Chapter Text
Snow crunches beneath his boots. They aren’t the sort of boots one should employ after snowfall, but Fiddleford isn’t coming from a place where such a thing was common, and Stanford’s call had come quickly. He had been given an address and a vague mission, and he’d been unable to ignore the excitement in his old friend’s voice.
Now here he is. The muck has long since melted off his shoes, and the snow is so heavy that it’s getting the ankles of his pants wet. He has one bag, and the clothes on his back, and a few crumpled hundred dollar bills in his wallet. He has left his wife and his child across the country for a man he met in college who called him, on a whim, with a promise and the manic elation of a man who perhaps does not know himself what he is getting into.
The house he’s been called to is built oddly, with the aura of a creation far older than it really is. The trees all around seem to lean towards it, hungry to reclaim the wood stolen from them to build its walls. It gives the place an eerie atmosphere, but Fiddleford is Appalachian by birth and will not be deterred by even the most Northwestern of frights. He raises a gloved hand, rubs at the snot running down his nose, and then knocks on the door.
There’s a clatter from inside. A crash. He jerks back, glasses slipping down his nose and lashes beating once, twice. There’s a laugh from inside, and-
And Fiddleford’s beating chest is soothed by the sound. It’s a familiar cackle. When the door opens, his heart settles even more at the sight of the wide, frantic grin awaiting him. Ford’s glasses are crooked. His stubble is wildly untamed and overgrown, at risk of becoming an actual goatee. His lips are chapped. Fiddleford’s eyes linger there for a moment, transfixed on the snaggle-toothed canine poking Ford’s lip.
“McGucket!” Ford throws his arms around him. Fiddleford laughs then, too, startled by the strong grasp of those warm arms around him. He lifts his arm that’s unoccupied by his luggage and returns it. “You made it! Come in, come in- out of the cold, old friend, I’ve got some coffee somewhere.”
It’s hard to get a word in edgewise. It was for a long time, when he first met Stanford, though Fiddleford had never found himself minding then and does not find himself doing so now. He’s led into the man’s house. It’s hardly decorated at all. There are barely any signs that the place is lived in in general. At the very least there’s a couch in the living room- though by the looks of it, it isn’t being used for its originally intended purpose. Fiddleford glances between it and his host, swallowing thickly “A- Are you using that as a bed?”
It’s the first thing he manages to say while Ford rambles. Ford turns back to him and laughs again. “Maybe a month ago, McGucket. I sleep in the basement, now. You’ll understand once you know what I’m working on, I promise.”
Fiddleford laughs nervously, hands still clasped around his luggage. He doesn’t look like he’s been getting any sleep, though Fiddleford thinks he can count on one hand with only five ordinary fingers how many times he’s caught the man sleeping.
“You see- I’ve been doing research here, Fiddleford.” Ford seems so eager, that when coffee is pushed into Fiddleford’s hands he doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s cold. “Here in Gravity Falls. Now, I’ve always been a staunch skeptic- you’re well aware of that-”
“Yes, I am,” he interrupts dryly. He remembers many a rant in which the other man had told him to stop being so superstitious over his most baseline beliefs. Fiddleford sets his case down at the kitchen table and sits. Ford, the creature of a man that he is, only appears to remember that there are chairs in the room at all when he watches his guest sit. He slides into a seat as well, elbows placed on the tabletop.
“-Yes, well, I have been is the key phrase here. This town, Fiddleford. This town. It’s a veritable hub of otherworldly activity. I’ve never in my life seen something like it before.” Ford stands back up again. He’s a bundle of wild, manic activity as he stands, and scratches at the strong, sharp edge of his jaw. Fiddleford pointedly looks away and sips his cold coffee.
Abruptly, Ford stands, and his chair scoots noisily a foot back. “H- Hold on, hold on, just wait there, Fiddleford, friend, I’ve got something to show you. Cold hard proof, here.” His voice fades off into the distance. It gives Fiddleford a moment to simply… look.
Ford’s home is rickety and cold. There is a space heater in the living room beside the bed, though it’s off, collecting dust. They’re in the tail end of fall. It’s getting colder. The windows in his kitchen show the forest in a slightly less dismal light. Said kitchen is messy, covered in single-use utensils and half-eaten food. Ford had looked skinny under that coat of his- and Fiddleford can’t help but wonder if he’s had anyone taking care of him at all, all alone out here in the wilderness.
He’s startled from that embarrassing train of thought as something hits the table in front of him. He yelps, jumping so hard he spills half his coffee. When he looks back up, he sees-
Well. He isn’t entirely sure what he sees.
It appears to be a turtle. It squirms, head waving around as it snaps its mouth open and shut. Ford keeps a glove-clad hand on its shell. Or at least the portion of it that remains shell- as truly, most of it is teeth.
Row after row of long, sharp teeth stained yellow with age. The teeth snap and snarl, and Fiddleford feels distinctly faint when he sees the tongue writhing between them. His cup of coffee spills entirely when it falls to the ground- the mug shattering underfoot.
He’s busy raising his hands and crossing them over his chest. “Sweet child in Heaven,” he utters, looking up at Ford helplessly. “Wh- What in- In God’s blessed name is that?”
