#Stud Ford

[peterprick]

COLTON FORD (THEN)

[anatomyofjamesyates]

[properbloke79]

Jye Ford

[mensuited]

[jonberry555]

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny REVIEW

My review of the fifth and latest Indiana Jones Film: Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny.

Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny is Directed by James Mangold; Written by Jez Butterworth, John-Henry Butterworth, David Koepp, & James Mangold; Based on Characters by George Lucas & Philip Kaufman; Produced by Kathleen Kennedy, Frank Marshall, & Simon Emanuel; Starring Harrison Ford, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Antonio Banderas, John Rhys-Davies, Toby Jones, Boyd Holbrook, Ethann Isidore, Mads Mikkelsen; Cinematography by Phedon Papamichael; Edited by Michael McCusker, Andrew Buckland, & Dirk Westervel; and Music by John Williams. Production companies: Walt Disney Pictures and Lucasfilm Ltd. Distributed by Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures.

[hotwheelings]

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end—maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[simstefani]

SIMSTEFANI - FW24 VOL. 2

NEW ARRIVALS:

blumarine floral silk-blend satin top

fanci club leopard corps pique choker (comes as an arm cuff and bracelet)

iceberg s/s 2003 ruffle dress

river island rocks star belt

jaded london checked out backless top

gucci by tom ford cherry blossom mini dress

dolce and gabanna eyelet studded jeans

DOWNLOAD - FW24 VOL. 2

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ford Country Squire, 1964. A fifth generation Country Squire was used in Goldfinger, driven by Odd Job to take James Bond from Blue Grass Field to Auric Stud Farms

[autopsiedsage]

WE GOT ANOTHER ONE FOLKS

can I tell you guys something

is this a safe space

if I told you that ford having an inexplicable belly button stud was one of my most prized headcanons would I be thrown into jail and then killed

[properbloke79]

Billy Ford

[mensuited]

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1930 Ford Highboy Coupe

There’s always lots of detail work with any build and this ’30 Ford highboy coupe is no exception. Look closely and you will find Craftworks Fabrication handmade steel motor mounts. The license plate and valve covers were painted by Jeremy Seanor of Luckystrike Designs. He also painted all the accompanying engine and tranny parts. The powdercoat was handled by Pittsburgh Powder Coat while the chrome plating was conducted by Jon Wright’s Custom Chrome Plating.

The chassis is comprised of a Roadster Shop custom frame that was stepped, stretched, and features contoured ’32 Ford-style framerails. It was also then boxed, capped, and has hole punch flared front framehorns. From here the frame is outfitted with a Super Bell 4-inch drop, drilled and plated I-beam axle, low-profile monoleaf spring with Ridetech tubular shocks paired to custom-made drilled billet radius rods from Johnson’s Hot Rod Shop. Steering falls to the Flaming River box and a LimeWorks Hot Rod column topped with a four-spoke Billet Specialties Sprint Car–style leather-wrapped wheel. In back there’s a Currie 9-inch rearend outfitted with 3.70 gears, 31-spline axles, QA1 coilovers, a Pete & Jakes Panhard bar, and a parallel four-link setup. Braking is a combination of disc/drum front to rear. The forward braking dark gray–painted Wilwood Dynalite calipers are neatly hidden behind the Pete & Jakes finned backing plates. While in back the 9-inch is outfitted with 11-inch brakes, this time hidden beneath the SO-CAL Speed Shop finned drums all the while the chassis rides on a full set of 16-inch Dayton wire wheels wrapped with Coker/Excelsior rubber measuring 5.50R16 in front and 7.00R18 in the back.

All hot rods have something fun settled between the ’rails and beneath the hood (well if they have a hood). In the case of our ’30 Ford highboy coupe it sure appears to be a vintage Ford Y-block but after more than a cursory look we begin to see the telltale signs that there’s something more. Indeed, while it may look like a Ford it truly is a 376-inch LSX iron block, with aluminum heads and ARP studs, plus adapter-equipped small-block Ford (Windsor) valve covers all from Don Hardy Race Cars and then assembled by Talik and Marc Mullin. The intake is an Edelbrock LS dual quad with a pair of Thunder AVS EnduraShine carbs dressed in OTB air cleaners. Delivering the gas from the Tanks stainless reservoir is an Earl’s Performance billet fuel pump. More engine accessories include an MSD 6AL box to go along with the MSD billet Ford small-block distributor that functions through a timing cover adapter from Chevrolet Performance all the while using an MSD coil and Lokar vintage plug wires. Powermaster also supplied the alternator and starter, the battery is an XS Power AGM, and a Wegner Motorsports water pump is used as well as a Wegner front accessory drive unit. This 500-plus hp V-8 utilizes custom headers made at Craftworks Fabrication based on Ultimate Headers LS header flanges. The pseudo-Ford small-block is backed up to a TCI StreetFighter 700-R4 with a 2,800-stall speed converter operated by a Lokar shifter. The trans cooler comes by way of Derale Performance and moves the power through a 3-inch-diameter custom-made driveshaft.

[agoldengalaxy]

Goodnight, Moon

read on Ao3

words: 2976

“Where…am I?” Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. “Don’t worry, Stanford,” he had said the last time they spoke. “He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.”

--

A still, calm ocean met the dark sky on the horizon, littered with stars that reflected in the water below. If Ford took off his glasses, it was easy to blur the line between the two completely, like perhaps they were sailing along a star-studded sky instead, with a mission to land on the moon itself.

Ford almost scoffed at his own thoughts as he stood on the deck of the Stan o’ War II, his elbows against the railing. This wasn’t a thought an accomplished man with twelve PhDs would have. It reminded him of storybooks he used to have as a young child, the storybooks Stan and his mother liked to listen to him read aloud every Friday night.

