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geniusboyy · 5 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 13

Crash

Ford woke slowly, the thick ache of his head pulling him out of a heavy, disjointed sleep. His first thought was water, his mouth dry and his throat parched, but as he blinked his way into consciousness, the sharp edge of stale whiskey hit him. He groaned, rolling onto his side, his body protesting the movement. The next thing he noticed was the light. Too bright. He squinted against it, feeling the pounding in his skull intensify as he tried to get his bearings. The room tilted slightly as he moved, his vision blurring for a moment before settling back into the dim outline of his bedroom.

He blinked, sat up, and the crunch of broken glass under his feet jolted him fully awake. Fuck. He looked down, the remnants of last night spilling back to him in a wave: the empty bottle, the shattered glass, the things he’d said, the anger, the resentment that had boiled over and crashed against the silence. Bill.

The name hit him like a fist in the gut. Bill. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t made a sound since before yesterday. But even then, Ford had been able to feel him. He had still been there, lurking in the corners of his mind, that presence was constant, his second heartbeat. That’s how it always was.

But now—

Ford blinked, his pulse quickening as he focused on the stillness. No. He reached deeper, groping for that connection, searching for some flicker of recognition, some sense that Bill was still—nothing. He felt his throat start to tighten. There was nothing.

He stood, too quickly. The motion sent his vision swimming, the room swaying like the deck of a ship in rough waters. For a moment, everything went red at the edges, a fleeting dizziness that left his knees weak. But the panic—that was already rooted deep, sharp and insistent, as if it had been waiting just beneath the surface.

Ford’s body lurched forward on autopilot, carried by instinct, and he stumbled toward the bathroom. Each step felt heavier than the last, like his legs were filled with lead, barely carrying him the short distance. He barely noticed how his limbs trembled, the fatigue that clung to his muscles like a sickness. All he could feel was the dull, rhythmic pounding in his skull, a constant pressure that grew with every heartbeat, intensifying with every breath.

He reached the sink, his fingers wrapping around the edge of the cold porcelain, gripping it tightly enough that his knuckles turned white. It was the only thing grounding him, the sink beneath his hands, solid and real. He leaned over it, head hanging between his shoulders, the weight of his body straining against his grip as though he might collapse at any moment.

He looked up, forcing himself to confront the mirror.

The reflection was immediate and unforgiving. A man stared back at him—disheveled and somewhat unrecognizable. His eyes were glassy and stood out against the dark circles etched into his skin. His cheekbones looked sharper, more pronounced than they had a month ago, his face a bit more hollow in ways it hadn’t been before. He blinked, but the image didn’t change. There was no hiding from it.

But it was just him. No one else.

His fingers tightened on the sink until his nails bent in against the sturdy porcelain, white and unyielding under his grip. He leaned in, closer to the mirror, as if proximity might change something, as if the answer lay just beneath the surface of his skin. His breath came out shallow, fogging the glass in uneven patches, each exhale smudging the clarity, softening the edges of his reflection.

Ford stared into his own eyes, searching. For what? He couldn’t say. It was reflex by now, the need to find something in the depths of his own gaze, as though Bill had left some trace behind, some shadowy glimmer that he might catch if he looked hard enough. He had grown used to it, to that flicker of something not entirely his own, a shimmer of gold or a subtle change in the way his pupils dilated, telling him that Bill was there—somewhere—watching, always watching.

His eyes, though—that was what gutted him. They were empty. There was no spark, no sign of that otherworldly presence that had haunted him for so long. They were just…his. Human. Mortal. He swallowed, the movement slow, deliberate, as if even that took too much effort.

He leaned in closer, until his forehead nearly touched the glass, his breath fogging up the mirror completely now, obscuring the reflection. He wiped at it absentmindedly, as if that would bring Bill back, as if a clearer view of himself might reveal something he was missing. But the more he looked, the more obvious it became—there was nothing left to find.

Gone. The word throbbed in his chest, a relentless, pulsing ache that spread through his ribs, sinking deep into his bones. The absence was unbearable, like a phantom limb.

