Archive of Our Own

Fiddleford’s breath came back to him, shattered and frail. His pupils unfocussed, falling on anything and everything without taking notice of minor details. There were stars in his head, and they were still spinning him, as if there was no gravity. The back of him laid flat over the sheets. Limbs still shaky and feeble, he doubted he could move, but he realized he couldn’t care less. Loose after years of building up stiffness.

Yup… That’d take the edge off for sure. He couldn’t remember what he’d been thinking about.

The last few minutes were a blur in his mind, as nestled in his palms, the machine of his own design purred softly as it powered down.

He hadn’t been too subtle with the design. It wasn’t leaving much to the imagination. It was large, and agressive in most of its aspect which was one of the first reason it had been so daunting to put it to the test. The low hum of its ignition sounding like a veiled threat. In itself, Fiddleford had felt nervous to pressing it anywhere near his anatomy, but if it did have bite, the results were brilliant.

He felt the soft tingle of his nerves, the weight of… Something lifted off of him. Numb, and weirdly euphoric about it.

If he had let himself, he would have fallen asleep right there, into, what would probably be a dreamless state – he liked his nights dreamless, they were less excruciating to wake up to when he wasn’t sidelining himself. However, there was still work to do before he could succumb to the siren song of bedding down, and it wasn’t half as easy.

If it didn’t take all his energy, he needed at the very least a tall glass of water.

Getting up was making him a little quizzy, but it was not as daunting as he thought it would. His head was still light, but his legs had a steadier grip on the world than he imagined they would. He stripped himself to the barest essentials, and grabbed one of his freshest tops to wiggle into. Noticing, they would need to perfect their laundry routine – he was almost completely out of anything decent. When came time to open the methodically closed door to his room, he froze a little. Now that clarity was pulsing back through him, the thought of Stanford Pines came back to him like a wave crashing on the coast.

Guilt followed in another, more violent, breaking the hull of his serenity like a pack of twigs.

It was where Fidds had fucked up; Compared to the usual flatline at the outskirts of his room, he had not done as clean a job as he had hoped when it came to keeping low . Although he couldn’t tell a cow from a goat most days, Ford’s other senses were keen, and sharp. Fiddleford’s little aside hadn’t exactly been the most discreet affair, and Ford was a valiant – paranoid – soul…

A very keen rendition of Ford bursting into the room bruised his mind. Shame made a pit in his stomach. Did that make Fiddleford a freak to picture his friend letting his panic turn into enticement? To take pleasure in the slim, parallel dimension where for once he could open the dialogue and be proven right. For wanting to be caught, to subject himself willingly?

He clutched the device tighter in his hand. He had harbored many thoughts towards Ford, leading up to this. Contradicting ones, some more private than others. Tensions were steadily building up between them these past weeks; and it had only pushed Fiddleford to act against his friend’s wishes and with an insubordination he regretted.

He wouldn’t excuse himself for being… Creative, about biting the bullet on his anxiety. If Ford couldn’t present his excuses first, for expecting the world to run on his schedule, however scarring. Conflicts born of miscommunication only multiplied in silence, he was not naive enough to think he could deny it… But he felt vindictive about this.

However still and quiet the house, probabilities were Ford would still be up. Even in the dead of the night, his former roommate – although ‘former’ wouldn’t be accurate, they did live in the lab most of the week – was sometimes more awake than any other souls on Earth ought to be. Toiling away at calculations, ignoring the boundaries of his self-preservation, or journaling sneakily, eyeing Fiddleford expectantly to assure himself he’d be discovered. Fidds knew it was part of the game, which was why he cheekily allowed him secrecy, as long as he kept away from his own.

On the other hand, some things were too private to be folling around. Especially in this house of eyes.

Both held a great too many things secret. As to not compromise the little bubbles of kinship – and freedom, oh the taste of it – they found in each other… At the end of the day, they couldn’t allow resentment to settle. They did love each other… 

Fiddleford gathered his courage, smothering all pretense, and stepped out in the corridor like a shadow. The door creaked on its hinges, and Fidds resisted the need to curse at it, when it did. The house didn’t answer. The machinery snored. Further down the corridor, one of the monitoring room had its door ajar, sending dim lights to probe the darkness, but not enough to provoke its wrath. There was no Ford to be found.

Finally, he allowed himself to move. Convinced – at least up to 80% – that he wouldn’t be caught tonight, and so he went on sneaking.

It was a short trip from his bedroom-study to the washroom, that he could be grateful for. No need to toy with handles, or turn lights on. The door was ajar there too, and Fiddleford was slender enough to slip in without a fuss. Deciding quickly not to close it, as to not make more noise than necessary. A false sense of security built back up inside of him, as he made it, unscathed.

He sat his device down next to the basin, and after a quick pit stop, ran the water over his hands to wash them clean of filth. Faced with the mundane, his cheap fantasies fizzled. Gone with the soap water down the drain. His confidence had soared, only to come crashing gracelessly when his image in the mirror came back. Fiddleford had to strain against his mind not to flagellate himself with a shame he was trying to unlearn.

Most frustrating of all, he had been convincing himself with the same elements for weeks: It wouldn’t hurt anyone… What he had just done. Didn’t even hurt him, although he was the one deliberately arming it against him. It was inconsequential. A little speck of dust no one would ever have to discover in an ocean of passable to great accomplishments to come.

Emma-May wouldn’t learn of its existence, ever. She was miles down south, and in lieu of the feelings she harbored for his homewrecker of a best friend, not going to make the trip… As for the homewrecker in question, Fiddleford was pained at the truth, but Ford had little care for anything else but the grandiose little project he had mapped out for them.

Being discovered felt dull in comparison of the more elaborate stories he kept for the sheets. They’d been in college together, for Christ’s sake! Still left to the whims of hormones, newfound freedom and a brain still reckoning with consequences. Their cot was not separated back then, and God only knew, they had grown much too comfortable over their four years there…

Now if there were ever to find a truth serum or build a thought-scanner… There, Fidds could worry. Which… Was mathematically feasible… For the scanner, at least… Although, Fiddleford couldn’t see a future where they needed one.

On that day, though, he would be royally screwed. Laid bare like that with nothing to hide, was a prospect way more jarring than being caught touching himself where he could still account for cheap excuses of missing home.

Thoughts mixed again, coagulating into one impish vision that wouldn’t be humbled down. Strapped to a rudimentary machine, translating ineffable fantasies to his unsuspecting recipient. Willingly subjecting himself to the vivisection, putting on a show of running his hands. If it would please Ford he would never have had to touch if he wasn’t okay with that, he would let himself ache and reel over this absence. If he only accompanied him…

Realizing how much of a freak he was, he splashed cold water over his face.

That much might have been clear to the love shop employee. He’d driven, one city over, just to be sure no one would recognize him. Oh, she’d been lovely, that gal, making sure to explain exactly how to take care of a toy, guiding him through the choices of bottle. She’d kept her judgment to herself, especially after he half confessed to making the device, not managing to put to words the exact nature or purpose. She had repeatedly attempted to clear doubt, asking repeatedly if he was sure about buying the cleaner alongside the lube, and each time, Fiddleford felt closer to the grave by a year as he assured he did need both .

He’d left with a paper bag scrunched up inside his trembling fist, red as a ripe tomato. However voyeuristic his fantasies, exposure like that remained unwanted. Cussing at a non-the-wiser Ford, again, for making him reconsider where to hide the Memory Gun, he'd climbed back in the car. Committed both her face and instructions to mind, and made the drive back home trying not to overexert himself in distraction.