Ford doesn’t even seem to notice the coffee puddling beneath him. “I have no clue! Its working name is the Vampurdle.”
It snaps so hard it grazes Ford’s wrist. Blood begins to pool in the gash. It isn’t wide. Fiddleford finds himself momentarily fixated on the crimson liquid, as it slips down his friend’s thin wrist and stains his glove. Then- his head snaps back up. “You- You’re bleeding!”
Ford looks down and frowns. “Oh. Damnit, yeah, don’t get on the wrong end of it’s teeth.” He wraps a fist around the thing’s teeth with surprising strength. Managing to clamp them together, he stands back up again and starts off into the next room. “But McGucket- the point is- the things I’ve seen here! The things I can show you!”
Despite his trepidation, Fiddleford finds himself following. His boots crunch in the ceramic shards of the mug, and he shoves his glasses up so forcefully his eyes sting. “Ford- Ford! Ain’t that thing dangerous? What’re you- where-”
“I’ve got a containment center for it, calm down, won’t you?” Calm down. He’s been called from out of state and left his wife and child because his friend has… an evil turtle, and he’s being told to calm down.
Fiddleford doesn’t think he’s felt so alive in a very long time. He fists a hand into his hair and tugs, laughing when he watches Ford drop the creature into a large tank. There are cracks in the glass. The laugh rises again, a hysterical thing that can’t help but burst from his chest.
“That’s not even interesting once you know all I know.” He almost protests as Ford starts to walk off again, wet lips flying open with a demand for the madness to slow down. Almost. Ford leads him downstairs, now.
“Where- how did you find this place, Ford?”
“I commissioned it for myself and my research!” They descend down a metal staircase, footsteps thunking noisily- Ford’s heavy, Fiddleford’s more hesitant. The place that they enter is strange not only in its decoration but its shape too. Two rooms, one led into the other with a large curtain half blocking it from his line of sight. The first room must be where Ford rests. There’s a cot, and a bookshelf filled with books. A desk sits next to the cot, papers and notes and empty coffee mugs spread all over the table. They don’t linger long in the man’s meager quarters, though.
The large burgundy curtain splitting the rooms is half hung up. Ford moves it now, and it whips around in the whirl from the fans circling air around the room. Fiddleford joins him in the next room, eyes wide as they cast a sweeping glance around at the machinery. They halt in their tracks a moment into their investigation - caught on something far more conspicuous than all the rest.
“Ford. Ford, what- what are you doing down here?” he asks, voice filled with wonder. He spins in a slow circle, adjusting his glasses. Blinking lights, whirring fans, beeping machinery all face him in return. The true marvel is the massive triangular structure in the middle of the room. There’s a circle implanted in the middle, with a series of fascinating runes carved painstakingly into the metal ring. It looks almost like…
“It’s a portal.” Ford confirms it. Blue light rings him, an unholy flame that colors him in a spotlight that Fiddleford finds himself incapable of turning away from. “To another world.”
Ford has always been a skeptic, in the sense that he will not believe unless confronted with cold hard proof. He’d believe in religion and magic if they were simply grouped in with science, backed up by peer-reviewed studies and measurements that cannot be denied. Fiddleford looks up at Ford now. Looks him in the eyes. Wide, brown, intelligent eyes. He sees a man so wholly dedicated that he couldn’t possibly be swayed.
And immediately, Fiddleford believes him.
He laughs, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Well- Well play me a fiddle and dance on my grave, Ford. This ain’t the same sorta project I’m used to, but- but sign me up!” Ford’s standing a few feet above him on top of some piled up earth. He comes to stand at the edge, and then begins to climb, taking Ford’s hand in his own and accepting the help as he’s hauled up. Fiddleford stares into Ford’s eyes, now. Grinning like loons and holding hands on top of a mound of dirt- Ford tugs him into a hug and laughs, and Fiddleford hasn’t felt so alive since the last time they parted.
“You’re worse than my kid Ford, this place is a pigsty. ” He finds himself plucking yet another ramen carton up from the ground, grimacing when soupy liquid comes trickling out. “He’s four, Ford, and he ain’t this gross!”
The subject of his ire is busy at the kitchen table. He’s nose-deep in his journal, scribbling about… something. Fiddleford has caught a glimpse of his own name, and he’s beginning to wonder if Ford uses the thing as more of a diary than something to record research with. “I’ve been busy, McGucket,” he replies dismissively. One, two, three, four, five, six. Six taps, as his fingers rap against the table.
“My four year old is busy too, learnin’ how to talk and walk and write like a proper little person, Ford. He at least knows to clean off his plate after dinner, you coot.” Fiddleford finds himself continuing to clean regardless. He’s gotten the living room and the spare bedroom cleaned up. He’s planning on cleaning one of the other rooms, too. For now, though, he’s got to tackle the kitchen.
“You let a horde’ah angry raccoons come tramplin’ through here, Pines? Our dorm never even got this bad.”
“Probably because you cleaned it.” He doesn’t even have the decency to sound grateful. Fiddleford snorts. The coffee machine percolates ambiently in the background as he rinses off a handful of bowls, setting them in the second sink compartment to be cleaned up later.
