
By the time Stanford turns to face Bill, the memory is its original, spherical shape, and Bill flicks it back into his head. “I did.”
Bill gives him an unimpressed look. “Sixer, you'd be doing both of them a favor. The hick’ll finally find out what he really likes, get with a man, and then his wife can find a guy who actually likes to bang women once the divorce is finalized! Don't sweat it; it wasn't gonna work out in the first place.”
“You might be right. I suppose if he asks, then what's the harm?”
“For real! It's not like she’ll ever find out. What's her name, anyways?”
“It's… I don't know.”
Bill laughs. “You're a real piece of work, aren’tcha? But you're my piece of work,” he says when Stanford looks away guiltily. “Show the man a good time. In the meantime, ” Bill sings, transforming his fingers into actual tiny legs to walk up his arm. “Come spend some time with your actual partner!”
Stanford blushes when Bill’s arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close. He supposes a moment together in the Mindscape wouldn't hurt.
◬
When Fiddleford kisses him, Stanford doesn't push him away or remind him that he's married with a kid. He grabs his arm with one hand and cups his jaw with the other.
“Stanford,” he says when he pulls away. “I…”
“I know,” he rasps. If he's correct in assuming Fiddleford's history, this is the first time either of them has kissed another man. Bill doesn't count – he’s never went into specifics about his gender, and he doesn't have lips that don't freak Stanford out.
Fiddleford's throat bobs, and he looks back down at Stanford’s mouth. “This… ain't right. It ain't right.” He steps away, out of Stanford's grasp. “I'm married. I have a wife.”
“A wife.”
“Lord above, I know! I know, Stanford.”
“Why do it in the first place?”
Fiddleford sighs and sits down on a nearby chair. Stanford follows suit. “Her name’s Emma-May. We met in a bookstore in California. We hit it off as friends. And don't get me wrong, Stanford. I love her. I can spend the rest of my life with her by my side and die happy.
“…I curse Alexander Graham Bell every darn day.”
“Yeah?”
“I do. For making it so that my parents can call me no matter where I am in the country. I don't mean that.”
“I know you don't.” It's the truth – it's not often he hears Fiddleford complaining about people, no matter how much they might deserve it.
“I made the mistake of mentioning that I had a new friend who happened to be a woman. The questions just wouldn't stop. My parents were expecting it. She was too, to an extent. I think it was the fifth comment about grandbabies that broke me. One thing led to another, and here I am with a wife and child. Both of whom I love very dearly.”
“But?”
“You know good and well, Stanford Pines, the ‘but’.” Fiddleford gets up and begins to pace the room. “She's smart. Not like you or me, but with words. She can speak seven gosh-dang languages. She's learning an eighth! She's wonderful.
“She ain't you,” he says, voice breaking. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since college. It was selfish of me to come here.”
“It wasn't!” Stanford insists before Fiddleford gets it into his head that he needs to leave. “No, I think we both needed this. Need this,” he says as he takes one of Fiddleford’s hands. “It's been the same for me. Just… thinking about what could've been.”
Fiddleford’s eyes well up. “You're not making this easy for me, Stanford.”
He laughs. “That's the point, buddy.”
“Hell’s bells. Alright. While I'm here, we– okay.”
“And–” Stanford stops himself. Clears his throat. “And we’ll keep in touch when you go back, right?”
Fiddleford just smiles sadly. Stanford doesn't ask what it means.
◬
When Stanford wakes up a week and a half later to a colorless room and an armful of sleeping, frozen-in-time Fiddleford, he can't help the panic that sets in at knowing Bill is seeing him like this.
“You dog!” Bill floats out from behind him, eye grinning. “I didn't know you had it in you! Can I just say? Great work last night! Really enjoyed the show!”
Stanford flushes. “Bill-! That's, that's extremely inappropriate, not to mention amoral! Fiddleford didn't–”
“Easy, Fordsy! I was kidding! Bill’s Log, Earthdate who-the-hell-cares: Sixer continues to be a prude, even when I tell him hilarious jokes.”