Ford’s heart pounded, each beat crashing against his ribs like a drum, fast and loud. His breath stuttered, shallow, as if the air around him had thinned, leaving him gasping for something that wasn’t there.

What did I do?

The question stabbed at him, relentless, as his mind looped through fragments of the night before. The edges of his memory were jagged, blurred by the alcohol, but certain moments stood out with perfect, brutal clarity. He’d been drunk, too drunk, the kind of drunk where the world shifted sideways, where words felt like fists, where anger simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest spark to ignite it.

He remembered that feeling, how it had built up inside him, tight and hot, filling his chest until it felt like it might explode. The frustration had been a physical thing, a weight pressing down on him, choking him, and he’d needed to lash out, to expel it, to let it loose. And it got the better of him.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as if he could somehow push the memory back down, but it wouldn’t go. It surged up, vivid, like it was happening all over again: the way his voice was when he’d shouted, the sound of the bottle smashing against the wall, glass shattering in every direction. Fuck you, Bill. The words had come out harsh, slurred, but the meaning had been clear enough, the anger raw and unfiltered. He could still hear them, even now, hanging in the air around him, jagged echoes that wouldn’t fade.

The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating. His chest tightened, his pulse thudding against his temples. Ford ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands, as if the act might help him think, help him piece it all together. But the memories were scattered, fragmented, like the shards of glass still littering his bedroom floor. He remembered the flash of anger in his own voice, the way his heart had hammered in his chest as if it had been waiting for something—anything—from Bill. A reaction, a word, an acknowledgment.

But Bill had stayed silent. Just as he had all day, his presence there, lingering in Ford’s mind but withholding everything that Ford had craved. That was what had driven him to the edge—the stillness. The absence of the thing he had come to depend on most. That unbearable silence. It had eaten away at him, fanned the flames of his frustration until they’d consumed him, until he had hurled those words out into the void, desperate for a response.

And now he’s gone.

Had that been enough? Was that what finally did it? The question lodged itself in Ford’s chest, tight and painful, like something clawing at him from the inside. Had Bill finally decided he wasn’t worth it? The thought alone made him feel like his insides had been scooped out.

There had always been that lurking fear, hadn’t there? That this… arrangement—this relationship or whatever it was—had an expiration date. That Bill would grow bored or frustrated, would decide that Ford’s mess of a life wasn’t worth the trouble. Ford had known, in some distant part of himself, that this kind of power, this kind of connection, came with a cost. And he’d always wondered if there would come a day when Bill would simply vanish. When the silence in his mind would be final. Permanent.

But not like this.

Not over something so fucking… stupid.

His breath was a shuddering intake of air that caught in his throat. Of all the ways he had imagined losing Bill—if he’d let himself imagine it at all—it hadn’t been like this. But now… maybe that line had always been there. Maybe Ford had crossed it without even realizing.

The room around him felt too small, too close. His pulse raced, the beat of it relentless in his ears, as if trying to drown out his thoughts. I pushed him away. I drove him off. The possibility struck him like a blow, hard and vicious. It made his chest ache. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the thought aside, trying to tell himself it couldn’t be true. Bill wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t just disappear. But the silence in his mind was deafening, a void where there had once been something—someone—so present. So constant. That was the worst of it. The absence. The persistent emptiness.

Ford’s breaths were coming too fast, too shallow, each one a sharp gasp that barely filled his lungs. No, no, no. His fingers fumbled for the faucet, twisting it on with a shaking hand, cold water rushing into the sink. He splashed it over his face, again and again, the chill biting at his skin, but it didn’t help. It didn’t pull him back. His mind was a storm, wild and relentless, tearing at the edges of his sanity.

This can’t be happening. He leaned over the sink, gripping the edges tighter as the cold droplets dripped from his chin. His eyes squeezed shut, and he tried to calm his breathing, tried to push away the rising panic that tightened his throat. But the fear was there, burrowing deeper, sinking its teeth into his thoughts. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

He muttered the words under his breath, like some kind of chant, like if he said it enough, it would become true. “This isn’t real,” he whispered again, his voice shaking, the words nearly lost between the shallow, uneven gasps of air. His heart raced now, as if it was trying to outpace the trepidation swelling inside him.