Ford likes his coffee black. Or so he tells everyone- but Fiddleford had accidentally switched their coffees once and the man had lit up like a Christmas tree. So, he grabs the jar of sugar from the cupboards above the sink and heads towards the fridge in search of milk- only to be assaulted by a foul-smelling jug of pure curdles.
“How you’ve even gotta pot to pee in Ford, I don’t know no more. This is foul.” He turns back to the other man. Now that they’re back upstairs, and Fiddleford has set a fire in the living room, he’s shed his coat. Ford is skinnier than he was in college. His wrists have gained an unhealthily angular look, his waist and chest slimmer than Fiddleford can remember. He scowls, then curses.
“A pot to-” Ford looks up, grimacing. “There’s a toilet in the other room, Fiddleford. Don’t tell me they use the sink where you’re from.”
“Where I come from? I oughtta leave you here with your portal and head on down home,” Fiddleford teases, shaking his head. Ford always had been a little thick about his sayings. “All I’m sayin’ is that you- you’re living like you’re completely outta money. I know that isn’t true.”
“I am here for research,” Ford argues. He raises his hand when Fiddleford approaches with his cup of coffee. Two twin pinky fingers stick up when he takes a sip. “I’ve found proof of and contacted beings outside our very realms of understanding. And you’re made because I haven’t gone grocery shopping?”
Fiddleford sighs laboriously as he settles down at the table. He begins to play with his own fingers, eyes awkwardly narrowed in on Ford’s research, trying to make out a single word of the frantic scrawl. “No, Ford, I’m not mad at you. I’m more just confused ‘bout how you managed to survive on your own this whole time.”
“Sheer determination, my friend. And a general distrust of the locals. There’s something about this town, Fiddleford. Why do you think it’s so riddled with supernatural properties, and yet no one seems to have noticed it yet?” Finally, Ford looks up from the damn notebook. His eyes shine like they do whenever he’s about to go off on a rant about his theories and beliefs. Fiddleford can feign annoyance- but he always finds himself fascinated.
“Not all of them are what they seem to be, Fiddleford. I’ll warn you now. Some of them are… Are different. I don’t mean to say that out of prejudice, you know this. Nothing here is what it seems to be. I’m surprised you didn’t notice. You had to drive through, didn’t you?”
“Ford.” He shoots the man a deadpan look. “I’m from rural Tennessee. Most people think I’m one of the weird locals.”
“Well I know that you aren’t.” Ford has always had a haughty air in regard to people he considers different to him. It’s mostly harmless- he isn’t a bigot when it matters, but it hurts, sometimes, hearing him act like Fiddleford isn’t something that he is.
Before this line of conversation can become an actual argument, though, Fiddleford notices something. The cloth hastily wrapped around Ford’s injured hand has a slowly growing line of red blood seeping through. Fiddleford frowns, reaching out. He loops his hand around Ford’s wrist, ignoring how the man flinches in surprise, and pulls it gently across the table.
“Fiddleford-“
“You’re still bleeding, Stanford.” His voice is soft. Gently he unwraps the bandages, thumb brushing against the base of Ford’s palm. Fiddleford feels a badly concealed shudder go through Ford’s hand. His extra pinky twitches, same as it always has when he’s nervous. “Hold still.” His voice is the same he’d use to coax a wounded animal— because Ford always acts like one, flinching away and hiding his injuries and being the stubborn ass that he is. Fiddleford curls Ford’s fingers upward to cup the gash, cradling them with both of his own hands and uncaring of the blood that spills over onto his own.
Finally, Ford’s twitches come to a rest. “You’re going to need stitches. Can I trust you to sit here and hold still while I go hunt down somethin’ proper for this?” He looks up to his friend with a stern look. The expression he’s met with is perhaps not the one he would’ve expected. Ford looks lost, lips barely parted and eyes wide. But then they dart away, sight focused on the frame of his glasses like they are when he doesn’t want to pretend he’s avoiding eye contact.
“Just do whatever it is you think is necessary, Fidds,” he replies. Ford pulls his hand away, the thumb of the other brushing light circles over the base of his palm. Fiddleford finds his lips twitching into a smile at the return of the once familiar nickname.
Ford doesn’t have a properly stocked first aid kit, which Fiddleford finds himself unsurprised by. What he does have is a pack of butterfly closure bandages and a decent antiseptic. When Fiddleford returns he’s surprised to find that Ford hasn’t moved his hand yet, still curled around the slowly bleeding wound. With the other he’s writing in his notebook, though it’s quite pathetic to watch him struggling to do so one handedly. He looks up when Fiddleford re-enters and laughs, glowering helplessly.
“I followed your instructions, you bastard. Don’t laugh at me.”
“Sorr- Sorry, Fords, I- I am. You just- you’re so dedicated to that little journal. Hell, Ford, it’s half done already.”
He stretches his arm out, folding his book up on his lap so as to not risk damaging it. Fiddleford lies his materials down on the table and goes and washes his hands, glancing back every few seconds. Ford looks a bit like a puppy with a treat on its nose. He’s so helpless with some things and so incredibly strong-willed and talented with others.
It makes Fiddleford wonder if he had a person, once. A sibling when he was younger, or a lover when he was a bit older, or even just particularly overbearing parents. He reaches out and cups Ford’s palm in his own again. His fingers are cold, trembling from exhaustion, Fiddleford tsks, massaging at Ford’s knuckles.