He had shelved the cleaner agent in a place Ford knew not to search: His side of the cabinet. Finding a towel to wet alongside it, before getting to work.

Handling the toy again, a small part of him remained intimidated at just what his brain and body had deemed necessary in their worst times of craving. It was heavy in his hands, and still warm from his timely use. The area he wanted explored wasn’t exactly the most accessible, and he lacked in both practice and prep, but with a miracle he could explain – but wouldn’t – he had managed not to make it too loud. Aspect of the toy he had nullified upon the sudden, loud, explicit whine that escaped him. Even in the dark, he could notice the bite mark on his forearm from trying to muffle his panting… 

Oh he could not be standing here with impunity. He had to figure out a way of not having to leave his room when it came to care for it. Maybe if he came with a good enough excuse for it, he could convince Ford to install a water inlet in the bedrooms. Else he’d have to organize better, and take the washing of it into account too. There was no way he was just, shoving it away under his bed and never using it again.

The light to the corridor switched on, projecting a very familiar shadow on the bathroom floor.

Fiddleford glared forward, petrified at the prospect of moving. His thoughts had been so loud they had tricked him. His own face stared at him in the mirror, shedding light on him, and he could see his features turn a deep crimson. It was not as pretty as they made out to be in the books, he looked ridiculously guilty.

“Everything okay?” Ford asked, somewhere on his left where Fiddleford absolutely refused to look. Sleep still bewitched his voice into a low growl, that Fidds took ample notice of despite the severity of the situation.

Thoughts and prayers. He had no other solutions for the depths of awkwardness he was poured in. His mind was an anthill of conflicting madness, bruising each other in a great all-sweeping hurricane. He stood idly in the middle of the storm, a blessing and a curse that his body wouldn’t move, as his brain was screaming at him to throw the toy, make it disappear.

Through the self loathing, he thanked himself for not thinking to turn on the light. A silver lining that would guide his next steps very carefully. Ford was still sleepy, and blind as a bat on a good day. If he kept still, if he showed that nothing was wrong externally, he would let go, and move on.

“Yep.” He heard himself utter, without permission, an octave too high for his usual pitch. In his chest his heart was pounding like a war machine. He could feel the pumps of blood leaving his brain to focus on it, adrenaline sweatily dumbing him down into incompetence. “You?”

Ford appeared as baffled as Fiddleford must have. The stream of his consciousness bursting open like a dam, forming a very painful gurgling scream that was relayed to background noise. Fiddleford hated every moment he was spending suspended to his incompetence, and the realization he would need to use the gun on his best friend was not alleviating it for shit.

Compelled to stay by the question – because of course he would, McGucket, how dumb are you to give him the occasion to linger – the burly form of Ford shifted from foot to foot a bit. After the disaster of his last words, Fiddleford wasn’t too convinced he could come up with something compelling enough to make him leave. He tried to relax his shoulders a little, and extend a look his way, and a reassuring smile for good measure. Hoping his southern charms would finally earn their reputation.

He couldn’t see Ford’s traits exactly in the backlight, but he could see the effort he was trying to put into manifesting another question to life. Taking a careful precision to arrange them around.

“I thought I heard you… Struggle… ”

This whole conversation was the preventive nails in his coffins. Fiddleford muffled the many thoughts that decided to plague his mind at the moment. The horrifying realization of just how loud he probably had been. The subtler certainty that if he ever was to struggle one day, the labyrinth they called a lab would not guarantee his quick rescue. The ironic quip at his response time – he was the protagonist between them…

“I am all good, Ford.” He tried to dispel, the irritation he directed at himself making his persuasion skill poor. “I assure you, there is no cause for concern.”

That should have sufficed, but as luck would have it, there wasn’t a word he could stay that could convince Ford to move away from the door. An intrusive thought flashed Fiddleford. Something about how carefully he had chosen his words. Heard him “struggle”, he had said… Maybe he knew exactly what he had been doing. Maybe this manifested interest was an awkward attempt to showcase his own. Maybe Ford had taken so long to answer because it hadn’t left him that indifferent.

He couldn’t check, though. He wouldn’t allow himself to daydream about reciprocity. To try and identify in the dark if he had changed clothes, or if his pants sat more uncomfortably. His mind was poisoned with these impurities, but he couldn’t imagine someone so devoted to his work could ever entertain such gruesome thoughts. He had a picture of Nikola Tesla on his desk, if it wasn’t the picture of an uninterested eternal bachelor…

But Ford was staying, and it was maddening, because the more he did, the less logical he felt about it.

“... What’s in your hand?” Stanford interrupted him.

Oh no, he was supposed to be blind… Fiddleford’s train of thoughts went berserk before properly flat lining. He had done his very best to appear composed and at what cost? Mister Oblivious, unable to see his longest lasting friend fawning over him for nearly ten years, finally blessed with the gift of sight when he had no necessity for it.

In the end, Fiddleford knew he only had himself to blame. If he had known to act right, just once, he probably wouldn’t have made himself so suspicious about something that was just supposed to be natural . Had he left it aside, and casually pushed the towel over it, all would have proceeded without issue. Instead, he had the survival reflex of a deer into headlights.

He had kept the blueprints close to hand, as long as he could. Salvaging materials left from the portal’s construction to work on his side project, time during which he didn't suffer through as much as a close call. But now that he actually tested it, to be submitted like this? Not only would Ford find he had betrayed his trust, something in Fiddleford knew this wasn't only that. He was making an obstacle – enemy? – out of him, and for what? A quick way out? A cheap trick to make his nerves straight?

When he would learn, he would be so disappointed.

He finally answered to his body, snapping the toy down, a little too aggressively maybe. Ford stopped in his tracks, visibly surprised, but Fiddleford had turned all his attention to him, and with the determination of a dead man, he steeled his resolve.

“I listened to you…” A preamble that was definitely not appropriate for the next few sentences he was going to punch out of himself. Even less when he considered that in fact, Ford, or the lack of him, had been at the forefront of his mind from conception to trial. “I think… More like thought , cuz boy, my blood pressure- I thought about something to keep my mind away from the bad stuff… And I got more creative than I ought to.”

Intrigue mixed with a note of apprehension on Ford’s face.

“It doesn’t look gun shaped.” He answered.

Fiddleford blinked. Had he not have the habit of making lethal contraptions, he might have thought this was the least appropriate way to answer.

He lacked the temerity to make a joke, but not the mental space to think of one. He reckoned it was a step in the right direction. If it could distract him from the pinch in his chest at the mention of the gun.

“Cuz it ain’t a gun, that’s why.” Fiddleford offered, as a truce. He was not going to make a movement to reveal the exact nature of his work, but he hoped his next words would make it final. “Remember that doctor that thought you could treat hysterics by pleasuring his patients. The one we had to study in psychology?”

“Yeah… These psychiatrists are all weirdly obsessed, it’s disgusting how it was their first natural response…” Ford answered, grazing away from the point he had tried to make, characteristically. Fiddleford knew him better than the back of his hand. He patiently waited until Ford connected, gently guiding him along with a nod. “ Oh… ”

He expected him to run away, from both conversation and scene, as they both would have in college. The library had been a good alternative to their room, when they’d catch the other in the wrong place at the wrong time. Instead, he stood, so idly by, Fiddleford had no clue what to do anymore.

“I cross-referenced it, you know…” He tried to explain, as if involving science into it would make the situation more bearable. “It has its benefits… Maybe not… Maybe not the intended benefits, but… Well if I didn’t try I wouldn’t know.”