Then again, he thought, smiling a little to himself as he removed his glasses, watching the sprawling blue in front of him blur into one big mess, his PhDs weren’t really his focal point anymore. And, perhaps, it wasn’t so terrible to think like a child again. With Stan by his side, it was hard not to feel like they were still ten years old, declaring themselves the Kings of New Jersey and sailing along the water. The only difference now was that they were actually fighting real monsters, not the ones they made up in their heads.

Ford placed the glasses back on his nose, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been standing here, but the late night chill was relentless. Despite the fact that he would have liked to stand out here and stargaze for hours, he released a small sigh and turned around, stepping quietly back into their cabin.

The door slid shut with a soft click behind him, and he glanced toward the small living area, a fond smile easing its way onto his lips. Stan was asleep, a mess of limbs too long to fit on that old couch, more or less covered by a small knit blanket, his snoring quiet and steady. He’d fallen asleep watching Cash Wheel, and Ford had made sure the blanket was at least over his torso and the TV had been turned off before stepping out for some fresh air.

A month after Weirdmaggedon, and it was still quite a relief to see his brother. Ford often found himself thinking things were too good to be true, that he didn’t deserve Stan’s loyalty after everything that had happened, that maybe one day he’d wake up and Stan would be gone.

He sighed softly, still smiling a little to himself. The thoughts were unfounded, as silly as the childish thoughts he had earlier. Stan wouldn’t leave, because that just wasn't who Stan was.

After one last look, Ford moved toward the kitchen, intent on getting some water before turning in for the night, himself. It was certainly still a strange feeling, he thought, as he watched the faucet fill the glass steadily. To be able to sleep whenever he wanted, without fear of being hurt, or fear of hurting others. He grimaced at the memory of waking up on the roof of his house with blood pooling from his right eye, or from the countless sleepless nights he spent on the run from interdimensional beings intent on his destruction.

He turned off the tap and picked up the glass. The past was the past.

He’d almost been too deep in his thoughts to notice that the snoring had stopped in the other room, or to hear quiet, unintelligible swear words. Suddenly, Ford’s bad memories disappeared. He took his undrunk glass and stepped out of the kitchen. “I told you that your neck would end up quite sore if you -”

Almost unable to control it, Ford froze in place, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air. Alarm bells in his mind screamed at him as he looked at Stan, standing rigidly in the middle of the room. His eyes were wide, staring back at Ford like a deer caught in headlights, and it was so unlike Stan that it sent a shiver down Ford’s back.

What really scared him was that this exact expression reminded him of that day, back in the woods.

For a moment, they only stared at each other, seemingly unsure of who would speak first. Ford knew it should be him, he knew he had to ask, but it suddenly felt impossible, like he’d somehow swallowed his own tongue and hadn’t realized it. The silence seemed to stretch out for eternity, until Stan balled up his fists at his sides nervously.

“Where…am I?”

Ford’s breath caught in his throat. It was exactly as he had expected, then. Fiddleford had warned him that this might happen; temporary lapses in memory, an unfortunate long-term effect of the memory gun. Don’t worry, Stanford, he had said the last time they spoke. He’s not alone. He’s got you ta’ help him remember.

A part of him wanted to cry, another part of him wanted to scream and throw his glass at the wall. Instead, he knew he had to be there for him above all else. He cleared his throat, placing the glass down on the counter, and took a step closer. “You’re on the Stan o’ War II,” he answered as calmly as he could through a trembling voice. “Do you remember who you are? Do you…remember who I am?”

Panic flashed along Stan’s face, and it took every fiber of Ford’s being to stay infinitely still, to be the calm in the storm. Panicking along with him wouldn’t solve anything, despite the fact that it felt like his chest might cave in on itself.

Suddenly, Stan blinked, his eyes shining in the dim light. “You’re…my brother,” he managed, his voice strange and rough, like he didn’t even recognize it. He cleared his throat. “I don’t, um…I don't remember anything else.”

Ford forced air through his lungs, nodding quietly. It was temporary. He just had to be there for him, like Fiddleford said he should. The fact that he remembered that much, at least, had to be a good sign. “That’s right. I am your brother.” He took another step forward, placing a hand on his shoulder, gentle enough that he could pull away if he wanted to - but instead, he leaned into it. “My name is Stanford, and…you are Stanley.”

“Stanford…” he repeated, drawing out the name like he was trying to hear how it sounded in his own voice. “Wait, we’re both -”

“Yes,” Ford huffed a laugh at the absurdity of hearing the reaction they got whenever they introduced themselves to someone new, from Stan himself. “Our parents weren’t very creative.”

“Yeah, seems like it.” They stood there for a moment, and Stan shifted his weight uncomfortably. “So…uh…what’s this Stan o’ War II? Some sorta secret base or somethin’?”

Despite the situation, Ford smiled. It was still so much like Stan it almost hurt. Gently, he began guiding him toward the door to the cabin. “Come, I’ll show you.”

The door swung open, and they both stepped out onto the deck, the late night breeze immediately ruffling their clothes and hair, the darkness all-encompassing. Starlight reflected in Stan’s eyes as he stepped forward in some disbelief, looking out at the sprawling ocean.

“Heh. The stars look…real bright in the water,” Stan murmured, and Ford couldn’t help but wonder if the amnesia had given him the opportunity to read Ford’s mind.

For a few long, stretched-out seconds, the only sound was the gentle crash of waves and a few stray birds that had yet to turn in for the night. Ford tried his best not to stare at Stan, not to overwhelm him. He stared out at the horizon again, but didn’t blur the lines this time. He let the clear picture span out before him - beautiful in its own way.