His eyes fluttered open, and he stared down at the water swirling in the sink, his reflection fractured and distorted in the surface. His fingers still gripped the edges of the sink, trying to anchor himself, but the cold, hard porcelain felt distant, like he wasn’t really here. Like he was slipping, bit by bit, into something else—into that void of emptiness where Bill had once been.

He splashed more water onto his face, desperate now, as if he could wash away the creeping dread that clung to him. Please. Come back. The thought came fast, sharp and raw. He couldn’t let this be the end. Not like this. Not over a fight. Not over something so meaningless and impulsive. But the silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, and with every second that passed, the hope that Bill might answer him, might still be there, grew fainter.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered again, more to himself now, like a plea. It can’t be.

He stripped off his clothes in a daze, dropping them carelessly to the floor as he stumbled into the shower, not even bothering to check the temperature. The water hit him like a wall, scalding hot, burning where it touched, but he barely felt it. His body stood there, rigid, while his mind spiraled deeper into that gaping hollow. He stared down at the tiles beneath his feet, watching the water swirl around the drain.

The water pounded against his back, relentless, but it was the silence that suffocated him. He hadn’t realized how much space Bill had filled in his life until now, until that space was empty, a cavernous absence that swallowed everything. The quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was crushing, pressing in on him from all sides, suffocating him, wrapping tight around his chest until he could barely breathe. His throat closed up, the weight of it pulling him down.

His chest heaved, trying to pull in air that wouldn’t come, each breath shorter and sharper than the last. He’s gone. The thought rippled through him, spreading like poison, latching onto every part of him. Bill wasn’t just silent. He wasn’t just distant, lurking in some corner of Ford’s mind, waiting to reemerge. He was gone. Really, truly gone.

How long had it been since Ford had felt this kind of emptiness? Since the weight of his own thoughts had been all he had? It didn’t matter. He had gotten used to Bill, used to the presence, the connection—no matter how strange or dangerous it had been, it was always there. Even when they weren’t speaking, Ford could feel him. Could reach out, just with a thought, and know he was there, somewhere in the recesses of his mind. But now that he’s gone, and the silence is painful.

Ford felt the panic claw its way up his throat again, sharp and vicious, threatening to suffocate him. His chest heaved as the dizziness hit—too much heat, too little air. The walls started tilting. He pressed his back against the cold tiles, desperate for something solid, something real to hold him in place. But it wasn’t enough.

His knees buckled under him, unable to hold him upright. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor of the shower, the tiles were cold agains his bare skin. The water still beat down on him, relentless and hot, but it was distant now, something happening to a body he no longer fully inhabited. He sat there, hunched and shaking, barely able to catch his breath. The sound of water hitting the tile, splashing around him, was distant—an echo muted beneath the roar of his own spiraling thoughts.

What if—? His mind raced, too fast to follow, each thought colliding with the next, a blur of confusion and fear. Why—? But none of it made sense. None of it added up. Why would Bill leave him now? Why would he disappear after everything they’d been through? Had Ford driven him away? Had that one night—those stupid, drunken words—been enough to tear it all apart? It seemed so absurd, so insignificant compared to the connection they’d shared. But Bill was gone.

The thought hit him again, harder this time, a fresh wave of panic rising up to swallow him whole. He pressed his palms against the floor, trying to ground himself, but it was no use. He was sinking. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t make sense of it. His mind thrashed against the edges of the truth, but there was no way out of it. Bill was gone, and Ford was left with nothing. No answers. No explanations. Just the unbearable silence.

His breath caught in his throat, sharp and shallow, and before he could stop it, the tears came. At first, they were quiet, just a few hot streaks that blurred his vision, sliding down his cheeks. But then the sobs hit, sudden and violent, shaking his chest and forcing their way out of him. He pressed his palms to his face, trying to muffle them, but it was useless. They tore through him, unrelentingly.