“Fascinating…” Ford commented. He took a step forward, curiosity overtaking shyness, and Fiddleford thought he was about to fall dead on the spot, and descend straight to Hell. Ford’s glasses were opaque in the dark light, so much he couldn’t read his expression exactly, but there was no way he could go on pretending to be a good christian man once he saw it for himself. “And unorthodox… I didn’t think you had it in you, Specs.”

On his left side, his eyelid twitched and his stomach churned. It would have tipped him over the edge, but only hearing it made Fiddleford’s coyness vanish in a sputter.

“Beg your pardon?” He almost heard his voice break, not hiding his disgust. 

“Did you think about me while you did it?” Ford’s façade cracked, with an impish smile that was so uncharacteristic. His fingers grazed the instrument and it felt like a provocation, when he leaned into him. Dangerously close, so conscient of his own allure.

He spotted it before he could take the moment to be convinced.

Fiddleford snapped: “No Bill I didn’t…”

Bill stopped his progression, tilting Ford’s head up to him, the lens of his glasses clearing up to reveal his eyes fully. The slit of his pupils glinted through it, razor sharp like the edge of a knife. In the dark, the white of Ford’s eye took a dizzying tint, making them glow, like an animal, ink revealed under black light. The only sight of him felt like an insult, but that he tried to make himself in Ford’s image to trick him…

The possession of Ford by this… Creature – Ford refused him the use of ‘Monster’, and he abided by it, by respect – had never sat right with Fiddleford. He had tried to keep his mind open about the prospect, but he had been raised to believe some things should be exorcized before there was no turning back.

Thankfully for him, the distrust was mutual. With him, Bill abandoned all pretense of charms and seductions. The same tactic that had brought Ford to his knees so quickly. Fiddleford always felt that if he had only been there before he took the deal, he could have made Ford see the danger he was putting himself in, but with a good enough medicine, he could still push the parasite off. Unfortunately, for him, he was making his own deals, trying to keep away his own demons… Hurting his own people.

“How disappointing…” Bill purred, dropping the mimicry. His chirpy voice in Ford’s mouth… Fiddleford discovered in himself the ruthlessness he would need to bury a body. “What about dear Fordsy then? I see how he’s on your mind… Is that why you were making such pretty noises for him?”

The revulsion he felt when the words came out of Bill was a jarring insult. Suddenly, there was nothing beautifully forbidden about the idea of loving him as he did. It was all just a sin again. Something that could never be adventurous, or heartfelt, only lustful, and a hollow fulfillment. Only a shortcut, and Ford would not suffer for them. It was cheating.

He wanted to scream at the entity to go fuck itself, but he understood quickly he would just be playing into its hand. But so was standing there, defiled and diminished, fumbling over his words, until he couldn’t deny anymore he was caught red-handed.

“You were not exactly too subtle about it either…”

No he’d need to be clever, and revolting about it.

“Because you are?” He heard himself half laugh. “You were tempted, Cipher… Or else you wouldn’t be here.”

Bill’s eyes doubled in size, as if it had ever been possible before. They looked like saucers. 

“Figures…” Fiddleford continued, way too proud of himself to make it obvious. “An all seeing being like you, stuck into a human’s perception… Sounds without image. Still voyeuristic, but there’s a mystery to it… You can let your great old imagination make sense of the rest.”

“Stop that.” Bill spoke, a plain threat, but his voice wasn’t as smoothly menacing as he had hoped. When it echoed, he only sounded more hollow.

“I won’t tell Ford anything, Bill, don’t look at me like that!” He continued to smile, wondering internally where he found the strength to talk back. Something of his college days, shoving coded handkerchiefs down his jean pockets. A resurgence of boldness. This whole situation felt rather juvenile all in all. Now he could take back exactly what was his, and make his exit, even though Bill was left stifled, it was a problem he would have to deal with on his own, like an adult, trillion year old entity. “And if it’s really a bother… You could always make an argument to Ford, about isolating the walls a little more… I am sure he’ll take your comfort into account.”

He retreated to his room, feeling Bill’s eyes on him at angles that were only feasible through quantum mechanics. He had half expected the demon to throw itself at him, and try to wrestle him to the ground, but he managed to make it to his side of the door, relatively unscathed.

He locked it tightly behind him, and jumped on the bed, still hugging his newest invention, waiting for the whiplash that refused to come. The adrenaline of killing that parasite only with the might of his human wits was enticing, making blood pump everywhere with the loud roars of triumph.

If it fucked with Bill so much, he wasn’t half glad he had a very interesting ball in his court.

Something drastic had happened during the night, Ford gathered, it was not much of a stretch, his room was covered in the unsavory evidence of it.

It looked like a tempest had been localized exactly where he was. Papers, more than he had physically bought – that he was sure of it – were strewn about… Mostly everywhere. Covering every inch of living space with very crude drawings of his assistant – easy to recognize the caricatures Bill made of Fidds, for the way his nose was drawn, and also the lovely crosses shadowing his eyes.

This time wouldn’t have been much different than the others, if almost all the pictures didn’t depict Fidds in the most… Gruesome way. Which, in the cartoony, almost childlike style of Bill appeared more grotesque than disturbing.

Something that was relatively new, and slightly more cause for concern, was the way some of them had been stabbed through with the red pen, leaving blotch marks, crinkles and stains on the floorboards.

Now, if Ford was not unfamiliar with Bill’s distaste for Fidds, he had never seen any display of this magnitude before. But it wasn’t his room that was concerning him so.

Ford had woken up from his short rest, feverish and drenched in sweats. His field of view narrowed by a yellow sticky-note slapped on his forehead, that read, in bold red letters “ Your henchman needs out ”. He could have been amused by it, but upon moving he found the pair of corduroy he had fallen asleep with were leaving him sore and uncomfortable. He was so surprised he stupidly looked down, only to confirm that some part of his body had been more active, and demanded immediate attention.

That was when the dream came back to him. He had been subjected to visions, even more graphic than the drawings, flashes of it punctuated his awkward run to the washroom, and subsequent locking himself inside it. If Bill was a pitiful artist, he could conjure images so vivid Ford had difficulties letting them air out.

Fiddleford took the leading role. Since the carnage Bill had left, it was not as surprising as it ought to. No, it was the position that he was in that left Ford clueless. Bound solidly to what he could only approximate to an altered dentist chair. Contorting against his bounds, and whimpering. But not so helpless that he wasn’t bratty. In his dream, he was running his mouth, with a wiry smile that didn’t disappear even as Bill subjected him to a quasi vivisection no human should survive.

It was a dream that was drenched in blood and exposed skin, but through it all, the victim appeared… Almost satisfied with the job that was being done to him. Face flushed, and expressions almost choreographed, Fidds attention was at its paroxysm. The moans he made, the way his head bobbed back, his skin lurched at every touch, marked easily where the leather held him. All the while, Bill’s tool to dispose of him as he so pleased were these broad six fingered hands, tracing the rosy flesh under it, infiltrating the deep cuts, fingering through his organs.

He ran the shower as hot as he humanely could suffer it, engaged in a battle with the clothes he tried to flail off himself. Even as he had exited the dream, his muse had left him with a taste of this madness. His throbbing erection was demanding his attention more than ever, as he pieced the otherwise disturbingly graphic version of events.

This was not the only lurid visions he could conjure back up from the dreamscape, there were others, that he couldn’t fault Bill for exactly. The dream’s direction, although explicitly lustful to his human interpretation, had shifted as dreams often did. Fidds was still starring, Ford wouldn’t have it any other way. But now constraint free, he was overpowering the amalgamation of Bill and him. Ford remembered explicitly, without knowing why, that Bill was not puppeteering him anymore. Leaving him much more cognisant of every little touches and twitches that were about to befell him. His muse was somewhere else, although he wasn’t sure exactly where, keeping eyes on the dream's direction, probably disappointed of the explicit direction.