“Ford…”

The sound of his name almost startled him, but when he turned, he was much more startled by what he saw. “Stanley! Are you alright?!” A tear was rolling down Stan’s cheek, and out of anything that might have panicked Ford before, this was the top of the list. His brother didn’t cry. He reached forward, placing one hand on Stan’s shoulder, the other on his opposite arm. “W-What is it? Are you hurt?”

Ungracefully, Stan sniffled, giving him a watery smile. “We…we’re really adventuring together? After all this time…”

Ford had always thought himself a tough nut to crack, but he could feel his chest grow tighter with the pressure. Breathing became much harder, as if he were standing atop a high mountain. The burning in his eyes was something he had nearly forgotten the feeling of, but here it was, and he couldn’t tell if he liked it or hated it. He returned the smile, but when it felt like he wouldn’t be able to keep it on his face, he pulled Stan close, hugging him tight.

“Yes, Stan,” he breathed, shaking with the effort of trying to keep his eyes from leaking. “We are.”

Hands slowly came up to return the hug, and they stood there for a long while. They stood there until the shaking was replaced with shivering, and Ford drew back from the embrace, looking at the face that was so like his own, yet so different all the same.

“Come. We will get sick if we linger out here any longer.”

Stan didn’t argue, and together they stepped back into the warm cabin, wordlessly heading toward the couch. Despite the revelation he’d had before, Stan looked rather worn-out. “My head is pounding.”

“I suppose that’s part of the long-term effects…” Concernedly, Ford headed toward the counter where he’d left his glass and grabbed it. When he turned back around, Stan was staring at a framed picture on the wall. Ford carefully walked back to the couch, sitting down and placing the glass in Stan’s hands himself before lifting his gaze to the photo, too. “Our family.”

The picture showcased one of their last days in Gravity Falls. In front of the Mystery Shack, Stan wore a huge grin and had his arm slung around Soos, whose eyes sparkled with happy tears as he proudly wore the fez, almost too big for his head. Next to Soos, Wendy covered her mouth, laughing at Dipper, who was clinging onto Stan’s back, grinning as he tried to fake choke-hold him. Next to Stan, Ford beamed proudly while Mabel hung off of his flexed arm, pure joy on her face.

Ford chanced a glance toward the real Stan after a moment, who was staring at it with a fond, wistful smile on his face. “I miss those knuckleheads.”

Leave it to the kids to make Stan start to remember again, he thought, nearly smiling to himself. They’d done it before, and they’d keep doing it, he supposed. “So do I,” he agreed. “Perhaps…we should pay them a visit soon.”

Stan’s smile grew a little as he turned his gaze down to the glass in his hands. “Gotta make sure Soos hasn’t burned down the shack, or Wendy hasn’t made off with our register.” He took a few large gulps, as if he hadn’t drank in days. Somewhat relieved, Ford watched him drain the whole glass, wondering if he’d even realized he was beginning to get memories back again, bit by bit. Once he’d finished, Ford took the glass from him, placing it on the coffee table in front of them. Stan’s brow furrowed. “What, you’re not gonna tell me to put that in the sink?”

“Well, I -”

“You fight me about putting things where they should go every day, Poindexter!” Stan scoffed, getting to his feet to snatch the glass back up again, marching it to the kitchen. Astounded, Ford watched him go. It was true - Stan could be a bit of a slob and left things out all the time, whether it be clothes, glasses, shoes, or fishing lures. The last thing Ford wanted was the Stan o’ War II to end up looking the way his house had looked when Stan had been in charge of it, so they argued often about putting things away. 

Of all things to remember. Ford couldn’t help but chuckle a little to himself.

When Stan emerged from the kitchen again, he crossed his arms. “What?”

“Nothing, Stanley. Nothing.”

For a moment, it seemed like Stan was going to fight it, but then he shrugged and just took his place on the couch next to him again. “If ya say so.” He drummed his fingers on his knee, taking in their small cabin as if everything he looked at gave him a new memory.

While Stan looked around, Ford watched him, noticing the sagging in his shoulders, the slow blinking, the general restless movement. It was plain to see that his brother was exhausted from all the emotion, but the thought of suggesting he go to bed was out of the question. He couldn’t leave him now. He wouldn’t.

“Stanley…do you remember, when we were children, I would read you and Mom stories?”

Stan blinked at the question, slow recognition creeping onto his expression. “Oh, yeah. Mom said she liked hearing you read. She said you did good voices.” His brow furrowed. “Huh. I don’t remember ever hearing the endings.”

For once, the words ‘I don’t remember’ didn’t send a cold shiver down Ford’s spine, because he actually had an answer for that. “You’d usually fall asleep,” he said.

Stan’s cheeks flushed. “You remember that damn armchair! It was comfy!”

“Sure,” he chuckled. “Well, anyway…I was thinking about that earlier, actually. I don’t have any books, but I have plenty of stories from our childhood. Do you want to hear one?”

For a moment, Stan seemed to hesitate, then admitted defeat, leaning back against the couch with a huff and crossed arms. “Guess it beats the same things on TV. And I’m gonna hear the ending this time.”

Smiling, Ford leaned over to turn out the lamp, then leaned back against the couch too. “Very well. Hm…do you remember Crampelter?”

Stan’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, that slimy bastard who bullied us in grade school.”

“Right. He made fun of your demeanor and my polydactyly. For years, all we could do was get through each day. The teachers didn’t help us, and Mom was beside herself. Finally, Dad signed us up for boxing. I was terrible at it.” Stan smirked while he continued. “It was not for me. It took you a while, but eventually you got the hang of it, and we were told to ‘fight back’ if that bully came at us again.”