“I’m sorry,” The words escaped in a broken whisper, barely audible above the steady roar of the shower. His chest hitched again, the weight of it overwhelming, as the apologies tumbled out of him, one after the other, frantic and pleading. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it—”

But there was no response. Only the water, pounding against him, only the silence, pressing down like a weight, only the emptiness, vast and suffocating. Ford never knew silence could be so loud.

He cried until there was nothing left, until the sobs had wrung him dry, leaving him hollow and aching. His chest heaved with the remnants of it, the pain that throbbed behind his ribs, the pounding in his skull. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, curled on the floor of the shower, knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped around himself as if that could keep him from unraveling completely. He let the water wash over him until long after it went cold.

He failed. The realization crept in, a whisper that spiraled into a scream in his mind. Yesterday, the silence—it had to be a test, right? A final chance to prove himself worthy of Bill’s attention, of his presence. And he had failed. He had let his anger take over, let his emotions dictate his choices. He’d become too involved, too attached. Bill needed distance. Needed to see how Ford would react. And he failed. It was a bitter taste that flooded his mouth

Eventually, he forced himself to stand. He shut off the water, dried off mechanically, and got dressed, moving through the motions of his morning without really thinking about any of it. The panic had settled into something quieter now, something colder. A dull ache that devoured him from the inside out.

Ford’s morning unfolded like a memory. The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft clatter of dishes and Fiddleford humming some old tune under his breath, his movements easy and practiced at the stove. He cracked an egg into the pan, the hiss of it hitting the heat was amplified in Ford’s ears. Everything was louder today. The scrape of the spatula, the low hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the clock on the wall—every sound was almost overwhelming against the silence in his head. Ford pressed his fingers against his temples, trying to dull the ache in his skull. His mouth was dry, his eyes gritty, but none of that compared to the emptiness inside him.

“Morning, sunshine,” Fidds said, his voice bright, too bright, like he hadn’t noticed the storm brewing just beneath Ford’s skin. It almost felt insulting, how happy he was. As if everything was fine, as if the world hadn’t shifted off its axis.

Ford grunted, sliding into his usual seat. He didn’t have it in him to respond with anything more. His mind was miles away, chasing shadows, chasing Bill. The thought of him—of that silence—was like a splinter in his brain, driving deeper with every second that passed.

“Rough night?” Fiddleford didn’t turn around, still focused on the eggs, but Ford could feel the question hanging in the air between them.

“Just hungover,” Ford muttered, his voice rough, like it had been scraped across sandpaper. He ran a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm. Fiddleford’s eyes flicked toward him, just for a second, but it was enough. Ford felt the weight of it, the quiet concern, and for a moment, he hated it. Hated how close Fidds was. How easily he could see through him.

Fiddleford didn’t push, thankfully. He just slid the plate in front of Ford with a quiet clink. Ford stared at it for a moment. He wasn’t hungry. “Thanks,” he managed, picking up his fork. He stabbed at the eggs, chewing without tasting, forcing himself to swallow.

Fidds was talking, something about calibrating one of the machines, but Ford could barely keep up. His mind kept slipping, caught in the the aching void within him. He nodded when he had to, made vague noises of agreement, but it was all so detached. The only thing in his mind were flashes of memory. The way the lights and shadows casted on Bill’s skin, his lips and how they moved when he spoke, the way he smelled. How badly Ford just wanted to kiss him. How much he regrets that impulsivity now.

When breakfast was over, Ford washed his plate, his hands moving on autopilot. The water was scalding, steam rising like a ghost in the cool kitchen air, but adjusting the handle felt like a pointless effort. Each scrub of the dish was a repetitive motion that kept his body occupied while his thoughts drifted. Bill. The name echoed in his mind, a relentless refrain that bounced off the walls of his thoughts, filling the silence. It was unbearable.

He squeezed the sponge harder, his hand cramping with the pressure, foam slipping out and disappearing down the drain. His jaw clenched without him realizing, teeth grinding as his shoulders tightened, as if bracing for something that never came. For a second, he thought about smashing the plates on the ground, just to hear the sound. His fingers flexed involuntarily, knuckles red from the hot water, but he didn’t follow through. He just scrubbed them harder.

