Work Text:
{Chapter 1}
It has been about four months since Fiddleford moved in with Stanford, better known as Ford. Ford had invited Fiddleford to help work on a “small project,” he told his wife. A small project where he had to go up north for almost a year, leaving his wife, Emma-May, and two-year-old son, Tate, back in Palo Alto, California.
Fiddleford wouldn't admit all of the reasons why he took the job. He knew his relationship with his wife was a bit rocky since his son was born, and to say he took the job to have a break between him and Emma-May wouldn’t be a complete lie. Still, he also missed having such a good friend around, back in their college days when they would stay up late together working on a project for one of the many classes they shared, having a “coffee” or two. Fiddleford missed that. He missed Ford. It had been six years, after all. Once Fiddleford got the call for Ford to offer him a job, he couldn’t say no. It wasn’t a toxic, one-sided decision. He and his wife had agreed that it might be better for them to have a break. Breaking the news to his son may have been the most challenging part. But with that, Fiddleford had traveled up north to Gravity Falls, Oregon—the strangest place on Earth.
Fiddleford was lying back in his chair at his desk, looking over the portal blueprints. He sighs and looks over at the stairway, seeing Ford walk in with a grin on his face, what looks like two beers in hand, and stuff to discuss. Fiddleford’s face lights up as he sees his research partner walk into the room, instantly lifting his spirits.
“I got us some drinks!” Ford shouts across the room with his dorky smile. He walks over to his desk, kicking his chair next to Fiddlefords. He bites the cap off of one beer bottle and hands it to Fiddleford, placing his bottle on the desk and sitting down next to his assistant. “Thanks.” Fiddleford gladly takes the bottle and takes a swig of the beer.
“So, how are the blueprints going?” Ford asks. He was glad that Fiddleford was helping with his project. Not that he would like to admit it, but there were some obvious flaws in Ford’s process that he didn’t quite catch. Ford was more of a planning guy; he knew how to get it down on paper, but executing it was the problem. But that’s where Fiddleford shined. The two have collaborated on many projects before in college, but most were mini units in their classes. This was a different case.
“Pretty good, pretty good… I did change a few things, like altering the (insert smart engineering thing here bc I’m dumb), and… yeah, that's pretty much it so far.” Fiddleford replies. Ford hums and nods in response, holding his hand on his chin while looking down at the altercations Fiddleford had made.
After a while of talking about the portal, the conversation somehow spiraled into whether or not “Leg warmers,” the latest fashion trend, were going to last.
“Leg warmers are practical and stylish.” Fiddleford points at Ford, swinging his almost empty beer bottle in the air with his other hand. He pushes up his glasses before speaking again.
“I don’t know how you don’t even like the idea of leg warmers! It’s absurd!” Fiddlefords southern twang becomes more prominent as he speaks.
“No, I get it but also, who would want fuzzy things around your legs?” Ford shutters. “I don’t care if they’re “practical” or “stylish,” imagine taking them off after a workout, and it’s all sweaty and moist underneath.” He uses air quotes with a disgusted look, imagining taking the leg warmers off. Fiddleford shrugs and tilts his head back, finishing off his beer. He places the empty bottle on the desk next to him. The two sit in silence for a moment before Fiddleford speaks up.
“These uh- these blueprints are incredibly complex… did you ever get help with these? Y’know, like did anyone ever help you with the idea?” Fiddleford asks, his leg bouncing slightly.
Ford sat there, contemplating what to say to his partner. Should he tell him about his Muse or keep it a secret? Fiddleford was a very superstitious man–he crossed himself when he walked over graves and scolded Ford for saying things like, “What the Devil!” Though Ford wanted to tell someone about his divine experience with his Muse, he worried that Fiddleford might think he’d gone mad after all these years in seclusion, or worse–that he’s tangled in some kind of unsavory black magic. Ford decides that he is not to tell him.
“Nope, did this all myself,” Ford lies. “With hard work anything is possible.” He wiggles his twelve fingers at Fiddleford before walking over to his desk and handing Fiddleford a stack of papers to “quintuple-check.”. He quickly walks away, heading back upstairs, forgetfully leaving his half-full beer on Fiddlefords desk. Some secrets are better kept that way. “Could Fiddleford even truly appreciate the complex fates that brought me and my Muse together?” Ford had thought as he climbed the stairs and disappeared onto the main floor.
Fiddleford took the papers and placed them atop his desk. He watched as Ford sped upstairs. A concerned and confused look fell upon Fiddleford's face, wondering why Ford had quickly left a pleasant conversation over one question. Fiddleford shakes his head and scoffs, sipping Ford’s forgotten beer and sifting through the papers Ford had given him as a distraction like a baby. Fiddleford didn’t understand why Ford had moved on so quickly. “Maybe he was offended that I accused him of getting help. Oh, or maybe he did have help, but he's too embarrassed to admit it…” Fiddleford thinks to himself, brushing his hand through his sandy beach-colored hair. He sighs and continues to quintuple-check Ford's work as instructed.