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It was two days before they would finally test the portal, and Stanford Pines still hadn’t told Fiddleford about Bill. He needed to say something to him about his muse one way or another. They were finally testing the portal tomorrow. The pressure was on to get it completely ready, and like every other post-doc research project, they were weeks behind schedule.
Fiddleford was getting on Ford’s nerves more than usual. His constant fidgeting and paranoid looks were particularly annoying today; Ford finally scolded him for clicking his pen incessantly. It wasn’t coming from a place of genuine nuisance, but rather from a place of equated anxiety. His outbursts towards Fiddleford weren’t fair, but he couldn’t just say “an inter-dimensional god has us on a strict timeline and we need to stop delaying the construction”. On the contrary, he needed an excuse to tell him what was going on.
“Hey,” said Fiddleford, interrupting Ford’s rumination. “Do you think we could- I dunno- get a drink tonight?”
Cosmic timing? Ford thought.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” he replied disdainfully.
“Right, right. Of course. Forget about it then.”
For a second Ford thought he caught a glimpse of disappointment. No matter, if they had a couple of drinks tonight maybe he could let the information about Bill slip.
“Maybe,” said Ford, letting a small smirk form on his face. “I can be a little mischievous for once.”
Fiddleford’s already large eyes seemed to grow twice the size they already were, unbeknownst to Ford.
“Great!” Fiddleford said, smiling. He scurried away and continued working on… well, whatever Ford told him to work on most recently. He never paid much attention to Fiddleford. He had more important things to be working on than worrying about what his research assistant was doing or thinking. Like contacting Bill. His muse was eager to tie up the final loose ends. If he was honest, he mostly needed someone to do the grunt work on the portal; someone who was close to keeping up with his constant innovation and new ideas. But it was nice to have someone around in the physical realm to talk to. Oftentimes his muse would leave him for weeks on end, making life quite lonely for Ford. At least Fiddleford was eager to help and a friendly familiar face. He was consistent.
After a day that felt endless, it felt good to stop and go outside. Ford waited for Fiddleford as he put on his winter attire. He had a massive winter coat that had been patched in many places with various fabrics. Fiddleford once told Ford that it was his father’s old coat, and that he gave it to him right before he left for college. They left the warm haven of the house to the wintry landscape of Gravity Falls. The air was crisp, their breath making wispy clouds. They walked over mostly in silence, only occasionally interrupted by comments on the weather and troubleshooting ideas to try tomorrow.
When they finally arrived at the bar, they were surprised to see that it was quite busy. The music was loud, and for a moment Ford stood frozen. Alas, Fiddleford barged through the front door without a second thought, so Ford shuffled in behind him, apprehensive.
The bar was pretty run down. Dark wood paneling covered the ceiling and every wall. There were dents in places where fists missed their targets. There were two separate matches of darts happening on opposite ends of the space. A TV had a football game playing. A biker gang was being loud and rambunctious over the pool table with plenty of women at their sides. Ford scoffed at their willingness to flirt with sweaty danger. He brooded over his inability to talk to women, and followed Fiddleford to a hightop table near the music (Of course he would pick this table, Ford thought). They both hung up their coats underneath the table.
Fiddleford looked at Ford. “What do you want?” he asked.
“Huh?” Ford said, startled out of his train of thought.
“To drink. What do you wanna drink.”
Ford didn’t go to bars enough to have a standard order. “I’ll have whatever you’re having, I suppose.”
Fiddleford’s face twisted into a smirk. “Whatever you say, doc!”
Before Ford could inquire more about his reaction, he walked away, and Ford’s gaze drifted back to the pool table. He thought about how fun it was to play pool with Bill and wished it wasn’t so loud in the bar. He never saw the point in being rowdy for rowdy’s sake (Maybe Stan would explain it to him).
Ford did not want to be down in the dumps about his brother on a Saturday night, but luckily Fiddleford came back with impeccable timing holding the drinks. Without thinking, Ford grabbed one of the glasses out of his hand and took a hefty swig. His face contorted at the taste. “Jesus Christ, Fiddleford,” said Ford. “What the hell is this?”
“Whatever the cheapest whiskey was,” Fiddleford snickered. “Double on the rocks.”
“Take the man out of the country, can’t take the country out of the man.”
“Yessir!”
They laughed and toasted each other. As they got deeper into the glass, Ford thought less and less of the pool table on the other side of the bar, and more about the music playing near them. They laughed and talked about unimportant things, which was a nice change. Neither of them wanted to admit how quickly they had gone through the first drink, nor the second or third. By the time they were on their fourth, maybe fifth (?) the bar was packed like a sardine tin. In a break of conversation, Fiddleford hopped off of his chair and linked elbows with Ford. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go dance!”
“No, no, no,” Ford replied. “I’m not a dancer.”
“With that much whiskey, yes you are.”