He remembered how he wished to know exactly what was happening to him, but he couldn’t look away from Fidds face. Ensnared by the warm hazel of eyes, who in reality were always so gentle, now burning intensely with all the undisclosed desire directed at him, and at him only. He overshadowed the stars beyond his head.

It was the promises Fidds would make in his ear that made Ford succumb. The low twang of his voice, luring him away before preparing to pounce. All the secrets he had for him, the confessions, the praises. Ford was so used to being the one adoring, he had never imagined anyone else outside of Bill could make him feel venerated.

Getting in the shower, Ford almost lost his balance, sending his forearm into the wall. It took only the outline of a touch for his hips to buck inside his palm. The lifelike quality of the dream had made him incredibly sensitive and he had to catch himself from moaning disgracefully into the water. He tried to contain the bubbling fire under his skin, took a deep breath and gripped his erection to breach the gap. It had made it worse, somehow, finding himself dripping down, the sensation too exquisite to retain, and the rest must have been muscle memory, as the imprints of Fiddleford moving inside of him came back hauntingly.

His ordeal was surprisingly quick, but it did not leave Ford with a greater clarity over exactly what had happened to warrant such a visceral turn of event. Panting, and on his knees, he let the water run down his back, burning between his shoulder blades, making a great effort to gather his thoughts together enough to form an hypothesis. When the fleeting memories of last night’s… How would he even define it? Madness. When the last of the madness twirled away down the drain, only did he allow himself to actually begin the process of washing, still feeling thoroughly unclean from the transpiring event.

Clearly, something must have happened to Bill that could be traced back to Fidds. Generally, their little disputes, where he was rarely able to mediate, given the nature of being mostly out cold when Bill visited, seemed catty at best. Each had an obvious distrust of the other, and accused him of having ulterior motives whilst Ford chose the more lenient route of ignoring both their concerns. Just so they could get things done that weren't fighting.

Ford had known they would meet sometimes, but it didn’t leave him incredibly confident in their ability to not tear each other’s throat up. When your best friend’s first solution to fear was a radioactive gun, who knew what solution he could envision to keep Bill from ruining the few hours they shared at dusk. On a particular morning, a month or so ago, he had awoken to bruises, and a bite mark on his arm, moments before Fiddleford had ran up to him, with a black eye and skewed glasses, to assure him, despite his horror that: “ He [Bill] started it.”

There hadn’t been any murder attempts just yet. Which… Shouldn’t have been encouraging, it was only survivor bias.

Generally though, he never got to learn it from Fidds’ mouth first, as Bill was quick to make their sticky note budget implode, by the sheer amount of paper he would use to decry the situations. Ford would gather the evidence, and find Fidds to talk about his version of events. Depending on who appeared the most reasonable, he would change his side back and forth between them, trying to convince one to lay off the other. He would be met with the same outcry, or eye roll, as they each half-heartedly agreed to it with a different iteration of the sentence: “Fine… But– ”.

He recognized it was not ideal, but he had no other way of treating things from an outside perspective. For that, they would have needed to be able to be, the three of them, in the same room at the same time, and Fidds, who had done his best despite his undiagnosed – and dreadfully untreated – anxiety disorder, couldn’t get into a clean enough state of mind to make it with them to the astral plane.

At least, Ford could convince Bill that he tried, and keep to himself that he was kind of relieved he didn’t, seeing all the drawings.

It wasn’t only that, though…

From the day he had welcomed Fidds along on the project he had remained somewhat anxious… About opening his doors to another bright scientist on the playfield of a muse. Someone, which, from their own admission, would only inspire one upcoming scientist per century. For the first few weeks, Bill had been nerve-wrackingly absent, and Fiddleford’s bright demeanor and almost immediate acclimation to Gravity Falls had thrown some doubts on Ford’s part.

His faith had been revitalized as soon as Bill reappeared, in one of his dreams, and his sweet façade at the presence of Fiddleford fizzled and died to reveal just how… Insecure? Was it the term?

Ford sneakered. He knew not to humanize him too much, he was an all powerful being of knowledge and his view of the world wasn’t as narrow as theirs. Yet…

Suffice to say, Bill looked downright jealous at the amount of attention Ford would spare his lab partner, and the easiness with which they fell into domesticity. There were not many excuses Ford could make, but they had been operating together for a long time, and knew each other’s pattern, and weirdness to a fault, but having to defend his friendship to Bill gave him weird butterflies. He had never felt anything like this possessiveness before, and he was flattered and awestruck in equal amounts.

He doubted it was exactly jealousy on Fiddleford’s part… As easygoing and enthusiastic his memories of him were, he was more rigorous than the doofus stoner he had known in college. He had settled back into the good christian model of a nuclear family, but, as graying temples couldn’t age his youthful face, neither could he pretend too long to be studious and poised. To Ford, it was his renewed vows with the religious part of himself, and the paranoia and superstitions it brought forth, that warranted the full-faced annoyance at the simple mention of Bill.

Only suppositions. He was not there to monitor exactly all they could do… When he relinquished control to Bill, his nights were not easily pieced back together.

Ford cut the water, and waited a few more minutes before dragging his body out of the shower. The fogginess in his head had overtaken the bathroom by then, he wrapped himself in the plushest towel and stayed like an idiot, absolutely puzzled as to what to do next.

For a time, he side-eyed the mirror, not daring to go take a look inside of it, but a weird churning in his guts pushed him to investigate. An horrifying doubt paralyzed his mind now: Bill wasn’t quite human, and that if he directed his vessel into a fight without his consent, leaving him bruised, he wasn’t exactly sure what he could do when pleasure was the reward instead of pain.

Not that he thought Fiddleford would let him, exactly… He had shared a space long enough to figure out the queerness in his roommate, and it seemed that even though he seemed reasonably happy with Emma-May’s love – Ford had his reservations – he had always been opened to enjoying all spectrum of people. If that qualified for arrangement beyond their wedded vows who was he to judge?

Ford gulped. He felt a sudden aftertaste of guilt making assumptions over Fiddleford’s faithfulness over a wet dream he had nothing to do with… After what he had just done, with his name on his mouth, whispered to the water when he climaxed…

Libido and Ford made three. He could count on his fingers how many times he felt himself in the colloquial “mood” on any given year without ever moving past his first hand. Even less now that his college years had passed, and the wild bite of youth left with it, as there no longer was a very attractive man he befriended sleeping feet away from his cot. He had not much interest in deviating from his study to satisfy a passing urge, and he figured that, liking men exclusively would not facilitate means if he ever was plagued enough to consider experiencing someone else.

A fact he would rather keep from Fiddleford, but that was surely already knowledge to Bill. Though the latter was of divine essence, and had never before seemed to give any interest to carnal pleasures, and the former a sweetheart with whom he remembered having plotzed discussion over the topic of asexuality… He felt uncomfortable disclosing anything of the sort now that the man was married, and it probably had to do with the fact that, in his twisted mind, he would never trust anyone more than Fidds to run his hypothesis by.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find in the mirror, but he built the courage to go inspect for himself, and was somewhat both part relieved and disappointed. No telltale signs of… Intercourse… Were to be found. Not a hickey, not a scratch mark, not a peculiar ruffle to the hair that could be attributed to two people fooling around with him whilst unconscious. He swallowed, hard, not envisioning clearly how he would have reacted to finding out his body had been violated like that… Unbeknownst to him. Robbing him of his first time by a technicality.