“Yeah, I remember. Wait, how exactly did we deal with him again?”

Ford grinned a little. “Ah, well…you ‘fought back’, as it were. During recess, you went inside to use the bathroom and he and his goons came over to torment me. They called me names, took my glasses, laughed at the special six-fingered gloves that Mom had knit for me. In my head, I knew I should do what Dad told us to. I knew I should just shove him back so he’d finally leave me alone. But…I was too scared. I couldn’t do it.” He shook his head, remembering how small he’d felt back then. “They were about to break my glasses when I heard your voice.”

Stan tilted his head, seemingly interested to hear what happened next. Perhaps this memory was too long gone.

“You marched right over, demanding that Crampelter return my glasses at once. I remember him laughing, taunting you, asking what you were going to do about it when you landed a swift punch to his groin. He dropped the glasses and I scrambled to pick them up while his friends stood in stunned silence. He seemed to be in too much shock and pain to do much else, other than give you a weak, high-pitched threat before waddling off in another direction. Later, I heard from one of the girls that he stood in the corner of the playground and cried.”

“Hah! Sucker got what he deserved!” Stan laughed, seemingly quite proud of himself.

Ford smiled, shaking his head. “Of course, that stunt suspended you for two days. Mom had a few choice words to say to the principal, but I know that  she and Dad were pretty proud of you for standing up for me.”

Stan’s expression softened as he looked up at his brother, a slew of emotions betrayed behind his tired eyes for a quick second. “Yeah, well. Getting beat up is one thing. Letting them hurt my brother is out of the question.”

“Yes…I think you said something like that to the principal,” Ford responded, feeling oddly touched even all these years later. As Stan yawned, he continued. “Do you remember the day we found the original Stan o’ War?”

Through another yawn, Stan nodded. “I got a lotta splinters.”

Ford continued sharing stories, knowing that eventually, their childhood habits would return - and sure enough, before he could finish his third story about their junior prom, Stan’s head lolled onto his shoulder, sleeping completely soundly. Quietly, Ford trailed off, careful not to move too much, and placed the blanket over them both.

It reminded him of the week after Weirdmaggedon, spending nights together on the couch because Ford couldn’t bring himself to leave him, though it was different all the same. Things wouldn’t ever be perfect for them, he knew, as he gently pulled Stan’s glasses off to place them on the table, but they’d always have one constant now. Each other.

He took off his own glasses and relaxed into the couch, Stan’s warmth and soft breaths easily and quickly lulling him to sleep.

[ckret2]

Chapter 17 of Human Bill Causes Problems And Ruins Relationships On Purpose (title TBD), featuring: Mabel and Ford, not letting their relationship be ruined.

They're gonna be okay.

Also: weird donuts, cool crystals, and summer class.

####

Mabel was out of sight by the time Ford exited the shop—stupid, why hadn't he chased her the second he saw her run? He knew Mabel was fast. He circled the block calling her name—there was nowhere she could have gone, this mixed-use building was surrounded by residential houses—and then he hurried back to the parking garage, worst case scenarios tumbling through his head.

When he spied her leaning against the trunk of Stan's car, he heaved a sigh of relief. "Mabel! You shouldn't run off like that in a strange city. Anything could have happened."

Mabel tightened her crossed arms, glaring at her shoes. "I'm better at taking care of myself than you think."

Ford's shoulders slumped. He stood there useless, the silence thick between them, grappling for something to say to cut through it.

He never did well with these thick, awkward, choking moments—the moment before Stan left home, the moment after Fiddleford left the portal project, all the moments on the phone with his parents or with Shermie when he couldn't think of anything they'd be truly interested to hear about his life or any questions he truly wanted them to answer. He'd lost a lot of relationships in those moments. "Mabel—you're not in trouble, and I'm... I'm not mad at you."

"Being disappointed isn't better."

"I'm not disappointed, either. Just... concerned."

Wrong word. Mabel looked up at Ford with a dark, furious look that reminded him unnervingly of a look Bill had given him a few days ago. (He still hadn't learned to identify this as the hallmark gaze of the defiant teenager.) Then she glared at the ground again. "I wanna go home."

If he took her home, it would be an agonizing hour and a half silence—and what were the odds she'd just run to Bill and tell him he'd been "right," and he'd fill her head with more poison? It was far too late to forbid her from talking to him without exacerbating the situation. Ford could force her to stay right here in Portland until he'd talked to her—he had the keys, the driver's license, and almost fifty years' seniority—but if he did that, she'd tune out anything he said.

And she'd be right to. Who was he to her except the other uncle, the one who'd spent a year lavishing attention on her brother and only asked to spend time with her as a trap to give her a lecture?

He leaned on the car trunk next to her and looked down at the top of Mabel's head. She was wearing a headband studded with rhinestones and plastic ruby earrings. She'd dressed up for this. Ford swallowed hard. "Mabel, I'm an idiot."

She didn't say anything.

"I am. I'm a fool. I put all my skill points in intelligence and zero in charisma." He paused. "Which... that sentence probably makes self-evident." He cleared his throat. "I started out bad at socializing, and not interacting with humans for thirty years didn't make me any better. So I don't have any idea what I'm doing here. But... I asked you to come here with me because I really do want to spend more time with you; and because Bill hurt me, and I love you too much not to make sure you're protected against him doing the same to you."

He put a hand on her shoulder, and when she didn't tense up or pull away, he went on: "I think I tried to do too much in one trip, and it just made what should have been a fun time... awkward for you. But, if it helps, it's awkward for me, too. We can be awkward together. We're on the same side, I promise."