“Jokes like that aren't funny.”
“C’mon, Sixer, I didn't mean to make you flip out. Forgive me?” He holds out a hand and closes his fist around a slip of brightly-colored paper with a picture of Stanford's grinning face and a block of fine print. “Forgiveness received! Thanks!”
“Hey, I didn't–”
“So, what's the arrangement between you two?”
Stanford blinks, caught off guard by the subject change. “Oh. Uh, it's just for as long as he's here.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me! I'm happy to share you, but not forever,” he says, tucking some hair behind Stanford’s ear. “Besides, his voice is so grating. I can't imagine having to spend so much time with someone with a voice like that.”
“Ye-es. Right.”
“Well, don't let me keep you from your cozy little morning with the new boyfriend!” He blinks purposefully, which Stanford’s able to translate as a wink by now. “I'll be watching, though. Just to make sure I'm not replaced as the favorite any time soon.”
“You wouldn't be,” Stanford says, almost offended. “Nobody can compare to you.”
“I’d hope not.” Bill blows him a "kiss" before unfreezing the world.
Fiddleford breathes slowly and deeply against him, warm with sleep. Stanford pets his hair. He ignores the guilt bubbling up his throat.
◬
“I don't like him anymore.”
Stanford sighs and opens his eyes. He's standing, facing a Bill with crossed arms and a foot tapping a steady rhythm in the air. He must've flipped through Stanford’s memories from the time they'd seen each other last. He also must've not liked what he'd seen.
“All he said is that he had reservations,” Stanford says. “It's not like he's refusing to help.”
“Yeah? Those reservations usually end up as refusals. It's not like he's the bravest or most principled man I've ever seen, sneaking around behind his wife's back like that!”
“Hey, that's not fair. It’s not like he can cheat on his wife alone.”
“You know, Sixer? You're right! So what does that say about you?”
Stanford doesn't say anything. He doesn't think there's anything he could say. Because he's correct, isn't he?
“I don't like him,” Bill says again before Stanford wakes up with a jolt. It might be the rudest awakening he's ever had from Bill.
◬
“When Gravity Falls and Earth become sky, fear the beast with just one eye.”
Stanford’s blood curdles at the words. He can't mean–
“I– I knew it, Stanford,” Fiddleford hisses from behind clenched teeth. “I knew it was a bad idea. And you didn't listen to me.”
“Fiddleford,” Stanford says, grasping his shoulder.
He wrenches it out of his grasp, glaring at him from over his shoulder. “That portal is gonna get all of us killed, Stanford. You have no earthly idea what I've just seen. We gotta shut it down!”
His words are an involuntary reaction, because Bill betraying him is unthinkable. Impossible. “I– no! You're not– you must've been mistaken–”
“Mistaken?!” Fiddleford shrieks, stumbling to his feet and hugging himself with shaking hands. “Shoot fire, there was nothing to be mistaken about! I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, I– what’s–?!” He groans, cradles his head, and gasps for air. “Stanford, shut it down!”
“No! I can't!”
“Why not?!” Fiddleford tugs his hair with both hands. “You're– you're crazy,” he says, spittle flying, when there's no answer. “You're sick in the dang head and, and I don't want you to ever contact me again. I ain't gonna be a part of this no more.” He shrugs off his lab coat and slings it to the ground.
Stanford wants to grab his hand and force him to stay, but not as much as he wants to chase Fiddleford away from his project, bristling at the words. “Get lost, then! See if I care! I'll do it without you!”
His last words get cut off by the slamming of a metal door, and it's almost like the noise shocks him back to reality. Oh, God. What he said, it couldn't be true. Right? Bill can't be the traitor Fiddleford says he is.
That's what repeats in his head as he storms out of the lab and towards his room. Somewhere along the way, it turned from Bill isn't a liar to Fiddleford is a liar to Wait, Fiddleford isn't a liar to Oh god, Fiddleford isn't a liar.