Ford didn’t protest being dragged closer to the music. As they got closer to the speakers, Fiddleford suddenly unhooked himself from Ford and ran towards the jukebox. Startled, Ford tried to follow him through the crowd but failed. He stood awkwardly while being pushed around by the other people moving around and dancing. He watched Fiddleford put a coin in and pick a song, then shimmied his way through the crowd back to Ford. Fiddleford looked into his eyes and smiled, then turned away and started dancing like a fool. Ford laughed at his pure joy, and couldn’t help but bounce awkwardly from side to side to the rhythm with him. He understood why Fiddleford loved music so much. The bass thumping, the sounds and instruments interlacing with one another to create levels of unmatched emotion. In that moment, he had completely forgotten about the portal.
Ford had finally hit a certain level of delirium. The kind he only felt when he woke up from a nap after not sleeping for days. This time it was at least purposeful, and all in good fun. They continued drinking and dancing late into the night, but decided to leave after Ford tripped and knocked over a bunch of glassware on a nearby table. Very apologetic, they paid their tab and left a generous tip. On the walk home it began to snow. Ford and Fiddleford sang and tripped their way back to the house. Right outside, Fiddleford shouted with glee and jumped to the ground. “What are you doing?” asked Ford, mildly alarmed by the sudden drop.
“I’m makin’ a snow angel, Ford!” Fiddleford drawled, his southern accent more prominent than usual.
Ford tipped his head up to the sky and laughed. He reached out a hand to help Fidddleford up from the ground and entered the warm interior of the house. While Ford plopped onto the couch, Fiddleford went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured the liquor into the glass messily on the side table and passed one to Ford. Then he walked circuitously to his turntable and put on a rock album. He made his way back to the couch and sat on the opposite end of Ford.
When they first started working on the portal, Fiddleford had been particularly adamant about installing his state-of-the-art sound system. Ever since he and Ford had taken that intro physics course on physical optics (there was an entire section of the course dedicated to acoustics), Fiddleford had been obsessed with sound and how it filled a room. While it took up precious space in his house, Ford was grateful for it tonight, because it meant they could blast music as loud as they pleased without bothering anyone.
As the music carried on, they talked for hours on the couch about anything, everything, nothing. Hopes and dreams, the fears they took with them from childhood, hypotheses of the future combining everything they had talked about prior. It was magic, or as close to magic as it could be. Ford was losing track of where certain conversations picked up and left off.
“…And then my brother slapped me right up the head and told me to walk back home by myself!” Fiddleford said, laughing.
The combination of a lack of filter and his mind playing a one-sided game of word association, Ford blurted out, “Y’know, I’ve got a twin brother.”
“You WHAT!?” said Fiddleford, flabbergasted. “How have I known you for this long and you never brought him up?”
“We haven’t talked in over ten years,” Ford responded curtly. “He got kicked out by my father after he ruined my chances of getting into West Coast Tech.”
Fiddleford’s face softened. “Oh, wow, I’m sorry about that.” He paused. “Well, if you ended up at West Coast Tech I would have never met you, and we wouldn’t be here now. I don’t think that’s much consolation, but the point I’m trying to make is that I’m glad that I know you, Ford.”
Ford looked at Fiddleford with slight relief. Always so accepting, Ford thought. At that point, it had completely slipped his mind to tell Fiddleford about Bill.
The bottle of whiskey had gotten to a dangerously low volume for two people. Ford couldn’t remember when the music had changed, but a slower ballad was filling the space as they talked.
“I dunno, Ford,” said Fiddleford. “I just feel so… so crazy. And lost right now.”
“Well,” Ford responded wryly. “How could you not feel crazy? We’re in the middle of nowhere-woods with a bunch of backwoods people who let us know they don’t want outsiders here by glaring. Or worse.” He paused. “The only difference between a researcher and a madman is that the former gets paid to be crazy.”
Fiddleford smiled sadly. “I reckon,” And if he planned to finish that sentence, it didn’t happen. He let the room fall silent after that. Ford got up and poured some more whiskey into his glass.
“The last time I visited Emma May,” Fiddleford continued on. “Things were not good between her and me by the time I left. And I don’t think it’s getting any better between us. I mean, I left her with a baby, Ford. A baby. She has every right to be upset with me, and I think the worst part of it all is that I don’t feel guilty for it.” Ford sat still, feelings churning in him. He didn’t know how to comfort Fiddleford. “I ran away and I didn’t care. But she’s practically all I have left and I don’t want to lose that. I can’t lose that.”
All he has left? Ford thought. If Emma May is all Fiddleford has left, then what does that make me to him? He couldn’t figure out why he had thought that. “Why don’t you go back to her then?” Ford said, feeling slightly hurt.
“She doesn’t want me back, Ford,” He said quietly, his words biting.
“Well, why not?”