“I reckon you’re anemic, you big baby. Don’t know how to eat anything other than noodles do you?”
Ford grunts. “Just get on with it, Fiddleford.”
He acquiesces. Fiddleford gently dabs away the blood, swiping his antiseptic wipe through the wound a few times just in case the creature left any infection behind. It’s astounding, how quickly he’s decided that Ford’s wound being caused by an otherworldly creature is ok. Is normal. It’s going to have to be, if he’s going to stay here, after all.
The speed at which he’s accepted that he’s staying with Ford doesn’t surprise him at all.
Fiddleford refuses to sleep in Ford’s underground hovel. He refuses to allow Ford to do it too, whenever he catches him. He drags him back upstairs to the couch in the front room because that is at least a little better. When he isn’t busy pouring over and proofreading Ford’s schematics for the portal, Fiddleford finds himself cleaning.
He clears out two bedrooms. That’s enough. If they need more storage space they can clean up more later, but for now they just need places to sleep that won’t ruin their backs. He promotes the idea of sleeping in a bed to Ford by explaining that if he throws his back out, he can’t work as efficiently.
This, somehow, works.
So Fiddleford gets Ford to sleep in a bed. Gets him to eat real food, too. Even gets him to shower, though he has to go out and fix the plumbing setup, which leads Fiddleford to wonder how long it’s been since Ford properly bathed. He watches as his friend starts to improve. The bags under his eyes loosen up. The way his shirts billow up and his belts wrap around him lessens too. He speaks softer, calmer, though with no less excitement - and frequency.
And so they continue to work. Ford’s blueprints are meticulously drawn. Beautiful, with fascinating notes scrawled along the edges of the page, though some things he seems to have redacted with permanent marker. It’s interesting- he’s rather secretive about what it is exactly the portal will lead to.
Fiddleford’s interest isn’t in questioning Ford to death, though. Ford’s research is his specialty- computers, technology, anything that you can throw a handful of hammers or a wrench at, is Fiddleford’s. So he gets to work re-working some of the blueprints to be more efficient. He asks questions when it is necessary, and Ford tells him that certain arbitrary design choices are important while some are not.
They end up spending a lot of time, in that bunker under the ground. Only the most preliminary skeleton of Ford’s brilliant work has been built up, yet, and Fiddleford has a lot to catch up on. He has Ford move the old record player from upstairs down into the basement. He goes and hunts down a thrift store in town and buys himself a handful of records, much to Ford’s annoyance.
Unfortunately, though, they encounter a roadblock.
They need an energy source. The sort of thing that they’re not going to have in their grasp for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. Humans are not civilized enough to have such an incredible source of energy- and FIddleford knows when to admit defeat. Even with his own expertise, he’s only a man, same as Ford.
Thankfully, it appears that Ford already knows of a perfect source for their energy. A Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive. Something Fiddleford has certainly never heard of in his modern research books. Ford seems insistent upon it existing, though, and it sounds as if it is the solution to all of their remaining problems.The only thing is — Ford asks him to accompany him on the journey.
Upon being asked, Fiddleford raises a hand to press it to his forehead. It isn’t that he minds the idea of coming along, but Ford’s always been so damn secretive.
He laughs, grabbing Fiddleford’s wrist and swatting it away. Not without leaning into the touch, though. Just for a second. He’s beginning to realize just how little Ford is used to being touched anymore. In college it was as natural as breathing. Claps on shoulders, high-fives, hugs, Fiddleford can even remember a few rare times that the heating had gone out in their dorm and they’d ended up curled up in each others’ arms in bed and-
He lets that line of thinking fly out the window before he can linger on it too long. “I’m fine, Fiddleford. It’s high time that you come with me, see the wonders of this town while we do some real good work.”
Fiddleford, recalling Ford’s initial demonstration of the wonders of the town and how it had nearly cost Ford a hand, is a little less excited. He sighs laboriously. “I mean- if it gets us out of the basement for a few hours, why not.”
“That’s the spirit, Fidds!” He reaches forward and cups Fiddleford’s cheeks with both of his hands. He’s always had such large hands. Broad palms and thick fingers, eclipsing the entirety of Fiddleford’s lower jaw, brushing gently against his throat. He swallows as those hands pat him encouragingly, and then tries not to linger on the touch when they pull away. “Go get your coat!”
The coat in question isn’t his coat. Ford had lent it to him when he went out for groceries. It’s a long brown trenchcoat, the inner lining thick sherpa. It has an upturned collar like Fiddleford’s in a bad spy movie. It smells like the forest, and like the cigarette brand that Ford prefers, and a bit like sweat, and-
Well. He hasn’t washed it yet.
He flushes as he tugs it on now, mutely pulling the collar up to cover the pink of his cheeks. He shoves his hands into his pockets once they’re nicely gloved, and then rejoins Ford, who appears to be fighting a war against his shoelaces. “Didn’t you prefer velcro in college?”
Ford glares up at him. “Can it, Fiddleford. I’m perfectly capable of tying my own shoes. I’m not a- an invalid.”