He left the kitchen without a word, ignoring Fiddleford’s gaze as he slipped past him and into the stairwell. His footsteps felt slow, as if he were walking underwater, each step taking more effort than the last. At the bottom, Ford halted, looking at the stillness of the lab like a photograph. The air was thick with the familiar scent of old paper and chemicals. His gaze swept across the room, landing on the desk littered with scattered notes, equations left mid-thought, instruments he had balanced and tuned with precision, all sitting there untouched, waiting, caught in time—seeming to mock him.

Ford squeezed his eyes closed and let out a deep breath, flexing his fingers again. He reached for his lab coat, slowly wrapping the heavy fabric around his shoulders. He stared at the ground, reminding himself to breath as he adjusted the lapels. It was so quiet.

He dared to look around again, his eyes skimming the corners, the shadows. And there it was again—Bill. Or rather, the memory of him, lingering like smoke in the back of his mind.

The photos still hung on the wire, stark and fully developed, just as he’d left them. He reached for each one, individually plucking them down and stacking them in his other hand, the edges curling beneath his fingertips. They vibrated faintly in his grip, trembling with the slight movements of his hands, but his eyes barely registered the images. He sifted through them, the glossy paper making a shuffling sound as they slid over to the next. His gaze flicked over the photos, but he wasn’t really seeing them, picking a couple at random and pinned them to the board without much thought. The rest he let drop to the desk, forgotten as soon as they left his hands.

Ford leaned against his chair and cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut against the next wave of panic. Focus. He had to focus. He couldn’t fall apart now, not with Fidds so close by, his concern bearing down on him. His mind was racing, spinning in circles, chasing itself. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. About that last moment, that last look, the way Bill had pulled away. How he’s crossed the line, got too comfortable, revealed too much of himself. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it hard to breathe. The memories cut though him like a dull blade. He couldn’t get through like this. Couldn’t bear to get through the next hour, the next minute. But what choice did he have? He had to keep going, had to keep working, had to do something to fill the silence.

He pulled the chair out and sat, grabbing one of the notebooks and flipping to a blank page. He dated the corner, Thursday October 21st. His pen hovered, the date stuck out to him for some reason. He closed his eyes and shook his head, not now. He needed to model the memory retrieval process, use Fourier transforms—a method that allowed him to break down neural signals into their component frequencies, essential for the project’s success. He sketched out the formula, starting with the integral of the signal function, trying to map it onto a simulated neural network.

But halfway through writing it, he paused, the numbers losing their shape on the page. He hadn’t been focusing. He knew the integral was wrong without even checking it. He cursed under his breath, scratching through the equation, the ink smearing slightly as he pressed the pen harder.

Again. He started over, this time trying to compute the Fourier coefficients for the network’s input signals. He worked methodically, his pen moving rapidly, but halfway through the calculation, his mind drifted. His focus slipped, and he again knew, immediately, that it wasn’t right.

He tore out the page, balled it up, and tossed it to the floor. There was no point in even trying to fix it. He started again, resetting on the next blank sheet, forcing his hand to move slower this time. He was running through a new transformation, trying to convert the signals back from frequency space to time domain, but the numbers refused to line up, his hand faltering mid-equation.

Again. He crumpled another sheet. He could feel Fiddleford’s presence behind him, not saying anything but watching, and it made the frustration even worse. He had to get it right, had to make it work—but every attempt ended in a dead end, the equations refusing to coalesce. His grumbled another couple of curses under his breath and rubbed his hand over his face, letting out a deep sigh.

He threaded his fingers through his hair, resting his head on top of his hand while his leg bounced beneath the desk. He leaned forward, determined to run the equation again. Fourier transform, signal processing, mapping out the neural encoding for memory retrieval—he could do this in his sleep. His pen scratched across the page, the symbols flowing from muscle memory. But halfway down, his hand froze, his eyes locked on the mistake he hadn’t noticed until now.

He’d miscalculated the boundary conditions—again. The error threw off the entire transformation, distorting the results.