He was considering checking himself in a funhouse over the disappointed part. His phalanxes whitened against the sink, he was holding it so hard he hardly imagined what would break first. Porcelain or bones.

Why was there a part of him that couldn’t contain itself at the idea of the two most important men in his life breaking his trust for their own entertainment? He couldn’t imagine it was a popular fetish, it felt almost deranged to imagine anyone relishing about the idea of being a helpless doll, used and defiled without being conscious of it? Surrendering trust and judgment, to what end? A pleasure he couldn’t benefit from? What exactly had damaged his brain such, and which chemical could he blame for it?

Everytime the thought that Fiddleford was a married man bubbled back to the surface of his thought, he felt like vomiting. It did, coming back to him in waves, steadily smoothing his brain down to a pebble. Held as both deterrent and reminder, that whatever this monstrosity of a morning it was, it had to remain snuffed away in the astral realm.

Although it was a mystery he wanted to keep as far away from him as humanly possible, the compulsion to elucidate it gnawed at Ford’s consciousness. If he could be given context, he was sure he could rationalize it. Or maybe even better prepare for it, in case circumstances such as those were to manifest back…

He had probably been the one eroticizing Bill’s dream, first off, maybe that was another uncomfortable discovery about himself he had to put on the back burner until he knew what to properly do of it. Ford repeated under his breath, Bill could not be humanized, but the mindless repeating didn’t rewire anything in his brain. He didn’t have the same codes as they did. If Ford’s body had answered on his own note, he couldn’t make it about Bill, or about Fiddleford for that matter… The blame was on him.

That was when his eyes focussed on the strange bottle of lotion he had never seen before, that had appeared next to his hand. Trying to distract himself and anchor his thoughts, Ford felt compelled to grab it and examine it.

The door unlocked before his eyes had time to focus.

“ Whoops! ” He heard Fiddleford excuse himself, seeing the door closing back at the realization. Ford almost dropped the clear plastic bottle, surprised and nervous of being caught. “Sorry, I thought you were done!”

“Oh no, don’t be!” He heard himself sputter, looking around for the change of clothes he was certain he must have taken, coming back horribly empty handed. He readjusted the towel around him, trying not to look frazzled as he gathered his clothes back up to throw them into the nearest laundry basket. Overflowing, he noted, they really need to have a better schedule for laundry. “I thought the door was locked!”

“About that…” He heard Fidds joke, still politely standing on the other side. “We ought to find a better solution for that mantis of yours…”

It took a second to click, but when Ford made the connection, relief washed over him.

“You can come in by the way!” He called to his very respectful, goodhearted, christian friend, who was definitely not responsible for whatever mess he found himself in. “I am not in the nude, although I don’t think I brought a change of clothes…”

“How come?” Fiddleford joked, pushing the door ajar, before entering fully. Taking a hard step back and flailing. “My G- It’s a Sauna in here. Are you trying to turn yourself into a prune?”

“I er... No...?" He tried, tentatively, to Fidds incredulously suspicious look. "I got distracted in the shower... Got my calculations wrong.”

“Welp…” He seemed to decide, after a considerate amount of silence. “Don't do them in here! Or I might just have to come in to triple check em, and it might get messy.”

Ford spared a look his way, if only to make sure his friend wasn’t possibly making innuendos at him in light of his current predicament. But with his glasses off, he could hardly make out anything other than the outline of his devilish smile. Fiddleford was the one composed enough not to make a fuss about him being topless, a normalcy Ford craved .

He pointed with his index at the overflowing basket.

“Laundry's full…”

Fidds sight rolled from one spot to the other, and as it was a reasonable option, he continued onwards. Humming to himself.

“We really ought to straighten our schedule.”

“Yeah… I was…” Ford’s voice died before he finished the job.

Standing there, helpless, felt forbidden. Like he was catching glimpses of Fidds he couldn’t envision but he should have known existed. He made light of how much more organized Fidds was, by the fresh change of clothes hanging from the fold of his arm. Watching him disposing of it strategically close enough to the shower to quickly reach, but not too close to wet them. 

His position however, was a stranger sight than most. His unoccupied hand was carefully held up, his fingers forming a perch, it looked as if he was dancing a waltz with an invisible partner. Ford stayed longer, squinting at a vivid green blotch of something perched atop his hand, that he struggled to identify.

Noticing him squinting like a blind mouse – and also not having moved an inch from the spot he had been caught in, near the laundry. Fidds mouthed the word “mantis”, and Ford stumbled over his own ‘Oh, right’, as Fiddleford turned to the sink, grabbing the clear glass where their toothbrush were usually, and getting to work.

“We probably should forget about the locks on her vivarium…” He incited, still too energetic for Ford’s enjoyment of the current situation. “Maybe a lid with a wider brim, that could be slid in and out of place like a puzzle piece…? No way she could be getting out of th-”

Something made him choke on his words, when his eyes focussed on the sink’s disposition. Fiddleford’s whole body looked to suddenly tense up. So much so that Ford stopped moving too, in surprise, if anyone else would have blinked at that moment, or not known Fiddleford, they would have missed it though. Seconds’ later, he was back, turning around with a big exaggerated smile jarringly fake.

“So what do you think?”

Ford weighed his options. It was awkward enough, being forced into a conversation he felt would never by a mile benefit any of them, but if he waited any longer he knew his suspicions would only grow before making a monster out of what probably could be explained away in a few sentences.

“... Did…” It took real courage to muster the force to go through with the planned question. Ford’s face exuded its own warmth from having to suppress the graphic superpositions his mind was still making. Turning their shared bathroom into a collage of obscenities and doubts. “Did anything happen with Bill yesterday?”

The silence from Fiddleford was tantalizing. Slowly, but surely, through the handicap of his eyesight, he could see his friend’s face turning into indescribable shades of vibrant red from the tip of an ear to another. Standing, very uncomfortably upright, bracing himself for something Ford couldn’t grapple with only added insult to injury. Ford’s mind ran wild with suspicions, possibilities adding on to each other hungrily. Now more than ever, he had to know.

“Why are you asking?” Fidds finally broke, defensively crossing his arms up, in a way that could have been interpreted as wrath more than bashfulness.

Ford’s beating heart calmed down as the doomsday clock left the eleventh hour steadily. Trying to best explain without giving anything away about the apocalyptic state of mind his muse had graced them both with.

“He seemed to me more aggravated than usual…” He calmly answered, although calm would not be the exact word he took to describing himself at the moment. Nothing was calm about the way his memories were betraying him. Mixing and matching from what he had seen and what he couldn’t distinguish. He had pushed in Fidds eyes an intensity that ought not to be here. An intensity that would probably have him melt, had he encountered it half naked in his own bathroom.

The humid heat of the room working against them, he watched as Fiddleford removed his knit, trying to give himself an air of nonchalance Ford couldn’t call out, in case he accidentally revealed anything he wouldn’t wish to be acquainted with.

“Did he make any noise complaints?” Fidds bit back.

A sentence if there ever was one. Ford’s grip on reality seemed to loosen, as his mind went further down a rabbit hole of conclusions he had no business finding appealing.

Banjo . The word straightened him back into a semblance of human being. He probably had had enough of Bill’s teasing, and broken Ford’s rule, just to make him pay for it. Ford had already witnessed his wrathful vengeance with their next door neighbor in college, when he insisted on bringing ladies to his quarters on final week, and Fidds decided to put his threats to execution. Oh, why did everything turn into a form of copulation? Why did every memory had to trace back to salaciousness?