Well- that’s certainly not the word Fiddleford would’ve used. His eyes widen when he hears it, and he’s quick to shake his head, coming to kneel at Ford’s feet. “You’re actin’ nuttier than a squirrel turd. I ain’t calling you invalid, Ford. I’m calling you… A man with six fingers on both hands who doesn’t like shoelaces. Now- give it here.” He grabs Ford’s ankle with so much forcefulness that he nearly kicks himself in his own face.
Ford is quiet, now. Fiddleford cups the back of his heel, thumb brushing up against the bare skin of his ankle. There’s a scar there, from when he’d dropped a mug in freshman year and slipped in the coffee. It’s a long, thin thing. One of many that Fiddleford had patched for him. He finds his throat dry as he presses the blunt end of his nail to the wound, trailing over it, eyes stuck.
And then Ford jerks, ticklish to no end, and curses. Fiddleford looks up, and the man is - is bright red, and he’s filled with guilt. He hadn’t meant to make the man uncomfortable- he’s hasty to tug the shoe on over his foot and begin to tie the laces. The other foot, which already has a boot, is a lot easier to finish up with.
And then he stands ramrod straight, looking anywhere but at Ford. “Right! Done! See, not so hard to ask me fer help you- you-!”
Ford huffs, and shakes his head, chuckling softly. His eyes are elsewhere, though. Focused on the frame of his glasses, and Fiddleford’s heart hurts, just a little, at that. “That’s enough, Fidds.” Ok- so perhaps he isn’t too angry. Something inside of him loosens up, at the nickname. “Let’s just get going, you menace.”
They don’t drive. Their trip is intended to be laborious and long, and so they pack well and they walk, leading Fiddleford to decide that tying Ford’s shoes was important, or he’d be tripping over the underbrush all morning. The woods of Gravity Falls are quite beautiful. Hung with moss and lichen, the trees spiral up towards the Heavens like wooden devotees. There’s neither a corner to turn nor a hill to cross over that doesn’t inhabit a species of mushroom or glowing lichen Fiddleford is sure he’s never seen before. Ford doesn’t entertain any stopping, though, too wholly absorbed with his own plans.
“Everything you’re seeing out here is in my journals, Fidds. I’ll let you look through some of the pages sometime. Just- come on!” Ford exclaims when he catches Fiddleford picking yet another flower to inspect.
Once the promise of being able to peek into those journals has been given, Fiddleford is significantly more amicable to carry on at a steady pace. Their destination ends up being the lake at the edge of town. They make their way across the edge of the water, mist hanging low over the lake and giving the whole world a sense of peaceful quiet. What he’s led to ends up being a waterfall, and an immense cave right behind it. Once they’ve passed through the rushing water, it exposes a network of caves at the end of the cave, branching off into the darkness.
“Ford?”
“Hm?”
“Have you ever… been down there, before?”
Ford turns back to him, smiling broadly. “Nope.”
“And… We’re going down there? Alone? Without anyone knowing where we’re going?” Another nod. Fiddleford shakes his head. “Ford. Rule number one of cave diving is making sure people know where you are!”
“Who would we even tell? The game wardens?” He asks incredulously. Ford’s holding a lantern. “Do you want a smoke before we go down?”
Fiddleford studies him for a moment, squinting behind his glasses. He doesn’t seem to be kidding. So he sighs, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. Ford has always hated his tobacco chewing. It’s easier - and cheaper - for both of them, if they consolidate their vices into one.
“Light me up, Pines.” He increases the foil covering the cigarettes and pulls one out. Ford obliges, reaching forward with his zippo and clicking it on until it lights.
Sitting down on a nearby boulder, Fiddleford crosses his legs up on top of the rock and begins to smoke. Ford joins him, and he presses the tips of their cigarettes together until his too, is lit. It’s a ritual as easy as breathing, for them, one perpetrated through dorm room windows and after particularly painful exam dates.
They don’t talk much when they smoke. It’s just about the only time you can get both Fiddleford and Stanford to be silent, introspectively off in their own heads while they focus on the cigarettes dwindling between their lips.
Then, he drops his cigarette. Fiddleford curses when he fumbles the thing and watches as it drops into the low water lining the ground, snuffed out in an instant. Ford hisses sympathetically as smoke swirls up into the ceiling. “Tough luck, my friend.”
“I’ll say,” Fiddleford responds mournfully. For a long moment his gaze remains fixed on the cigarette. Just as he’s about to reach down and pluck it out of the snow, there’s a brush against his hand.
He looks up, surprised. Ford is holding his own cigarette, half smoken. The end is slightly wet where it had met his lips. The tip of it smolders, dancing in slate-grey waves towards the waterfall that the breeze blows it towards. “Hurry up. Before it goes out.”
Ford’s holding it awkwardly, though. Too close to the end for Fiddleford to get a decent grip on it, and too close to his head for him to be asking for him to take it. Fiddleford frowns in confusion, while Ford stares at him, face blank of emotion in a way that has him nervous. He brings his hand nearer, right up until his knuckles brush Fiddleford’s chin. Only then, does he realize the intent.
He tries not to shake, as he reaches a hand up and cups Ford’s, steadying it. Fiddleford leans in, very aware of the eyes on him as he wraps his lips around the cigarette. He takes a long drag, then reluctantly draws away, still holding Ford’s hand in his own.