Mabel let out a loud, snotty sniff. "You... really do wanna hang out with me?" Quieter, she asked, "Not just Dipper?"

"Of course I do!" Ford said. "But I don't blame you for doubting me. I... know I've spent less time with you than with Dipper. I thought he needed me more. I'm sorry it took this to make me make time for you like I should have all along."

"Was... was there ever really a crystal store on the highway?"

"There was! I promise! I honestly don't know what happened to it! Maybe when I was coming from the airport Soos took a different exit than I thought? Or maybe a truck got between us and the sign as we were passing it and we didn't realize, but—"

He was getting off topic. The mystery of the crystal store wasn't what was important here. Reel in the puzzled scientist for a moment and be an uncle. "But—I swear Mabel, I didn't make up a story just to get you out here. I truly wanted to go to a crystal shop with you, hand on my heart." He put his hand on his heart. "That's a full finger more sincere than normal."

Mabel let out a choked giggle. She finally looked up at Ford, eyes red, cheeks tear streaked, but fighting to smile through her tears. "Grunkle Ford, I—" She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his sweater. "I'm not trying to ruin summer again, I promise! All I'm talking to Bill about is preschool cartoons and arts & crafts! Sure, he's—he's been nice since I helped him out, but—that doesn't mean I've forgotten who he is or what he can do..."

"Mabel, you didn't ruin last summer." Ford knelt down and hugged her back. "Bill did. Never forget that. I'm just trying to prevent him from doing it again."

Mabel nodded, unconvinced. "He couldn't have ruined it by himself."

"You're right. He couldn't. Which is why I was so wrong to keep the rift secret from everyone in the house but Dipper. I was trying to keep you safe, but you never would have fallen for his lies if I'd armed you with all the information you needed."

He leaned back from Mabel and patted his briefcase. "That's why I'm doing things properly this time! I'm prepared to educate you on every trick Bill has ever borrowed from the books of con artists, cult leaders, and serial manipulators. If you're going to talk to him, you'll know the rules of every mind game he plays before he starts playing them." He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out some of the research materials he'd assembled to prepare for this conversation. "I'm afraid even that might not be enough to fully protect you against his devious tricks, but if you keep your guard up and regularly check in with the rest of the family, then—"

Mabel looked in Ford's briefcase and exploded in a peal of laughter. "Grunkle Ford, are you making me go to school in the summer?! Gross!"

Ford blinked. If this was Dipper, he'd have been delighted at the educational opportunity. This just went to show how much he still needed to learn about Mabel, too. "Come now, Mabel. There's no greater defense against the shadowy forces of deception than the light of knowledge!"

Mabel laughed again. "You nerd!"

Ford grinned. "But, I'll try to make it fun, too."

"Okay, I'll take your psychology class. Bill-proof me! Arm me with knowledge!" She raised her arms like she was flexing her biceps.

"Great!" Ford rummaged through his briefcase. "I'll start with the broad strategies I've seen or heard of him using to isolate his victims, then narrow in on specific tactics he uses to steer conversations his way. First we'll go over the B.I.T.E. model of authoritarian control, and—"

Mabel put a hand on his shoulder. "How about we start with lunch?"

Ford paused, then let out a huff. "Yes, of course. We should eat."

They got in the car and went looking for a restaurant.

####

They had lunch at a burger place, and Ford told Mabel everything he could think of about how Bill operated—all guided by copious research notes.

To his relief, Mabel never got bored. Instead, she immediately related his lesson back to things she'd already seen Bill do: how easily he'd gotten her, Dipper, and Soos to do his job for him inside Stan's mind, or how he'd tried to turn Mabel and Dipper against each other during Mabel's puppet show. When she admitted what Bill had said to make her worry about talking to Ford, he confessed how Bill had turned him against Fiddleford—and how he'd done it with just a couple comments. All he'd had to say was that Fiddleford might not be committed enough to the portal project, might not be bold enough to finish, and Ford's mind had done the rest.

Ford hadn't even told Dipper about that part—instead, he'd just let Dipper read it in his journal. Ford had yet to so much as talk to Fiddleford himself about it. It was shameful to admit out loud; but less so when he knew he was talking to someone else who'd very nearly been fooled the same way—and that sharing his story might save her from repeating it.

They wrapped up lunch, moved to a nearby shop called Druid Donuts for dessert, and continued their conversation on one of the picnic tables outside. Mabel got a donut wizard with a pretzel stick wand and purple cream filling, and Ford tried out a donut with jelly beans on top. The jelly beans were kinda stale. He plucked them off and ate them anyway.

Mabel sighed, "Grunkle Ford, I'm so sorry I let Bill make me doubt you."

"Bill has that effect on people. When I had this same talk with Dipper, he tried to shoot me with the memory gun in case Bill was possessing me."

"Dipper never mentioned that!" Mabel laughed; but it quickly petered out as she remembered who had ultimately gotten memory gunned over Bill.

She gazed thoughtfully down at her wizard. (She'd eaten off one of his arms, half his robe, and licked out the purple cream filling.) "What made Bill so awful?"

"I sorely wish I knew," Ford said. "I spent half my life trying to find out where he came from, along with how to defeat him. All I ever learned is that he's from a two-dimensional realm—and he destroyed his dimension, friends and family included, for power."

Mabel's eyes widened.

"But... why? I still don't know. He told me he found his home 'restrictive'—but I imagine any limitations would feel restrictive to someone who's seeking omnipotence, so I have no idea what that truly means." Ford looked down at his donut. He'd plucked off all the jelly beans and sorted them into two piles on a napkin, one of regular beans and a smaller one with a few deformed ones. He popped a couple of beans in his mouth. 