He had gotten to the point where his shock and grief has given way to anger when his head hits the pillow and he wills himself to sleep. When he wakes up in the Mindscape, he begins to march, knowing that no matter what direction he takes, it'll take him to Bill eventually.
His efforts are rewarded with, finally, the truth. It hurts as much as Stanley's betrayal. Perhaps more, he thinks when he awakens to a brand-new crude etching of Bill on the ceiling and splinters in his hands.
◬
By the time Stanley shows up at his home, Stanford hasn't had a full night's sleep in three days, which is usually the limit his body reaches before it takes matters into its own hands and forces him to sleep.
Ever since Bill’s joyride and subsequent display of power (he can't think about it in any more specifics than that without hyperventilating) two weeks ago, he's been unable to sleep, seeing and hearing things, always feeling watched – all things that make him very jumpy and very brusque. He can't devote any of his dwindling brainpower on niceties.
This turns out to be a misstep. Stanley is, for some reason, insistent on talking about feelings at the worst possible moment.
“I can't believe you. I thought you had actually started to give a damn about me, but I guess I was wrong!” Stanley shouts, driving a finger into his chest. “It's still all about you!”
“All about me?! The world is at stake, you idiot! This is about more than you or me!”
“Yeah, cause anything's more important than me, right?”
“There's no reason for you to feel entitled for my attention right now, Stanley,” Stanford snaps. “I have tried to explain this to you multiple times and you still don't listen!”
“Entitled?” Stanley chuckles darkly. “Sure, the one motel-hopping in between living out of his car is the entitled one, not the homeowner!”
Stanford sees red. “You have no idea what I've been through!” he screams. “I've lost– you’re– and you're just adding to it again! If you aren't going to help me, then go away!”
Again, the wrong thing to say. As he throws his journal to Stanley, he wonders if things would've gone any differently had he indulged in Stanley’s desire for a chat. Probably not, he thinks as his world goes dark. They're not kids anymore.
△
Stanley looks at him consideringly from where he's sipping on a mug of something sweet-smelling when Stanford enters the kitchenette.
“What?” Stanford asks, already on edge from the unwavering eye contact. He'd managed to keep a cap on that particular reaction during his travels through dimensions and when he was partially in charge of his niece and nephew, but here, where he’s the safest he's felt in a long time? For some reason, it makes eye contact that much more difficult.
“If I ask a question, do you promise to not flip out on me?”
“I… suppose it depends on the question.”
“Fair enough. You and the triangle ever do it?”
Blood drains from Stanford’s face, leaving him cold. His mouth opens and closes. Opens and closes. He looks away without a word.
“Stanford-fucking-Pines.”
“I know.”
Stanley’s up in an instant, disbelieving smile plastered to his face. “That's insane! Ford! He was a goddamn triangle!”
“And it's… the triangle part that you have issue with? Just that part?”
Stanley squints at him before rolling his eyes at the realization. “You think I'm a homophobe, Poindexter?”
Stanford blushes at his misstep. “All I'm saying is that I remember the household we were raised in.”
“Yeah, but I'm not the one who stayed, am I?” His words are biting, but he’s grinning and his tone is teasing. Not actually angry, then, which lets Stanford relax.
“Fair enough.”
“It's two-thousand-and-twelve. Give me some credit. The main issue here is that you dated Bill Cipher.”
“He wasn't like that while we were in contact. He was different.”
“He was still a literal shape.”
“So?”
“Oh my god.”
“Stanley, if the rest of this is just going to be an attack against my standards, then I don't want to hear it.”
“My brother banged a floating triangle. Wow,” he says, like he didn't even register Stanford’s words. “I need to hear the story of how that even happened.”
“I'd have thought you’d be angry, honestly.”
“Oh, I was! Big time! Because trusting that little freak was a stupid, idiotic thing to do. But dating him?”