But it was not a “noise complaint”, Bill had made. It was an erratic sticky note, tens of drawings, and a custom made torture chair he had wired straight into Ford’s brain like a sugar drenched in pear liquor.

For a moment, he thought of bringing Fiddleford back to his room, just to showcase exactly how much complaints Bill had for him, but he wasn’t about to give his friend a panic attack this early in the morning, so instead he just let out a big sigh.

“Please… I am only trying to make light of things… Understand that when he’s angry, he can be kinda disturbing…”

“Damn right he is. I’ve been telling you that for a whole three months, but nooo …” Fiddleford gestured, now he was purely fuelled by a pettiness Ford couldn’t counter. He raised an accusatory finger, but dropped the menace, passing a hand in his hair. His free hand tapping a rhythm on the sink. “He thought he was being slick, and I shut him up, for once. ‘Didn’t even involve a punch. Now, I can see him throwing a tantrum, but to my knowledge, I left the room, and he was just mouth agape, like a carp…”

“You’re being awfully vague.” Ford remarked, it was just an observation, seeing how nervous he was. How pressed he was to have Ford on his side when he felt insulted by Bill’s action.

Without laying a finger on him he had touched a nerve.  

“And you aren’t?” Fiddleford flared, putting Ford in an awkward situation, building off of each other’s defensiveness didn’t look like a good idea. “You got my attention, Ford! What’d he do? What’s disturbing enough to make you confront me now? Naked as Adam in the garden…”

“Hey!” Ford halted there, gathering the towels closer with his other hand, gesturing him into silence. Which, seeing the frustrated movements on Fidds part, got the point across. Very respectful, very mindful, very married friend… Who respected his boundaries, even the unspoken ones. “This conversation is not over… I am just going to get dressed.”

“You do that, yeah.”

“Fine.”

“Fine!” Fidds almost shouted, accompanying him to the door, and closing it, although more delicately than the snapping in his voice could let on. 

Ford stood outside of it, awfully flushed, holding on by a string of his towel.

Welp…

This was a disaster.

This was worse than a disaster.

Bill never thought he would be standing on Specs’ side one day, even if the multiverse collapsed in on itself. But only the dumb stayed set in their course. Seeing as how the whole ordeal was unraveling, he envisioned little else than striking a deal with the hillbilly, and taking this to his grave.

Bill trusted very little in his ability to actually slip-up one day, and make a mistake. It just didn’t sound like him. Instead, he was always conveniently at the forefront of himself, exerting utmost control of everything he felt. So the mania he exhibited the prior night only could be leading to one culprit, and one only.

He had to admit, the more he bothered Specs — and the more the less-superior-Ford fought back — the more he understood the attachment that linked his pet to his pet.

Observing him, he was a demure, testosterone-led, rendition of a southern belle. Loyal to a fault, and all ready to eat from Pointdexter’s hands, wrapped around his fingers. He’d not been wrong… The lab partner had just unveiled a new part of him. One that would one day grab the control from Ford if he could. Which was a dangerous trait for someone else to have.

It took a bit for Bill to be shown that secret spark. So much he had doubted Fidds was anything more than a drab puppy-love. His character flat enough to project the seeds of Ford’s desire onto it. Bill was never wrong, he’d have called it. He just hadn’t expected the hillbilly to move from passive to aggressive in such a quick note.

Last night, Bill had came up with a tantalizing angle. He strode up to him with the confidence of the man who would make a deal, but Oregon was the new Georgia, and Fidds’ weapon was a banjo. He played him. Simply.

Bill had envisioned hurting him, but he had to admit that without his expertise, the portal would not hold. Nothing to do with the fact he liked having Ford around to play with, basking in the glory of the dimension he would soon call his, and that Specs was a part of Ford’s non-negotiables.

He should have slaughtered him when he had the chance. Made a sacrificial lamb out of the man before he became a problem.

It didn’t come to much of a surprise that if Ford liked Specs, he would come to like him in turn – Ford liked Bill, that accounted to his impeccable sense of taste.

He liked Fidds, yeah… Like one would like a bright coloured snail humans would pass on the street. Appreciating the little road they traveled together, a giant and a speck of dust. Stopping sometimes to admire its plain design, their lithe excuse for a shield, and the little satisfying crunch under his shoes as it gave out.

Surely, seeing Ford’s biology as he woke up, and the urgency, he’d missed the mark by a lightyear or two when it came to conveying this message.

And now that they seemed both, at the edge of their rope, Bill foresaw a future where he was done for. Ford would go back to his room, devising a plan, but it would fail at Specs’ impetuosity. He would demand to know until Ford caved. Surely then, will everybody have the wrong idea of the situation.

For now, Ford wasn’t yet moving. The two human puppets stood on each side of the wooden door, their respective hearts dancing away, unknowingly weakening the organ for future use, and reducing their life expectancy – he could definitely perceive a hair graying on Fidds’ scalp, that man had no business aging so quickly. They both considered their options, frantic, and hoping, and sappy, and tastefully ashamed of their exactions. Both took their resolve, and got back to their business, their self destructive decisions already taken.

He watched through the reflection in the mirror as Specs was drumming away his inadequacies on the counter. Speaking so fast under his breath that it didn’t sound like the queen’s english anymore, with that accent of him. The name of Christ involved too much to be traced back to piousness. When he realized he had left the cleaning solution, clearly labeled for its purpose on the sink he snatched it quickly. Damning himself, and putting it back in the shelf.

That was when Bill decided to strike. He thinned the barrier of reality, just enough to create a distortion but not so much that it would be easily noticeable to his poor victim. He bided his time, as Specs looked into the mirror for a split second, sensing something was off. He pulled his shirt off his shoulder, still oblivious, but the second the fabric hit the floor, he froze solid. Watching as the technicolor world he knew faded from view, sucked into the mirror staring back at him.

Bill’s plan could be just intimidating enough to work. Reasonably, he had no time for theatrics but was he really himself without them? He had a reputation. 

Bill mimicked him, as the reflection lost its shine, watching him investigate it, heart so high it was stuck in his throat. Any moment now, he would look into his own eyes, and see Bill there, in his place, but someone, this morning, was adventurous.

Fidds extended a hand, trying to make sense of the mirror, and Bill felt obliged to follow. When their fingers could touch, he clasped their hands together, yanking him closer.

“Heyah, Fidzie!” Bill introduced himself, watching Fiddleford decompose on his feet.

The strangled noise that came out of him, as he plummeted back, it rang a bell to Bill’s perfect memory. Made his source vibrate.

He could focus though, he knew just how to. He made the reflection lurch forward, freeing itself of the mirror with a chuckle, and the illusion toppled once he left its confide. Revealing himself as what he truly was. Specs jumped out of his skin, although not literally, but it did make for a pretty enticing image. He should do that, the day the portal to this plane was complete, and since he gave him such a lovely idea, he’d make sure to give Fidzie the courtesy of being the first. 

“How are you doing, partner?”

Fidds didn’t answer for a long time, the confusion on his face was a delight. The mouth that distorted into a grimace, the twitching of his lids. He didn’t look happy to see him in the least.

“I know this voice…” He blinked, putting two and two together, infuriatingly thorough. “You’re… You’re the divine being Ford has been talking about?”

Now it wasn’t a very mean thing to say, but it wasn’t said adoringly. Bill scrunched himself, disapprovingly.

“Let’s not be rude.”

“Of course you’d be a triangle…” Fiddleford’s palm covered his head, it stretched his features like they were rubber. Bill felt a chill. The third dimension really was something he couldn’t wait to experience on Earth’s gravity. When Specs pinched his nose he didn't take his glasses off, Ford did the same. “Who could compete…”

“Exactly. So stop trying.” Bill spoke plainly, but he could feel he was being sidetracked, and he had very little time to actually spare.

