#MOTHERFUCKER I HATE HTML I FORGOT TO ITALIC TEXT

[egodari]

well… I’ve finally gotten to the third chapter. amazing. welp hope y’all enjoy my writing lmao

Words: 3,251

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Characters: Fiddleford McGucket, Stanford Pines, some OCs

[First] [Previous] [Ao3]

Stanford awakens with a start. Struggling for air, his eyes dart wildly around the room. It slowly dawns on him that his room is actually a cave transformed into a makeshift shelter. The gory nightmare he had been experiencing was just a nightmare after all. He checks his hands, none of his friend’s blood staining the peach of his skin. “Rough night?” Fiddleford’s calming voice ripples through the silence. Stanford looks to find his friend kneeling by the pot of bubbling liquid over a burning fire. He nods meekly in response, shuffling his feet and glowering at the ground. “Figures, you were shaking an’ jerking ‘round in yer sleep,” Fiddleford dismisses, gently stirring the boiling alien liquid around the pot. Stanford fiddles with his fingers, blushing with embarrassment. He never learned how to control his dreams, and it didn’t help that they were staggeringly realistic. He shivers at the blindingly strong memory of Bill using his body to hack his only friend and twin brother to pieces. It’s funny how the human mind chooses to remember…

“You okay?” Fiddleford asks him cautiously. “I…” the words die in Stanford’s mouth. Fiddleford pours the liquid he had been brewing for the last half an hour into small glass bottles, “S’ okay, ya don’t have to talk ‘bout it if ya don’t wanna.” Stanford forces a weak smile to show his gratitude, but they both know that the gesture doesn’t have the same shine like it used to. He remembers the day Fiddleford brought up his greatest invention, the memory ray up to him after the Gremloblin accident. His arm was in bandages, and his head hurt with agonizing pain. Fiddleford had babbled gleefully about how Stanford was now able to forget the terror he saw within the creature’s eyes. But he had refused, deeming the machine dangerous. He felt it would’ve been better to remember why he stays away from the terrible creature. The truth was the he couldn’t swallow his pride to give himself a night’s sleep (not like he liked sleep anyway).

He really wants that memory ray at the moment. And all he wants to do is sleep, sleep forever. Or, at least, until he’s certain he’ll wake up in his comfy queen-sized bed. Next to Fiddleford…wait, no, that isn’t right… Stanford debates again in his head whether he should just tell him, it’s not like he’s got any sense of pride or dignity left in him. “Fiddleford,” Stanford pathetically croaks out after meekly clearing his throat. Fiddleford smoothly turns his head and looks at him, expectantly.

You insolent fool! He’s expecting something now!

“I…” beads of sweat trickle from his brow. Come on, just say it! It’s three words you smartass, three words! You were able to spell ichthyology in year two, you can say I love you to him. “I… I…” Stanford throws in the metaphorical towel, “I… think we should try to find a civilization… or something like that.” “O-of course,” Fiddleford answers dismissively. There’s a twang of disappointment in his voice, as if he wanted to hear something else. He grabs a knapsack and fills it with miscellaneous items, from weapons to food. Stanford turns away, getting out of the measly excuse for a bed and packs away his blanket-scarf, gripping it tightly.

My fault.

He remembers the call. The call that came out of the blue. It was a rare occasion, and every time Stanford received a call from that specific number, he treasured it like it were diamonds. But this call, from Fiddleford saying that he was getting married, was different. Stanford said he was happy for him, but the soured and disappointed expression painted on his face said otherwise. Despite the pain merely originating from emotion, the pain, the physical pain, in his gut felt so real. But he wasn’t surprised. He had chickened out on telling him in college, so wasn’t really that much of a surprise that he’d found a girl.

My fault.

He remembers coming home to find Fiddleford sobbing by the phone, the communication device dangling from his fingers. Reluctantly, he explained to Stanford that his wife separated from him, that she filed a divorce. And he had comforted his friend (and tried. And failed to persuade him to not build a homicidal pterodactyl robot), he really did. But it was a spectacular victory for Stanford. It meant he had a chance…

It’s my fault.

No chance. Stanford has no chance of winning Fiddleford’s affections, not now, not ever. It is shameful to believe he can ask anything from anyone anymore. He wonders, if the theory that multiple timelines exist is true, that if other versions of himself are going through the exact same thing. “Ford,” Fiddleford calls sheepishly, “Are you ready to go?” He nods meekly in response, forcing a decrepit smile.