"It's weird," Mabel said. "It's like... I'm trying to hate him, but it's hard. It was easy last year! And I know who he is, and I know that all this"—she pointed at Ford's bag full of notes—"is going on in his head, but—when I talk to him, he just seems like... not a different person, but a—a normal person. I don't want to not give that person a chance just because he's Bill. You know? Does that make sense?" Mabel grimaced. "Or is that just how good he is at acting?"

Softly, Ford said, "I think it does make sense. Actually, even after everything he's done to me... since he's been locked up with us, I've—had a moment or two like that. I don't think he's doing it on purpose. I think it's a natural side effect of being in such close proximity to him."

Ford had been thinking a lot about his bizarre burst of compassion on the night Bill burned off his hair. He'd wondered if, maybe, putting a human face over Bill had made Ford see him as a new person. But that wasn't right. Like Mabel had said: Ford didn't see this human Bill as a different person, but rather...

Ford had obsessed over Bill for thirty years. He'd combed the multiverse for information about Bill's history, his state of existence, his potential weaknesses. But in all that time—in all that time, he hadn't once spoken with Bill.

He'd spent half a lifetime moving amongst people who saw Bill as a symbol, a legend, a cosmic force. He'd come to see Bill the same way. A threat, a target, an idea. He'd spent so many years picking a scant few hours of conversation with Bill to shreds that—he was now beginning to realize—he'd half convinced himself that Bill didn't actually have an identity beneath his lies.

It wasn't that seeing a human face made Ford forget that this person was Bill. It was that seeing a human face made Ford remember that Bill was a person. Ford had gotten so used to hating Bill the symbol; had he ever learned how to hate Bill the person? Or had he just let himself believe Bill wasn't a person at all?

Treating Bill like an idea rather than a person was useful enough when Bill was some distant foe. But now Bill was here. Ford couldn't let himself go soft just because Bill was capable of filling space in a window seat and tripping on the furniture and waking screaming from nightmares and regretting a stupid haircut.

Bill had been a person every other time Ford had tried to kill him, too. And that didn't change the fact that he needed to die.

And Mabel—who had so much less practice with hatred than Ford had—was struggling with the same thing.

"You want him to make sense," Ford said. "I understand that completely. Once we see somebody as a person, it's hard to see them as a monster, even if that's what they are. Our minds think monsters want to destroy the world, not play weird chess games. Seeing him as just a monster would be safer for everyone—but, as long as he's imprisoned and powerless, all he can do is be a person."

Mabel thought that over. "Yeah," she said. "You can hate somebody or you can get to know them, but you can't do both."

Ford could think of a few people he'd only hated more the better he got to know them, but he supposed Mabel was kinder than him. "More or less."

"How do you deal with it?"

"By avoiding him."

Mabel's gaze dropped back to her donut wizard. She ate his wand and other arm.

Ford took a deep breath. "Mabel... knowing everything you know now, do you still want to keep talking to him?"

Her neck sank down into her turtleneck. "Do I fail your class if I say yeah?"

Ford smiled sadly. Was she too kind for her own good, or—like Ford—too curious? "I thought you might say that," he said. "Follow-up question: are you prepared to be disappointed when he doesn't live up to your hopes? And I do mean 'when,' not 'if.' You're offering him a charity I don't think he's capable of reciprocating."

If she'd gotten angry, if she'd gotten defensive, he would have worried more. But she laughed and said, "Grunkle Ford, last summer I got my heart broken by like, sixteen boys. After that, I can handle finding out the evil demon triangle I'm trying to reform is still an evil demon. I'll be impressed if he ever gets an opportunity to kill one of us and doesn't take it."

Ford chuckled, relieved. "I think you deserve to hang out with people you can hold to higher standards than that."

"I do! But the other people I hang out with don't wanna watch the same shows as me. I don't think I can make you understand how important that is."

On the one hand, that struck Ford as a very thirteen-year-old priority. On the other hand... He winced. "Actually... for a while, he was the only person that would play Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons with me."

"WHAT! What kind of character did he play!"

"None. He always wanted to be the dungeon master," Ford said. "He ran very strange campaigns. And had a weird fascination with princesses with eyeballs for heads. And, in retrospect, it was probably a red flag when he decided to portray the God of Long Odds as a one-eyed golden triangle."

Mabel at least had the good grace to bite her lip instead of laughing at Ford.

"Well. I don't think you should want to talk to him. But, if you do... then you have a rare opportunity. Perhaps the first in multiversal history. Bill's our captive, he seems to trust you, he's motivated to make you trust him... I think if anyone's ever had a chance of finding out what made him like he is, it might be you. Perhaps you'll get your question answered."

"Grunkle Ford..." Mabel grinned slyly. "Are you saying that you want me to talk to him? Like, as a spy?"

Ford grimaced. "If I said that, that would make me a terrible uncle. I should be doing everything in my power to steer you away from him. I know that would be safer for everyone and healthier for you." He paused. "But. I can't control you. And as long as you've decided to talk to him anyway—I want to know everything you learn."

Mabel laughed. "You got it!"

"Final advice: don't trust anything he says, assume everything he does has an ulterior motive, and never agree to do anything he asks without twenty-four hours away from him to consider it. And keep talking to us—to me, to Dipper, to Stanley. He might fool one of us, but he can't fool all of us."

"Yeah!" Mabel raised a hand. "Pines power!"

"Pines power." Ford high-sixed her, then finished up his donut. "Well, I think this was very educational for both of us." He stood. "You've still got your $50. Want to go back to the crystal shop?"