Somewhere a few rooms over, Ford was collecting the sketches Bill had thought clever to leave around as a warning. The scientist making his way through his closet – how absolutely ironic, given the circumstances – carefully emptying one of those fancy cardboard boxes filled with useless test results, to put them in the false bottom where no one would find them. Hurrying to restack the results over them to make sure nothing would be found. Some of the less “outrageous” kept around, probably to be as honest with Fidds as he could, the other would make the objects of a careful study late in the night before Bill could take over.

This was a mistake. All of this was. Trust humans to stick to their guns. 

“Anyways, ✨ bestie ✨.” Bill refocused, sing-songy, he slid up to Fiddleford and over-imposed his astral arm around his shoulder. Bewildered, Fiddleford was as uncomfortable and as scientific as he could manage after seeing his mouth do that. Collecting in the data, analyzing exactly what this alien “contact” brought of chemical reactions, trying and failing to look composed. “We’ll have time to talk about boys later… I came here about last night.”

“How did you make that sound?” Specs asked, pushing him away as soon as he satiated his curiosity. “How did I see that?”

“I can do most anything… I am a God-like entity. Don’t you listen to Sixer when he talks about me?”

“I try not to.” Fiddleford confessed in utter disinterest.

“Alright.” Bill declared, stretching his arms and cupping Specs face. Trying and failing not to boil over. This insolent carbon-made organism was getting on his nerves. He thought of exploding his head right then and there, but not being summoned exactly, he wouldn’t be able to do anything.

The brat, on the other hand, was the picture of provocative. His fists were trembling at his side, crumpling up the polyester of his top and his heartbeat was going miles over what a human body authorized. However tantalizing it seemed that he counted as a win every time he was irritating enough to warrant a slip up.

Fortunately for him, Bill had no powers to make his threats, and Ford was way too awake and conscious to have him teach the boy a lesson. He changed his gesture, patting the dirty blond hair, chuckling the loss of control away. It seemed his toy’s little henchman was very reactive, he saw the pale expense of his skin slowly covered in goosebumps, noting it for later.

“Ford knows.” He introduced, and this time Specs' face fell into the pure horror he preferred. That was a lie, but Bill never pretended he was an honest divine being. “You’re screwed… But I can get you out of there…”

It was going to work, Bill decided, triumphant. Fidds wasn’t going to be too difficult, faced with such a predicament. He squirmed like a worm at the idea Ford could be met with the unrequited, useless, bits of his best friend. What would he do of his love? Specs could not begin to fathom the depths of Ford’s fascination towards Bill, but maybe his nose was too big to see past. For if Ford came to know, he would not only be useless, he would be a cheat, and a monster. Ruining three different lives for the price of one.

Oh, and the prospect of it… That was the only thing Bill knew, for a fact, really hurt. He delighted in this feeling. Ford had the same taste in mental anguish, although he directed it at other parts of himself. Self loathing was an easy thing to latch onto.

Yes… He would cave. He would get to his knee, and beg for his mercy, the only way he knew how. Once Bill could make a puppet out of Specs, he would not need to worry about the uncomfortable way this bumpkin could get him riled up. He could simply throw his lithe little self off the highest surface, and see how long it would take for Fordsy to realize he could dedicate himself to him all hours of the day and night now. 

“And why you’d do that, exactly?” Specs probed. The distrust made clear in his features.

“Can’t you believe it’s off the fondness of my heart?”

“I’d have to believe you have one.” He barked back.

Suspicion, he was full of it. But this too was but an act. Slowly, gently, he was beginning to squirm. Every second he spent with his thoughts made the silence of his resolve stretch thinner, until there was nothing yet to withstand Bill than the shadow of a doubt, casted by his shame.

Something in Bill beamed.

“Ford did seem pretty upset with everything…”

“And disappointed…" Bill concluded. "Not with me though, only with you…” 

“No, I am pretty sure he was just upset.”

“Listen, Specs.”

“If you tell me what you did, first, I'll shake on it.” Fiddleford demanded, as if he was in position. “Because it seems to me, you’re the one being all-protective, and that I, here, have nothing to lose.”

“Even if he learns for you?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried to tell him, that man is thick as a brick when it comes to knowing who’s interested in him. Try all you want, you might even succeed in making him doubt. At the end of the day, I made a choice when I married, and that’s all that will matter to him, that I stand by it...” He continued, as if his own blow wasn’t damaging him too. With the same certainty he had when he held an object of destruction to his temple, and squeezed the trigger. There was something about the hurt, that made him feel safe.

Bill didn’t like his pet’s henchman, exactly… It was worse than that. He knew this was the single obstacle that stood, between Bill, and the portal’s completion. There was comfort to the bruises he made, something disgustingly familiar, Bill could plunge a finger in to and get to experience its pain again.

Either he straightened him into something he could use, or he’d have to cut him off definitely. But breaking him… That was a challenge, if he was up to the task.

He sneered, growling, and the lab assistant made sure to keep his spinal chord straight until he was sure he disappeared.

Bill thought about leaving the both of them to sort everything out, but he could see preparations made in the kitchen. Ford’s now fully clothed self cooking something that looked flat and that smelt like it came out of a ready to make mix. His journal was folded on a pencil where drawings were flattened. He had transcribed some of the captured likeness of Fiddleford in the research book. He left his assistant’s face out of every drawing, black charcoal stains erasing away some of the unsavory places he wouldn’t sketch, staining his hand. There remained tells, of exactly who he was drawing.

He would tear the page off, and throw it in the fire. But since he manifested it, Bill could take care of it.

There was a prism on the table, where Bill decided to settle, out of sight, and hoping to remain out of mind, even if he thought it complicated. Ford’s silence was stained with the dreams he had fed him… His muse changing shape, taking a human form. Bill could only blame Fidds for that… As far as his disinterest for human’s mating ritual went, he knew there was a part of Ford, although minimal, he would never satisfy enough to sway him. He could only be his number one priority if he isolated him from all distractions. So that he could choose him. Over everything else.

Maybe there was something he could do, to satiate the desires he had awakened in Ford. Maybe if he convinced him, he would let him…

Fiddleford barged inside the living room, precipitated, casting a shadow on Bill’s mood, as Ford stared.

“I am sorry.” He expressed, flooring everyone around the table. “The topic of Bill pops up, and I lose my mind… I might not like him… Hell I even might think him related to Lucifer all—”

“Fiddleford…”

“Let me finish...” Fiddleford asked, and with a lack of respect that was so unlike him, Ford gestured to let him proceed. “... But you trust him, and it’s not my place to cast judgment. I don’t want anything between us to sour over petty incivilities.”

Oh, this was earnest… Vulnerable… However would Ford respond. Bill was rolling his eye, over to him, but he didn’t need to see him to know. On the other side of the kitchen, Ford had softened, relieved and grateful.

“I’ve made pancakes…” Ford answered, with a smile that accepted his apology, inviting him to sit with them.

The scene was jarring, as it unfolded. Familiar smiles and faces, pushing through their awkwardness. Sitting across the other, and finding back their domestic comfort in the pretenses of their high walls.  Fiddleford fixing them up with coffee, as the last of the batter was added to the pan. Cutleries clicked, as they sorted through the spreads, and for a while all seemed okay. Then silence forced them to sit, at opposite sides of the table and suddenly their quiet illusion collapsed in on itself. 

“I… I need to tell you… I would like to make sense of what happened. And I think I need to be straight with you.”