“The ice looks like stained glass,” Stanford denotes, capturing every single grain of detail that makes the breathtaking picture his eyes record. The shards of frozen water, gradient with shades from cyan to indigo, chime harmoniously as they dance with the wind. “Hey, look at that one,” Fiddleford delightfully remarks, pointing at a perfectly shaped shard of ice that resembles a crudely shaped six fingered hand. Stanford forces an anemic smile, but he notices his own hands trembling in his pockets. Maybe it’s just cold… He notices a handful of more ice shards, that are shaped similar to the six-fingered one, but appear as if they’d been… shattered.

It’s as if it resembles all the versions of Stanford that have, in a sense, fallen. It’s as if there is a mysterious force destroying them.

Stanford blinks, once, twice, then eleven times rapidly. “Stanford, do ya ever think you’d fall in love with someone?” Fiddleford asks him suddenly. “I…” Stanford mumbles, averting his eyes, besides you? “I-I haven’t really thought about it…” That’s a lie. Fiddleford brushes the hair out of his eyes, clearing his throat, “I mean, I-I could imagine you with someone maybe an inch or two taller than you… someone who’s good at engineering… someone who's…”

Me.

Fiddleford pretends to cough loudly, claiming that he choked on some water, despite the absence of a canteen. Stanford either didn’t hear him or just decided to ignore him, continuing to trudge through the snow. Fiddleford sighs quietly, the water in his breath condensing in the low temperature. In his head, he has many things he wants to say, but he bites his lip, not daring to utter a word. They walk, and they walk, without sharing a sound. They’ve been walking for a while, but they don’t bother to keep track of the time.

BANG!

Stanford freezes, his eyes widening in terror, “W-what was that?” Fiddleford takes out the shotgun he had been hiding in his knapsack, cocking it. He can feel the temperature drop lower down the scale. They don’t dare to move.

BANG!

Stanford flinches as he feels a burning hot stab to his left hand. He clasps it with his other hand and hisses a curse word through his teeth. He can feel warm, sticky blood start to ooze from his hand. Fiddleford’s face goes pale when he notices the blood drip, drip, drip. He turns to the trees, yelling obscenities into the void of the forest.

Hushed muttering answers him back, one voice sounding frustrated. Two middle-aged humanoid women step onto the scene. “See, Sinali! I told you it wasn’t a moordenaar,” one of the strangely human like (aside from the extra pair of arms and pastel magenta skin) being scolds her companion. She wears a brown, thin, unbuttoned leather vest over light yellow shirt, paired with brown trekking pants rolled up three quarters up her legs. Her short and butcherly cut, bronze hair shimmers in the winter light. Sinali, the other, rolls her eyes elegantly, clenching her gun in her second left hand. Every action she makes is orderly and professional, like herself. Her colour-treated bronze hair is tied neatly in a bun, with not a single hair out of place. She wears a black, tightly worn, perfectly buttoned vest over the whitest shirt to ever exist. Her sterling silver business skirt reaches down to the ground. She wears long, perfectly cut diamond blue diamond earrings that dance like wind chimes in the winter breeze. They chillingly wear the same face, but their attire splits them completely apart. If Stanford wasn’t so observant, he wouldn’t have noticed that they appear to be twins.

“De groeten! Name’s Salunu!!” The bubbly and outgoing humanoid greets the two humans warmly, shaking their reluctant hands. Salunu wipes Stanford’s blood off her hand on her pant leg, “We’re zesvoors, and I’m assuming you're… what’s the word… mensen!” Two floating eyeballs appear from behind her stare the humans down, which spooks Stanford, especially. “Augh! Floating eyes!! What happened your eyes!!” He shrieks, cowering behind Fiddleford. Salunu laughs loud and hard, almost, too hard. As if it is forced…

“Sister…” Sinali rumbles in a dangerously low tone, “I hope you have noticed that one of them is injured…” Salunu pulls on her shirt collar, “Ah, yes… Sinali, go heal him or something and we’ll meet at the library, yes?” Sinali rolls her eyes again, grabbing Stanford’s arm and drags him away with an iron grip, despite his audible protests. Fiddleford watches worriedly, until he is gone. “Come menselijk!” Salunu beckons, playfully bouncing through the snow. “I have a name, ya know. It’s Fiddleford,” he begrudgingly follows, muttering curses under his breath.