When he looks up, Ford’s eyes are wide. Fixed on his lips. He looks away.
“W- Well— Well thanks , Ford,” he says, throat suddenly dry even after the smoke has left his open jaw. “You can finish it off, I ain’t-”
Ford sets it out on the palm of his glove. It smolders, smelling of burnt leather, and Ford’s eyes are wide as they stare at Fiddleford, like a cat gauging a reaction after knocking a cup off a table. Fiddleford swallows, very warm in his coat.
“Alright then. Off we go!” he says, as if nothing at all had happened. Ford stands picking Fiddleford’s ruined cigarette off the ground and tucking both of them into his pocket.
The treck into the depths of the tunnels is mostly silent, save for the scuffle of shoes and Ford’s cursing when the lantern, at first, is reluctant to light. Once it’s finally ready, though, he tucks the metal handle between his teeth and starts to climb down. Fiddleford wonders without asking why the hell he didn’t just light it once he was down.
Once they’re both on the ground, though, the world is exposed as signifactly stranger than Fiddleford could’ve ever expected. It’s dark like a typical mining shaft, but the amount of stones and gems lining the walls is… odd. There’s a lot of abandoned equipment, too, and he finds himself stepping closer to Ford, wringing his hands under the sleeves of his coat.
“Ford, do we even know where our exit is?” he asks nervously, trying not to stutter.
“Come on, Fidds. Have an open mind, won’t you? We’re just exploring.” Ford reaches into his large coat pocket and procures one of his notebooks. There’s a large gold plate on the front, carved to look like a blocky rendition of his six-fingered hand. “Hold the lantern, won’t you?”
He acquiesces with not much more than a groan in complaint. Fiddleford stands close to Ford as he begins to scribble, walking further into the tunnels with wild abandon. He’d been like this in college, too. On far too many drunken nights did he try to convince Fiddleford to break into old, abandoned dormitories or other empty buildings on their campus. He’d only allowed it to happen once or twice, when he was so drunk he had to skip classes the day after.
But Ford seems to be enjoying himself too much to stop him, and the tunnels are relatively easy to follow. Fiddleford makes sure to mark each one with the pocket knife Ford had left in the pocket of his coat, a little doodle carved into the earth with every turn. Deeper they go, and Ford becomes more and more persistent, desperately trying to find something even as Fiddleford urges him to turn back before they go too far.
And then- there is a dip in the earth.
Ford doesn’t notice it. It’s right by one of the carved-out archways in the earth, small enough where it runs along the wall that he’s in no danger of hitting it. Fiddleford stops as he has been doing to begin carving something into the wall. He doesn’t notice, either. Not until his foot has slipped into the ditch, ankle twisting painfully, and he’s fallen to the ground.
The lights go out.
He shrieks, both in pain and surprise. The lantern clatters against the ground, flame flickering out as a plume of dust hits it. He hears a panicked shout of his name, but he’s too busy cursing, clutching his ankle and ripping it out of the hole. Tears dot at his eyes, pain shooting up towards his knee whenever he moves.
There are hands on his face. He cannot see. Fiddleford cries out in fear and strikes out until Ford’s voice rings through. “Fidds!” he shouts, shoving him down by the shoulders with surprising strength.
“Fidds. Fidds, it’s ok,” he says, so firmly and calmly that he almost believes him. Fiddleford sniffles, raising a hand to wipe tears off of his face. His ankle pulses with pain. “Where are you hurt? What happened?”
“M- My— my ankle,” he says hoarsely. “The wall- it— it was separating from the ground, and- a- and I didn’t see. I’m- I’m sorry, Ford, I—”
His voice chokes off into an approximation of a sob. He’s silenced a moment later when he feels the hands on his face leave. This is it. This is when Ford realizes he’s got a useless assistant who is afraid of his own shadow and can’t even hold his own when there’s no danger at all. This is where Ford leaves him to his terror, and runs away with his only light, and—
Deft fingers press at his ankle. He yelps, and Ford apologizes with a sharp “Sorry!” as his fingers readjust. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to- to find the injury.”
Fiddleford sniffles weakly and drags himself upwards by the elbows. His fingers meet Ford’s as he too begins to probe at his ankle. He takes Ford’s hand into his own, and drapes his pointer and middle finger over the point of greatest pain. The pain grows when Ford presses down, and he whimpers.
“Ok. I’m done. I’m done. I think it’s just sprained, ok? Let me- relight the lantern, and we’ll go. I can come back later and get the Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive.” Fiddleford nods, afraid that if he speaks aloud he’s going to burst into tears. Ford sounds like he’s holding himself back from being frustrated. It makes something in his chest ache. He’s left alone, blind in the darkness, for a few minutes. Ford scuffles around in the darkness until he hears the clink of broken metal against glass.
Another minute passes. He clicks his lighter several times once his fingers have found the wick. Click, click, click. There’s a grunt of frustration, and then Fiddleford hears Ford curse, accompanied by another click. There’s a long stretch of silence.
“It’s dead.”