“Fuck!” he shouted, slamming the notebook shut and banging his hand on the desk, the sound reverberating through the lab. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He slammed the pen down as he turned, going for the stairs.

Fidds, kneeling by the spectrometer he’d been recalibrating all morning, stilled at the sound of the outburst, the wrench clutched loosely in his hand. His hand hovered for a moment over the wires and bolts, frozen mid-task. He glanced up, catching a glimpse of Ford’s back as it disappeared up the stairs. Too fast—Ford always moved too fast. And yet, as always, he said nothing. Just watched him go, his lips parting for a question that never made it past his throat. What could he even ask? What could he say that Ford hadn’t already decided not to hear? Fiddleford sighed, his grip tightening on the wrench, and turned back to the machine, the loose wire still dangling in front of him. But his thoughts followed Ford up those stairs.

Ford burst onto the porch, the door slamming behind him, his frustration cutting into the cold air, each breath escaping in jagged, white clouds. His body felt too tight, like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough, couldn’t settle. He paced back and forth, hands on his hips, his shoes scraping against the worn wood of the porch. The cold hit him sharply, but it did little to dull the heat still surging through his chest, the mess of anger and disappointment knotting up inside. He fished through his pockets with shaking hands, checking each one until he finally found his cigarettes.

“Shouldn’t be this fucking hard,” he muttered, voice low, barely louder than the hiss of wind threading through the trees. “Fuckin’ boundaries, you stupid prick—” He cut himself off as his fingers fumbled with the matches, striking one after the other, his cigarette waiting impatiently between his lips, until it lit, a small, defiant flame against the cold. He brought it to the tip, inhaling deeply as the smoke curled into his lungs, a small relief. He closed his eyes, steadying himself, letting the nicotine pull him back from the edge.

Another deep breath, smoke trailing out slowly, and he pressed his thumb to his forehead and leaned on the railing, trying to ground himself. But the memories kept flashing. He couldn’t stop seeing him. Bill’s hair catching the light—short that day, curling just around his ears and neck. Ford’s breath hitched as he brought the cigarette back to his lips. The smirk was still there, clear in his mind. The way Bill’s lips would curl, right before he said something rude, something that would make him laugh. Ford’s next breath came out shaking, irregular plumes erupting from his lips.

The hours blurred together after that, the sun dipping low outside before Ford even realized it had crept into the evening. He moved from one task to the next, half-present, agitated, his thoughts circling back, over and over—flashes of Bill. By the end of the day, Ford felt wrung out, his body exhausted but his mind still churning. And yet, when he finally crawled into bed, it wasn’t with dread. There was a strange sense of anticipation tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Maybe tonight. Maybe Bill would come back, explain the silence like it was nothing. Just a fluke. He closed his eyes, hoping to find him waiting there, like always, with that crooked grin and some offhand, dismissive remark. Ford let the comfort of that possibility settle over him

But the moment his eyes closed, they shot open again. Nothing. No dream, no pull into that place where Bill waited for him. Just the stillness of the room. His hangover had faded by now, but that only made everything sharper—the quiet more crushing. Now, there was nothing to blunt the ache. The silence in his head swelled with every hour, turning into something heavy and sickening, a void he couldn’t fill no matter how much he tried. His mind reached out instinctively at first, calling for Bill in the dark, but after days of hearing nothing—feeling nothing—he’d stopped.

And so, he worked. He forced himself; the only way out was through. The lab became a refuge, a place where the parts of himself he couldn’t bear to face didn’t exist. He moved slower now, without Bill’s voice guiding him, but he pushed on regardless. He managed to isolate new pathways for memory retention, refined the neural mapping techniques they’d been testing, even developed a more stable interface for the machine’s input-output protocols. Advances—real, tangible progress—but none of it felt like enough. Without Bill, every breakthrough felt like a hollow victory, something that should’ve meant more. Something that used to. But it wasn’t enough.