“Look, Fidelford.” Salunu utters for the first time in fifteen minutes. “Fiddleford,” he hisses bitterly. “Yes, that,” Salunu dismisses blatantly, not seemingly caring at all. Her voice drops into a serious tone, “I think it was mistake leaving your friend with Sinali…” Fiddleford cocks his head in bewilderment, “Where’s this goin’?” She takes a big breath, “My dear ali Sinali, she has a history for killing.” Worst-possible-scenarios start to play in Fiddleford’s head. He gulps, reaching for some water from his knapsack. “B-but she won’t hurt your friend,” Salunu adds hopefully. It doesn’t change Fiddleford’s mood.

Titans. Giant humanoid creatures that tower over five-storey buildings. They prey on the blood of human-class lifeforms, but do not possess the intelligence of such beings. There is little information on how or when these monstrous beasts began to exist. They inhabit very few realities, but be wary, for if one catches the scent of your blood, you are most certainly doomed…

“Annnnd I think I’ve lost my lunch,” Fiddleford remarks glumly, gagging at the wretched images of the strange creatures. He slams the book shut and grimaces, “Who goes out of their way to research this shit.” He looks up when he hears the bell by the library entrance ring again, hoping for it to be Stanford who walks through the door. He sighs and rests his head on the table when he sees that it is indeed, not Stanford. “Please do not fret, Fiddlefrog,” Salunu carps, putting back unwanted books in their place. I’m gonna fucking punt your arse into the nightmare realm if you get my name wrong one more time, Fiddleford angrily yells in his mind. She better get my goddamn fucking name right or so heLP ME GOD!! The doorbell chimes again, catching Fiddleford’s attention. His face lightens when he sees Stanford standing by the door.

“So this is your library,” Stanford mutters as he watches Sinali check in. He only starts to notice Fiddleford running towards him out of the corner of his eye, and doesn’t get enough time to react before his friend tackle-hugs him to the ground. Who would’ve thought he had that much strength in him. “Ooh, sorry!” Fiddleford meekly apologizes, pulling him back up. “S’ okay,” Stanford grins, giving him a proper hug. He chuckles heartily for the first time since they got sucked into the portal, “I’ve only been gone for an hour, what caused you to miss me that much?” Fiddleford’s smile falters. He stares into the ground so hard that he bores holes into the floorboards, “Somethin’ smells fishy about them.” Stanford glances over his friend’s shoulder to witness the hunter twins conversing with each other. He watches them with narrowed eyes, documenting every single move. “What makes you think that?” he asks, still watching the hunter twins. “I dunno, it’s somethin’ in the way they act,” Fiddleford answers quietly, stepping closer to his friend. He clenches his fist, “Maybe I’m being paranoid, but one acts like a sociopath, and the other acts like a trigger-happy lunatic.”

“I can see where you’re coming from,” Stanford asseverates, looking back at Fiddleford, “My feelings about them are mixed too. Plus, based on recent evidence, your guess is probably better than mine.” Fiddleford chortles, noogying Stanford affectionately, “Ass-kisser you.”

“Annnnd that’s about it! Town square, the palace, everything!” Salunu gleams, radiating smiles and happiness from her figure, “What do you think?” Stanford shrugs, his actions filled with reluctance. “Frogfrog?” “Fiddleford,” he gibes, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms. “Yeah, that’s what I said!” Salunu dismisses with a jolly remark. “Oh my stars!” she shrieks, her voice hanging at frequencies only dogs should hear, “I nearly forgot Mom’s royal ball!!” Sinali looks to the side and leans against the brick wall of the suburban store, “Mother’s fancy party… I was only starting to forget about it.” Salunu gasps dramatically, shaking her twin sister violently. “How could you!! It’s the most important event of the year!! And they,” she gestures towards the humans, “Are most definitely going to come!! They must meet Mom!!” Stanford turns away and curses under his breath. He never had an enthusiasm for parties, and that isn’t going to change tonight. “Come darlings!!” Salunu joyfully squeaks, dragging the two men down the street.

Boy, she is really getting on Fiddleford’s nerves.

She was able to drag two young, healthy men in their thirties from a suburban street back to her home at the royal palace without breaking a sweat. If she hasn’t already been pissing off Fiddleford, maybe he would’ve marvelled at such a talent. But, man, they hate being pushed around. “Hokay! Back home again!” Salunu says with delight, extending her four arms majestically.