####

They grabbed a big green box of donuts for the family and headed back to Lunar Blessings. While Mabel was agonizing over several fun-colored crystals, Ford wandered back toward the statue of Bill. He had to do something about this. "Excuse me." He waved down the shopkeeper. "Do you happen to know where this sculpture came from? The name of the artist, or...?"

She came over to study it. "I think we get all of these from a studio in the Bahamas, but I don't remember the artist off the top of my head. Why?"

He tried to think of a lie that sounded more realistic than the truth—maybe if he said he thought he recognized the art style and wanted to know if an old friend had made it, she'd be willing to dig up the artist's name?

He decided to go with a story that might get this thing off the shelf faster. "Because that particular depiction of the Eye of Providence is associated with a dangerous cult."

Her brows went up. "You're sure? It's a common symbol."

"Giving it eyelashes and a bow tie isn't. Trust me: either the artist is a cultist, or they got the design from somebody who is."

"Cult's a... pretty loaded word." (Ford grudgingly respected her for her wariness. She probably dealt with somebody calling something-or-other in this shop "cultish" on a daily basis.) "How do you know they're that bad?"

"Because once I got in, it took me thirty years to get out."

The shopkeeper's demeanor changed immediately. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry. We get these in bulk with a lot of other sculptures, I thought it was just some obscure... Are these people dangerous, or—?"

"Not as much as they used to be, I don't think. Their founder's incarcerated. But... the kind of people who'd be eager to buy this probably aren't the people you want to sell to."

As she eyed the sculpture skeptically—probably deciding whether she found this stranger's story credible enough to warrant taking merch off her shelves—Ford asked, "Do you think you could find the artist? With the founder gone, I... I've been wondering how his other victims are faring." There wasn't much point in pushing further to remove the item. He'd given the shopkeeper enough to think about, and he doubted one more statue on one more shelf would really do any harm while Bill couldn't use its eye.

She hesitated, then nodded. "I'll check our records. If we don't have it, you can give me your contact info and I'll let you know when I find out."

"Thank you." What would Ford say if he did meet another of Bill's victims? He'd known a few, very distantly, thirty years ago; Bill had told him who he could go to to get art, much like the sculpture in this store. Back then, he'd felt like he was in a secret society—a real secret society with real secrets, not like the corny social club styling itself a "secret society" he'd joined in college—with the double secret that none of the other members knew that Ford was the society president's favorite. In retrospect, they'd probably thought they were Bill's favorites, too.

He supposed he'd find out if he ever met the artist.

####

Mabel found a little pink cat figurine, a string of small nazar eye beads she thought would be great for crafts, an extremely small crystal naturally colored like a watermelon slice, and a bracelet made out of tiny colorful rock chips arranged in a rainbow. The shopkeeper wasn't able to find the artist's name before they left; but Ford left his name, address, and the shack's number on a piece of receipt paper so she could contact him if she found out more.

As they were leaving, Ford said to Mabel, "You know... if you still like those glass pyramids, I think there's a couple in my study that escaped the purge. You could have one."

"Really? You're sure? You don't have to..."

"I'm sure. They're not magical or dangerous—and I think I'd like for one of them to get new, better associations. Just, keep it in a room where Bill can't get his hands on it," Ford said. "But if he does see it... make up a story about it that will drive him crazy."

Mabel considered that. And then a wicked smile twisted up her face.

####

"Okay, your turn," Mabel said. She was slouched down in her seat with her feet up on the car's dashboard. "Befriend, betray, or betroth: Carl Sagan, the Queen of England, and... a wizard."

Ford sucked in a breath. "Ooh, that's tough." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Describe the wizard."

"Greatest wizard of all time! And his beard is like, ten feet long."

Ford pursed his lips as he thought. "Marry the wizard," he said. "As much as I admire Carl's mind, he freely shares his knowledge with the public. Wizards are far more reclusive. Marriage may be my only way to learn his secrets."

"The queen isn't even on the table?"

"I've been a king before, Mabel. Too many social obligations for me," Ford said. "I suppose I'll have to befriend the queen. I can't afford to make any more powerful enemies. Anyway, it could give me an opportunity to ask about some of the legends surrounding Buckingham Palace."

"So you'd betray...?"

Ford frowned deeply. "This game is vicious."

Mabel laughed. "I won't tell him!"

"I appreciate it," Ford said. "All right, your turn. Befriend, betray, or betroth: a president, a movie star, and an astronaut."

Mabel paused. Mabel thought about the guy on the $10 bill—who, she was sure, was definitely a president, or else they wouldn't have put him on a bill. Mabel said, "Which president?"

He'd meant the concept of a president, but. "Uh..."

Mabel gasped and sat up straight. "Grunkle Ford, look!" She pointed out the driver's side window.

"Wh—?" Ford gaped as they drove past a tall pole topped with a gray sign. The sign read, "OCCULTED CRYSTALS". Beneath the words was a glass window shaped like a cut diamond.

"Is that—?"

"That's it!" Ford swerved into the exit lane. "You're not getting away this time, you sonofagun!"

"I've still got like two dollars! Let's do this!"

They celebrated and congratulated each other as they descended onto the frontage road and made a U-turn under the highway.

On the other side, there was no trace of the sign. All they found was a strip of five nondescript whitewashed storefronts, all out of business, with a narrow weed-filled parking lot in front.

Mabel and Ford exchanged a baffled look.

Ford pulled into the empty parking lot and stepped out of the car. "It was here, wasn't it?" he asked. "It can't have been farther back than this." He squinted to the west, shielding his eyes with his hand. No signs that way, and no trees or buildings tall enough to be hiding one.

"Maybe it's a time travel thing!" Mabel jumped out of the car and ran to the abandoned stores, peering through the windows one at a time to see if any looked like a former crystal shop.