Fiddleford can’t help the scared little hitch of his breathing, at that news. Fuck- he’s always been a crybaby, and now is no different, as hot, embarrassing tears begin to flood his eyes. They’re stuck, blind, in a cave. He’s injured and he’s ruined Ford’s research and plans. He broke their only light source. He—
“Fidds. Stop it. I can hear you crying.” Fiddleford sucks in a breath and tries to force himself to stop. Ford’s voice is firm, almost harsh. But then he sighs softly, and a fumbling hand paws at his thigh, and then his waist, his shoulder- until it lands on his cheek, brushing away the tears under his glasses blindly. “We’re going to be ok, old friend.”
Fiddleford nods, hoping it can be felt through the hand on his cheek. “Ok. Ok. I— Ok. H- How?”
Fingers tap across his cheeks. “You’re my assistant, Fidds. You’re not stupid. I saw you carving those signs into the walls, we’ll just feel our way through ok?” The hand migrates, and a warm, broad body presses against him. Ford wraps an arm around his back, helping him up. “Lean on me, my friend. I’ll get us out of here.”
It hurts, putting any amount of pressure on his ankle. He tries not to complain, though. He’s no longer a teenager fresh into college- he’s late into his twenties, and there’s no sense in acting like his four year old son every time he gets a boo-boo. Ford is careful, too. If it were under any other circumstances Fiddleford might even enjoy the broad, strong arm slung across his shoulders and hauling him around.
Every few minutes there’s a scuffle as Ford feels out another one of the marks on the wall. They keep on walking, the silence only ever broken by the sound of their feet on the ground. He wishes Ford would talk. If he tries to he’ll start crying in embarrassment, he knows it. But the truth is that he’s scared. In the inky blackness, injured, unaware of their surroundings save for the fact that a supernatural researcher had found it particularly interesting.
But finally, there’s a light glow that can be seen off in the distance. Fiddleford brightens, sniffling when he sees it. “Ford— Ford! Look, there!” he calls, gesturing excitedly to what he at first assumes must be the entrance. Ford laughs triumphantly, excitedly beginning to pick up speed.
But the light isn’t right. It’s a blueish-purple, not the yellow-grey of the hidden sunshine outside. It shines uncannily bright. Hoping that he’s simply being paranoid, he doesn’t say anything yet. But then the difference between it and true sunlight becomes too clear to be ignored.
“Ford. Ford, I don’t think—”
“Quit dragging your heels, Fidds. You’re going to hurt yourself more,” he demands, tugging faster. Fiddleford’s panic grows, and he starts to wrestle himself out of Ford’s grip.
The other man’s hand tightens around his shoulder, and his breath hitches. “F- Ford. Ford. Ford! I’m- I’m scared, I don’t think that’s daylight. Ford!” He’s near to shouting now as he’s dragged around, heart pounding painfully in his chest and those same humiliating tears from earlier stinging in his eyes.
Soon though, they’re rounding the corner to a new clearing. Ford’s refusal to stop has Fiddleford desperate, soaked in sweat despite the cold. His ankle hurts and he’s overwhelmed and terrified and—
And the light is alive.
The clearing that they enter has both of them stopping in their tracks. The otherworldly light comes from all around. The walls are pocked with openings, messy circular indents where strange creatures once laid. Said creatures are floating all around, now. Like lanterns, they dance, moving in odd, undulating patterns.
Each one is like a living geode. They drift across the room, their cracks exposing bright colors. Most of them are purple or red or even strange, fiery orange. Crystals line the strange gashes. As the two men stand and watch, they see two of said creatures collide— and then begin to sing.
It’s a strange, childish noise. Like… when a handful of kids stands together and decide to babble along to the radio. As they do, they dance. A more purposeful movement than the bobbing and weaving from before, a dosey-doe as they find partners and group up. Occasionally within the giant cavern they hit each other, and the dancing and song start again.
“Fascinating.” Fiddleford finds his fear fading, as he watches. Ford’s eyes are wide and dazzled as he looks at the groups. He looks back at Fiddleford now, as if finally remembering he’s there. “I simply must record something about these.”
There’s a question in his words. Not a real one, because Ford knows that Fiddleford won’t argue. But he agrees anyways and lets the man lower him down onto the ground, tucking his legs to the side. He watches as Ford starts to circle the clearing, not yet getting close.
“Careful, Pines. Might not be safe,” says Fiddleford wearily, worn out from all the excitement. Before Ford can even try to heed his warning, though, the man stretches an arm out and gently smacks one of the rocks. It goes flying away with a distinctly childish shriek, before hitting another rock.
Ford laughs. It’s a carefree sound, and he snorts, too, in a way that he always tries to hide whenever he does it. Fiddleford finds himself smiling, at the sound. It isn’t often he sees Stanford act like this. Childish and light, lit up by bright purple hues, giving his pale face a color rarely seen. He dodges and weaves around the rocks, dancing his way into the middle of the room until he can sit directly under them.
Fiddleford’s heart aches to join him.
Still, he lets Ford write in silence. He sketches several of the creatures, continuing to bounce them around when they get too close. Some of them crowd Fiddleford too, and he pets his hands over them, feeling their rough texture and giggling when he hears them sing their happy little song.
“Geo-dites. Geodites. Like… Geode sprites. Little fae creatures,” he says softly. Ford looks up from his work. His glasses have begun to slide down his face.