Fiddleford has had enough of this overly enthusiastic and jolly humanoid woman. He tightly grabs Stanford’s wrist and pushes himself inside, brushing past various palace staff and into the spare room Sinali had given them a key for. He plunges the golden key into the lock, and pushes his way through he door, slamming it behind him. Stanford gingerly caresses his wrist, subtlety blushing. “How can you get someone’s name wrong that many times!” Fiddleford huffs, flopping face first onto the bed up against the wall on the left. He slightly sinks into the covers. Stanford wanders around, finding a basket full of alien fruit, “At least they left us some food.” Fiddleford longingly looks at the food, ravenous. “I―I’m still mad!” he resentfully answers back. A grin appears on Stanford’s face, as he gently places the the basket on the beside table. He swiftly opens the curtains that block the window at the far side of the room, opposite the door, granting themselves a view of the busy alien city. He turns back around looking for the second bed that doesn’t exist. “Uh… why is there only one bed?” he asks with trepidation. Fiddleford’s eyes dart between the bed he’s sitting on and the open space next to him, “I thought she-OH MY FUCKING GOD!” Stanford winces at his sudden outburst, feeling that the fault lies with him. Fiddleford forces himself up from the bed, stomping his way towards the phoneset. Stanford slyly retires the the bed, throwing his over coat onto the ground and wrapping himself in the covers. “Wha―! Busy my ass!” Fiddleford angrily curses at the phone. He storms his way towards the door, only stopping at a sudden objection from Stanford. He turns around, his anger temporarily dissipating, “What?”

“I… could you―could you stay with me? P-please?” Stanford replies nervously, almost immediately regretting it. Fiddleford completely calms down, sitting himself on the edge of the bed next to Stanford. He smiles lovingly, brushing his hand through his chocolate-brown hair. “Thank you,” Stanford whispers. It is only now that they realise how tired they are, despite only being the afternoon. The power of fatigue drowns them in drowsiness. Stanford is the first to fall asleep, with Fiddleford following not long after.

Later that evening, a couple of hours before the grand royal party being held tonight, Sinali creeps into the room, leaving clean clothes and a beautifully carved glass bottle filled with a strange, orange glowing liquid. She is careful not to wake the sleeping visitors, quickly scribbling a note for them. She smiles as she watches the two sleep in peace, quietly snoring away. She then pulls her eyes away from them, reminding herself to stay focused at the task at hand. Sinali finishes writing the note, then silently creeps out the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Click, the door cannot help but say after being closed. Fiddleford’s eyes snap open, and he cautiously looks around the room, half expecting one of the hunter sisters to jump out from the bathroom or something. He dismisses that thought, as he figures out how to ease himself off the bed without waking Stanford. “Poor baby,” Fiddleford whispers to himself, gently stroking his hair, “For all the bullshit I get from you… and yet I’m still here. Why am I still here? With you?”

He knows exactly why he’s still here. With him. He knows why he can’t stop coming back, after all this time. He doesn’t know whether he’s ready to admit it to himself.

After successfully getting up without waking Stanford, he notices the items left atop the huge dresser opposite the bed. Before checking out the mysteriously left items, he gently kisses Stanford’s lips, quintriple-checking beforehand that he’s one-hundred-percent asleep. The first thing his hands snatch from the dresser is a handwritten note, neatly composed on a small pastel purple note. Please come to the party. ―Sinali, it reads. “Vague,” Fiddleford remarks, shoving the delicate note in his pocket as if it were nothing. He notices the clean dress clothes, folded orderly. He checks the clothes, giving a point to Sinali for getting their sizes and fashion tastes correct. The last thing he inspects is the strange bottle with the even stranger glowing liquid. All-cure! Counteragent for any poison! He slides the vial away in the brown, tattered knapsack hanging from the door hook. He might need it later.

Fiddleford sits back down onto the bed, forgetting to quiet his actions. Stanford stirs from his peaceful sleep, “Fidds? What time is it?” Gingerly skimming his hand through Stanford’s hair again, he looks at the clock on the wall, “Ten to seven.” Stanford closes his eyes, altering his position slightly into a more comfortable one, “That royal party’s in fourty minutes. Are we going?” “Do you want to?” “No… not really…” A pause. A pause before Stanford adds, “But maybe… what if they have a spacecraft or something to get home with?” Fiddleford ponders the idea. He glances at the folded clothes on the dresser, and he remembers the note in his pocket, “So we’re going?”

“Y―yes.”