Poor wording. The three of them were acutely aware of it. However Ford felt like this was a truth not yet known to his companion. Companion who could very much not bring himself to laugh now in the face of such struggle. Bill elected to killing them both, once time came. Why would he bother with Ford after all, when he was swallowing so hard on his words, leaving little room for air in his throat? 

“Bill often sends me dreams, when he takes hold… I do not think he controls them much to a certain extent, but sometimes they do have reminiscence of what exactly happens, either to me, or around…” How he could stand being embarrassing in front of two very judgmental people, Bill had no idea. “Last night they concerned you.”

“Oh…” Fiddleford spoke. If it could be considered a speech. He wouldn't have given him a bubble, it was barely a breath. Immediately understanding the implications, he let his cheeks rosying up. Ford might have thought it too pretty, because he looked down, perturbed.

“Honestly… I do not think it was carnal in object… But my human perception is lacking, and it… That’s how he translated to me. Fiddleford, I am…”

“It's okay, Stanford.” He laughed, softly. Surprising the room into a shocked silence. “It happens! Is that why you looked like you had your panties in a knot?”

“Don’t do this joke… Fidds…” Ford was dying of embarrassment on his side of the table. Melting into his hands, accounting for the extra fingers to shield the world from his redness. If either had seen the shades Bill was seeing, he would have looked like a painting, bleeding into the world.

“I am more interested in what that means to you…” Fidds laughed, digging into his pancake. He could fake disinterest so much it sounded genuine. Could Ford not hear how erratically his heart jumped? It was deafening. If it bothered him, Bill could tear it out. “Last time we were this honest about each other’s nightly habits, you told me you had no sex drive…”

“Very little…” Ford rectified, the hand on his thigh twitching until his knuckles whitened. He looked so small and awkward, powering through the conversation to appear mature, but terrified as a school boy. “A few times a year… The worst was six… It inconveniences me greatly, for a couple of days, and then it goes away. There’s no pattern or reason to it.”

“Does it always involve strapping young men?”

Ford might have stopped breathing because he was turning indigo. Bill looked at how easy it seemed for Fidds to play with his food, he was a natural at it, he knew where to put his gaze, to stay just long enough to make his point without looking dominating. It stopped Bill for a moment, too, he just had to see this guy through.

“I find, yeah…” Ford pushed through.

Honesty, so much of it. It felt gut wrenching, it felt like a pain they both seemed to enjoy. Why submit themselves to that so willingly?

“You being the only…” 

If he said strapping young man, Bill was knocking him out and wearing Fidds' face as a mask.

“Presence. I’ve had around for months, might have conflated everything together. Once again, I am horribly sorry.”

“I think it might be that...” Fidds spoke, so plainly, so truthfully. They exchanged a laugh, between them, before the smile faded, artfully from Specs’ features. “Rational as you are…” 

This… This was going to be the end of Bill. Coordination, between his tongue and his fingers, it was a musician skill, it made everything around him ring true. He was fishing for a confession. Obviously, Bill knew it, he’d do the same in his place. Using his self loathing as an argument, to push Ford into an uncomfortable situation. For a second, he thought his pet had fallen for it. Ford looked up, quizzically, his heart in his palm, on the verge of saying something he was absolutely going to regret.

The coffee pot boiled, and Fidds sprung on his feet to take care of it. Had he stayed, he would have been on the receiving end of a confession, but he had broken the moment. Bill celebrated, and Ford wallowed, frustrated at his inaction.

“I feel like I should thank you…” Ford blurted out. “I don’t imagine finding anyone else in the world as twisted and accepting as you in the face of… that. ”

“I don’t rightly know myself if such a specimen exists…” Fidds spoke back, a little too giddy for Bill’s appreciation. “What’d you say about Gravity Falls weirdness magnet?”

There was a comfort and affection, sipping out of Ford, that felt palpable even to their puny human forms. He smiled, relishing in it, and closing his eyes to barr Fidds from knowing just exactly how abysmal this infatuation was. Specs cocked his head to the side, considering, the very loud and insensitive thought of running something against the column of his neck. Bill wanted to slaughter him so much, for thinking about putting his lips anywhere near Ford. But, as often, in human affairs, they never hurt anyone as hard as they hurt themselves.

Fiddleford passed a finger that tried to play coy on the metal of his wedding band. Served them both coffee, and sat back down, sliding the sugar cubes over to Ford’s side of the table. Lost in their respective reveries. Their soul reached aimlessly for the touch of the other, their consciousness would never be made aware of the fact they embraced. Here and now. As their human form would never.

Bill wanted to put a wrench in it, it was making him nauseous, and he couldn’t even process food in a way that would make him sick.

Ford, however, knew perfectly how to ruin something good.

“You haven’t fulfilled your end of the bargain…” It wasn’t said with malice, in spite of the instant discomfort Specs followed with. There was still so much softness and affection inside it, as his smile grew wild. “What did you do to Bill to get him so riled up?”

Seeing how good the conversation was going, Bill felt a dread build up that he had never quite envisioned inside him before. Specs’ eyes had a proper look of resolve etched into his mousey features, a soldier ready to go to war. 

If he said anything, Bill was lost to Ford, forever. That insecure little twat would probably throw a fit at the sudden uptake in interest to a degree he had never displayed towards him, even if Ford had no interest in these appetites, he had an ego, of all things.

Something traversed Bill that felt like a shiver, feeling a caress reach him through the bounds of the veil. His focus shifted back into the material plane in abject horror at what he found. Fiddleford, sly as an eel, was running his finger, suggestively, against the sharp angles of a pyramid. Dreamily, staring Ford in the face, as he did, knowing there was no way Stanford Pines, of all people was catching that.

Bill tried to think of a word that didn’t end in ‘fucker’, but he barely could manage.

“He badmouthed my woman…” Fidds said, a gross oversimplification, and also, not the truth at all. He knew he was a liar, Bill felt vindicated, and extremely mortified at the same time. “I dragged his flatface through the mud, did him right…” He shrugged, flippant as all Hell. “‘Waited past midnight and played him a tune, that ought to piss him off...”

“Why did you wait past midnight?” Ford genuinely asked.

“You said no banjo after eight, doll. One in the morning is definitely before 8 a.m.” Fidds argued, so naturally. Like a liar. He was going to commit arson on all his slacks, just to see if he liked it. That would do for laundry day. “I thought you’d like me being a little creative...”

If Bill could have, he would have screamed. Ford had tangled his fingers together, resting his chin on top of it. Drinking this idiot’s word down to the tea, so heavily infatuated it lowered his IQ in half.

Useless. All these humans were absolutely useless. Ford picked up, quickly making a comment praising Fiddleford for his devilishness, and the imp in his assistant lulled itself into the comfort, smiling back. Laughing along his own masquerade. They finished their breakfast in a dreadful friendliness, going on a new back and forth about something that had no sense with the conversation. Then a bell rang, and Ford excitedly got up to meet the werewolf pretending to be a mailman, leaving Bill alone with the devious mastermind that was driving him to the edge of madness.

Soon as the figure of Ford left the room, Fidds attention plummeted to the object, with a weight that defied gravity. From his position, stuck inside the perception of the object in his likeness, Bill couldn’t fight back, as he ran the pulp of his fingers back again from the bottom of the pyramid, to it’s top, tracing lines.

“You owe me, Angles.” He stated, solemn as a law, cruelly, toppling his pyramid over.

He collected himself, his unfinished cup of coffee, and grabbed back the mask of idle pleasantry to join Ford in the living room. All the while, Bill stood, speechless in the interstice.

He’d have to figure what to make of Fidds quick…