“Come again?”
“You name the creatures you find, right?” Ford nods, and Fiddleford smiles lightly. “A Geodite.”
Ford laughs now. He scribbles something down in his book and then holds it up- and Fiddleford squints to be able to see it. Geodeites, it reads, with a silly but surprisingly good illustration of the creatures. “It’s about time I put something of yours in here, as my trusted assistant. Even better— I think I have an idea. Let’s take one with us! We can use it as a light.”
Fiddleford brightens. But upon glancing back at the family of creatures again, his expression sours. They’re very clearly close. A family. His heart hurts at the thought of it- the son and wife he left behind.
It isn’t that he misses her. Emma. But there is something to be said about losing your family, even though it was of his own volition that he left. The idea of dragging one of these strange creatures away now hurts, too. He glances around the clearing curiously, searching for another idea while Ford continues to write.
“Now… Now hold on there, Ford.” Fiddleford gently takes two of the dancing stones in his hands. The lantern sits off to the side, the glass broken but the wick still intact. “As long as we’re careful… This should work.”
“Hm?” Ford looks up, clearly having not been paying attention. And then there’s a shriek.
Fiddleford curses as the creatures scream. He’s bashed them together to create a spark. Perhaps not the kindest way of getting out of here, but better than kidnapping one of the creatures. The two Geodites he’d used whizz away, and the singing resumes in a slightly more distressed fashion. Fiddleford stares up at them sadly and doesn’t notice that Ford has moved until he’s right up next to him again.
The other man crouches in front of him, a hand on his shoulder, the other holding the lantern. It’s lit, the flame a strange purple color. “Good job, Fidds. I’m done. Let’s get you out of here, ok?”
The walk back to the shack is excruciating. Fiddleford is essentially dead weight in Ford’s arms, his ankle purple and swollen. Ford attempts to be gentle. Rather than take him over the hills and cliffs and hollows they’d gone through the first time around, he takes a meandering path that takes significantly longer. Fiddleford remembers when Ford had struggled to pick up their dorm room microwave off the ground. He’s a far cry from that spot, now, hauling him around in the wilderness while he tries not to be completely useless.
When they’re finally back at the house, though, it’s a relief. The sun has begun to set and the cold is truly setting in. His ankle is getting worse, too. He can’t help but be worried that something might actually be broken. Ford doesn’t trust the doctor in town, though, and Fiddleford will be damned if he pays for treatment for something as simple as a broken bone.
So, he has Ford carry him inside, setting him down on the living room couch. What comes next is the most he’s seen Ford do for the house and himself since they’ve reunited. He lights the fire, and brings Fiddleford a blanket, and gathers up a frankly excessive amount of supplies.
“Ford. It’s probably fine, I ain’t need you fussing anymore-”
“Nonsense,” he responds firmly. He’s on the ground, now. Staring up at Fiddleford with a determined look. His face is shadowed in the light of the fire, eyes dark and soft and handsome. He looks away.
Ford reaches forward and begins to untie his shoelaces. His breath catches in his throat as he watches it happen. For a man who can hardly tie his own shoes, he manages to get Fiddleford’s off quite easily and without fuss. They’re probably the only thing keeping the pain from extreme levels, though. Because when he slides his boot off, Fiddleford has to bite his tongue, fresh agony going through his limb.
When he comes back to himself, Ford is speaking to him, soft and calm. His hands cradle his ankle, keeping it elevated up on his own knee. “-I’ve got you. We’ll get you fixed up, yeah? Just hold on another second while I figure out how bad it is.” Gentle fingers slip into the rim of his sock. They peel it downwards, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to accidentally kick the man.
“...Sorry.” His own voice returns. It’s raspy and guilt-ridden, and when he looks down at Ford he’s glad to see the man isn’t looking up to see the guilt in his eyes. The fireplace gives his friend the appearance of a worshipper, cradling his delicate wound in both hands like he holds his very heart.
He might as well.
Stanford Pines is strange. Short-tempered and frustratingly unaware, he focuses entirely on himself and his own desires far more often than appropriate. And yet he kneels, now. Holds Fiddleford’s tender bones in his hands and props his foot up on his leg. Fiddleford finds himself overwhelmed with the strange urge to reach down and cup his face. To pull him up, hand-to-cheek, and to press his lips—
“Don’t be,” responds Ford in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “I learned quite a lot during this trip, even if we didn’t find what we went out for. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard, anyways, shouldn’t have taken so many risks.”
Fiddleford smiles dazedly. It’s far off from a true apology, but he doesn’t need one. Ford could snap his ankle right now and he would let him. Could see him for what he is — a snivelling, spineless man, pining uselessly after having left his entire family behind. Could kick him out, could feed him to the beasts he knows so extensively. Fiddleford would not meet him unkindly.
Ford begins to wrap his ankle. Makes sure it’s stiff and unmoving, and then ties a makeshift splint to the limb. He slides Fiddleford’s sock back up, fiddling unnecessarily with the fabric. And then he even goes and fashions him an ice pack, in a move so strange and un-Fordlike that it has Fiddleford a little shocked.
Not one to look such kindness in the eye and decline it, he says nothing but his thanks.