Ford glanced warily at a concrete block along the edge of the parking lot that looked like it might once have supported a pole. "Hmm."

Eventually, when they couldn't find anything, they slunk back into the car, got on the frontage road, took the next U-turn, and got back on the highway.

The diamond-windowed Occulted Crystals sign taunted them from the horizon.

They stared dumbly at it.

Mabel pulled out her phone and snapped a picture.

"What are you?" Ford asked the sign. "Is it invisible on its other side?"

Mabel turned in her seat and peered through the back window as they passed it. "Still visible!"

"Then can it only be seen if you're traveling east on the highway?" Ford mused. "But you'd have to be westbound to take an exit that reaches that location. It's impossible to access."

"What if you're traveling west but you drive the car backwards!"

Ford mulled over that. "For starters, we'd probably get pulled over." Ford glanced down at the car's clock. "It's getting late, too. We can't procrastinate anymore if we want to be home in time for dinner."

The sign had disappeared behind them. Mabel turned back around and settled in her seat. "I think this calls for a follow-up investigation later, don't you?"

Ford grinned. "I had the exact same thought."

####

"... And that's how we realized it wasn't Louisa who had slashed Sarah's tires," Abuelita said, "it was Arthur! Can you believe it? Arthur!" She turned away from the stove to look at Bill, eyebrows raised, making sure he fully appreciated this twist.

Sitting backwards on one of the kitchen chairs, he shrugged. "I can't blame him. Every man has his limit. And Sarah's been pushing his for weeks." He took a swig from a bottle of spoiled grape juice.

"Stop drinking my cooking wine," Abuelita said. "Sure, but Arthur's so passive! I thought he'd have a nervous breakdown long before he ever took action! Anyway, things just haven't been the same since he got arrested."

Bill shook his head sympathetically. "I tell you. This town's bingo hall is really going to the dogs."

The front door swung open, and Mabel's voice drifted in: "Betroth the vampire, of course. And—is it possible to betray a zombie? Do they understand loyalty? When Soos got turned..."

Bill perked up, set the juice bottle on the kitchen table, and got to his feet, immediately drawn to a more rewarding distraction. "I'll get out of your hair," he told Abuelita, and switched to English. "Hey, Shooting Star and Sixer!" He leaned against the kitchen doorway. "How were the crystals?"

"Great! I got a watermelon rock and a cat and some beads and the coolest bracelet!" She raised her hand and twisted it back and forth, making the rock chips click together. "And donuts!" She shoved a big green open box in Bill's face. "You're allowed to take one. Only one."

He grabbed the yellowest one he saw and bit in. "Huh. Piña colada. Weird." He took another bite and leaned around the open box lid to look at Mabel. "So. Did you two have fun?"

"Yes! It was a blast!" Mabel gushed. "We got lunch in Portland, and we talked foreverrr, and we've got more in common than I ever imagined, and we're gonna make more trips to Portland soon! I think it really brought us closer together."

"Huh." Bill's gaze flicked up to Ford. "How about that." Ford's face betrayed nothing. Bill looked back at Mabel and grinned wider. "Glad he's less of a killjoy than I thought."

"Pffft! You know he knows how to have fun," Mabel said. "Mr. God of Long Odds."

Bill's eyebrows shot up.

Mabel squeezed past Bill into the kitchen. "Abuelita, if you want a donut, I'm putting them in the bottom left cabinet with the pots."

"Thank you, Mabel."

"I'm taking Ford to the record store to introduce him to late 80's music," Mabel went on. "And we saw a crystal shop that isn't there depending on which way you're driving! Whaaat! Crazy, right!" 

"Oh, you found Occulted Crystals?" Now Bill's grin was aimed at Ford. "I know you didn't get that bracelet there. Didn't figure out how to get in?" He winked. "Do you want to?"

Ford's expression darkened; but before he could say anything, Mabel darted back into the entryway. "No! No spoilers! You'll ruin the fun of figuring it out!"

Bill laughed. "Okay, fine! Just one safety tip: never go looking for it on an empty stomach."

Mabel gave him a distrustful look. "Will that help us get in?"

"It'll help you get back out."

She nodded slowly. "Good to know." She hugged Ford. "I'll be right back! I haven't been to the bathroom since lunch." She bounded upstairs.

Leaving Ford with Bill.

Bill simply smiled. "You talked about DD&MD? That takes me back."

"I know what you're up to, you snake," Ford said. "And it's not going to work. At least leave her out of it."

"Hey, you can't blame me for worrying about her," Bill said. "She's such a caring little thing. And you don't have a strong history of family loyalty."

Ford's hands curled into fists; but he forced himself to turn away from Bill without acknowledging him, and headed for his and Stan's guest room.

"But hey," Bill called after him. "I really am thrilled to see you two getting along so well."

Nothing in Bill's tone sounded sarcastic. Ford paused and glanced back at him suspiciously; but then he shook his head and kept going.

Bill's smile faded. He made a rude gesture at Ford's back; then returned to his post at the kitchen table to listen to Abuelita's gossip and make sure she didn't touch the poison.

####

(Thank y'all for not pulling out the pitchforks at the end of last chapter lol. If you enjoyed, I'd appreciate a comment or reblog! Thanks! 💕)

[bebemoon]

look for the name NAVARI (requested by @potentialle) | gucci by tom ford sheer logo buckle top (s/s 1998), vivienne westwood x burberry micro skirt, prada black leather mules, chanel "sycomore" eau de parfum, sophie buhai gold tiny egg stud earrings, christian dior butterfly logo charm gold chain bracelet, loewe "barcelona" red leather handbag