He then turned to look at Ford, pleading, but didn’t say anything in response. Ford, whether it was not knowing how to handle the silence, Fiddleford’s stare, or a combination of the two, looked into his glass and said, “Well, whenever I don’t know what to do or choose, I just pick something and see where it takes me. If it was a mistake, I would write it down to warn myself next time. If it’s a success, then I know which direction I should go next.”
Fiddleford broke his gaze and frowned into his lap for a moment. Then, almost possessed, he stood up and walked over to his turntable. After flipping through his records for a minute or two, he pulled out a slightly tattered 45 sleeve and gingerly placed it on the player. When the needle hit the record, a beautifully melancholic country tune played.
Fiddleford turned around to Ford again. “I first heard this song on the radio durin’ a summer break in college,” Fiddleford slurred, his accent getting thicker. “My momma always loved it, so I bought her the record for her birthday. I ended up buyin’ one for myself when I graduated, ‘cause it’s a damn good song.” He clumsily grabbed the nearly empty bottle of whiskey and took a swig. He then stumbled back and sat on the left side of the couch.
Ford’s side of the couch.
Ford looked over at Fiddleford and saw through the dizziness that maybe he had even more to drink than himself. Attempting to match Fiddleford’s intake, Ford grabbed the bottle from Fiddleford and finished it. They didn’t speak after that, only the sound of the beautiful country song filled the space. As the music swelled into the chorus, Ford felt Fiddleford slump into him. His head, feeling heavy, lightly fell on top of Fiddleford’s head. Then Fiddleford turned into him and wrapped his arms around him. Long after the song was over, they sat like that for a while. The crackling noises of the finished record filled the room as a comforting white noise.
Ford hadn’t felt this before. He knew what being wanted felt like. Being wanted felt good; but he felt wanted by his muse. So why did this feel better than talking with Bill? What Ford failed to realize was that he was experiencing unconditional love for the first time in his life. Fiddleford didn’t care what family life Ford came from, because he knew what crazy families were like. They could talk to each other about the craziest hypotheses and wax poetic about science with no one there to judge how ridiculous either one of them sounded. They could stay in Gravity Falls and become legends of the forest too: Have you heard about the two hermits that live on the edge of town in the middle of the woods? Legend has it they came here to study the alleged supernatural of this town and became part of supernatural superstition themselves.
That night, Ford understood Fiddleford’s every fervent desire to find a solution to everything.
He felt Fiddleford’s breathing get more regular, and realized that he had fallen asleep. Ford readjusted him to be in a resting position on the couch, put a pillow underneath his head, and a blanket over him. He walked to the turntable to take the needle off of the record, and stumbled to his room. He didn’t bother changing clothes, but despite wearing a regular dress shirt and slacks, it was the best night of sleep Ford had gotten in years.
———————————
Fiddleford Mcgucket woke up with an earth-shattering headache, and even worse, a perfect memory of what happened the night prior. The strangest, and perhaps most ironic side effect of the memory gun was the trade-off the user got in terms of memory. For most people, when they drink to the point of “blacking out” they have spotty memories of the events that happened while inebriated. However, if you used the memory gun enough, you lost the ability to black-out when drinking. Regardless of memory capacity, Fiddleford was panicking. He didn’t want to know the repercussions of last night and what that could mean for him and Ford. Maybe he could brush it off like it was nothing. Hey! Sorry about leaning on you, that’s what friends do sometimes! Wrapping my arms around you? Well I used to do it all the time whenever I snuck a little taste of liquor with my friends in high school, you definitely don’t have to take it as anything more than that. Unless you want to because if you did I wouldn’t mind that at all and I reckon if we did that we could never go outside again but that wouldn’t change much about our situation now anyway and
He was thinking about using the memory gun to take the edge off, when Ford walked into the room. “I made a pot of coffee and there are eggs in the fridge. Are you ready to get to work?”
There was zero recognition or acknowledgment of the night prior.
“Oh, for sure,” Fiddleford replied. “Last night was pretty wild, huh?”
“Too wild for my liking,” Ford responded curtly. “ I don’t remember anything at all, so I apologize for anything I might have said or done.”
Nothing?
“Oh, that’s no problem at all,” he responded. “We can let bygones be bygones. I’ll head to the kitchen to make some eggs and we can get back to work.”
This was good, right? If Ford didn’t remember anything, then things didn’t have to be weird between the two of them. Maybe he would keep this memory for himself. Fiddleford was anxious enough as it was. He planned to express to Ford his worries about the success of this experiment later tonight. He secretly hoped Ford remembered anything last night. He futilely wished it would take them out of this crazy cycle of reckless research. But the world doesn’t work the same way as a memory gun. To avoid all the problems present in their lives without solutions beyond ignoring or denial of the situation would never fix anything, in fact, it would only make things worse. But Fiddleford never trusted his gut, and hoped that Ford knew what he was doing.