“Are you insinuating that you somehow knew before now?”
“Eh, educated guess based on how obsessed the guy was over you. Anyways, I gave myself time to not be so mad, I guess, so now I'm mostly just curious! What’d you do for a first date? You guys kiss?”
Stanford blushes. “Really now, this is just inappropriate.”
“C’mon,” Stanley says, drawing the word out and leaning on Stanford's shoulder. “I'm dying to know who made the first move. Wait – it couldn't have been you, I know you. What made you say yes?”
“Are you going to let me talk, or are you just going to speculate by yourself?”
Stanley mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key. He then sits down, looking far too pleased with himself. When Stanford hesitates, he obnoxiously brings his hand to his ear, leaning forward.
“It's… not a particularly interesting story, in all honesty. I don't really remember much of it.”
Stanley frowns and sits back up. “What? How?” he asks, apparently forgoing his vow of silence. “You didn't zap yourself with that memory gun, did you? Couldn't have been that bad. Heh, I shouldn't say that, it was Bill.”
“Nothing like that. It had been my birthday the day prior, and he’d asked to take me to get drinks. I refused, but then he asked me a second time.”
“Yeesh. Pushy, much?”
“Mm. Yes. I had a few drinks, we sang karaoke, I got drunk – I asked him by the way, according to–”
“Wait. Rewind.” Stanley sits up from where he'd been balancing the chair on two legs, face suddenly severe. “He got you drunk?”
Uh-oh. Uh-oh uh-oh. It's been a while since Stanford's thought about this, back in his stint as a dimension-hopper, but whenever he did, it was almost like picking at a half-healed scab. It's one of the things that eventually went under the Do Not Ruminate Over list.
Stanford rolls his fingers against his hip. Best to stick to what helps him sleep at night. “He didn't get me drunk, Stanley, he gave me drinks. There's a difference.”
“Okay, stop defending him, first of all.”
“I wasn't… hm.”
“Second of all, there's actually not a difference. Sounds like he remembered the whole night. As if he was sober.”
“You have to understand.” Stanford can see the moment Stanley hears the desperation in his voice, and he hates it. “He could see into my head. He knew I wanted him. When I– it wasn't as if he didn't have my consent.”
As he had been talking, Stanley had gotten back up, slowly this time. Then there's a hand on his shoulder, gripping almost painfully. “Ford. You were drunk. He could've said anything about that night.”
“I know,” he says, surprising himself. He opens his mouth to say something else, anything else, but the words dry up before they make it to his mouth. “I know.”
Stanley, expression grim, rubs his back. They're both silent as Stanford shakily wipes his face, breath hitching quietly. He doesn't let himself truly cry, not like he feels like he should have at some point, but the tears rolling down his face will have to do.
"I'm sorry I brought it up, Ford," Stanley eventually says. "I should've-"
"No, no," Stanford says, bumping his shoulder into Stanley's. "I... needed to talk about it at some point. There isn't anyone else I'd trust it with."
“If you ever wanna, I don't know, get some of the Bill bullshit off your chest, I'm all ears. If it'll help you work through whatever this is, I mean. I'm not exactly dying to know all the details.”
Stanford laughs wetly and looks up at him. “If I recall correctly, you're the one who brought it up in the first place.”
“Fair. I’m serious, though.”
“I made some awful choices, Stanley. Awful choices that had nothing to do with Bill. You might not appreciate what you hear.”
“I spent way too long being mad at you. There's not a lot you could tell me that would keep me out of the picture.”
Stanford nods, chest loosening. He searches Stan’s face for any sign of resentment. He can't find any. “And… if you ever wanted to talk about your time alone, I would be open to hearing it. During Gravity Falls or when you were on the road, either one. Both.”
Stanley pats his shoulder before scoffing at himself and pulling him into a hug. “Thanks, Ford," he says as he squeezes. Stanford gratefully leans into the embrace. "That means a lot.”