The first week blurred together, each night filled with hope, each morning a fresh disappointment. Every time, the weight of Bill’s absence hit him harder, sinking deeper. He spent hours hunched over his desk, running test after test, sifting through photographs, data, slides, graphs, blueprints—anything to keep his mind occupied. Fiddleford hovered nearby, his concern visible in every small gesture, every quiet glance, but Ford couldn’t bring himself to engage. He couldn’t afford to. The work was all he had, the only thing he could cling to. If he stopped, even for a second, everything else would catch up to him.

He hated waking up. Hated the first breath of the day, the way it sat thick in his chest, sour on his tongue, like the world itself was reminding him of what had slipped away. But it wasn’t loss—not really. That would’ve been simpler, cleaner, something with edges, something he could grasp. Loss had a beginning and an end; it was something you could measure, something you could name. But this? This was worse. It was a hollowing-out, a quiet unraveling, like a piece of him had been ripped away, but the tear had no borders, no clean break.

He could hardly stand to look at himself. One morning—he couldn’t even remember which—it all hit him, sharp and sudden, when he caught his reflection over the sink. He made the mistake of meeting his own eyes, searching them, only to be confronted with hollow darkness staring back. His pupils were wide, empty, black. The sight made his skin crawl. Made him furious. This was his fault. He drove his fist into the glass.

Fiddleford had been sitting on the porch with his boots kicked up onto the railing when Ford came out, his attention drawn to the sound of broken shards clinking together, pieces falling from the frame tucked under his arm. “What happened?”

“Drywall gave way,” Ford lied, stepping down the porch steps and heading toward the street. “Must’ve missed the stud.” It came out smoothly, as if his knuckles, tucked under his sleeve, hadn’t been wrapped tight, red blooms soaking through the fabric. He quickened his pace, brushing past Fidds before he could ask anything more, the weight of unspoken words lingering in the air between them. Ford could feel Fidds’ gaze on his back. He wore gloves that day.

By the time the second week rolled in, it became almost impossible to keep up appearances. His body was failing him—he could feel it in the exhaustion that clung to his muscles, the ache that had settled into his bones like it had always been there. It showed on his face, his eyes were sunken, his hair more unkempt and unruly. But he didn’t care. He forced himself through the motions, driving his body past its limits, because sleep—sleep was the enemy. It meant surrendering to the dark, empty hours, where all he had were his thoughts, and worse, the suffocating certainty that Bill wouldn’t be there. He avoided it as much as possible.

One night, when the lab had grown insufferably still, Ford found himself scrubbing the floor. On his hands and knees, with only a sponge and a bucket at his side. He wasn’t sure how it had started, but once he began, he couldn’t stop. He worked his way through every corner, scrubbing every stain from the tile, until his knuckles ached. His palms were sore and his knees were bruised, but he was able to lose himself in it, while it lasted.

He never said it aloud, never let himself acknowledge it fully, but the thought infected everything he touched. It slipped into the way he gripped a test tube too tightly, a few accidentally breaking under the absentminded grip. It showed in the way he paced, a restless circuit around the lab, eyes flicking towards the door every time he turned his head, as if Bill might be standing there, smug as always, just as suddenly as he’d disappeared. But he wasn’t. And Ford couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t stop working. The void stretched wider, and the only thing he could do was fill it with frantic motion, with the endless cycle of experiments, papers, numbers—all of it beginning to blur together, but none of it enough.

Fiddleford noticed, of course—he always did. He didn’t say much, but his actions were louder than words: the quiet, careful way he placed meals in front of Ford, his hands lingering for a second too long as to remind Ford he’s here. The gentle, persistent questions: “You alright?” “You eatin’ enough?” Ford barely answered, his replies reduced to grunts, noncommittal shrugs, or if he did speak, it was a rotation, “Getting close, almost at another breakthrough, can’t stop now,” as he’d push the food around his plate. He’d swallow just enough to keep from passing out, but nothing more. The taste of everything seemed to make his stomach turn these days.

The third week blurred into a haze of data and missed meals. Ford immersed himself in the work, pushing through fatigue and numbing his thoughts with endless tasks. The fungal samples were showing promising results—an advancement in their understanding of cross-species memory retention, something that could be monumental for the project. Fiddleford practically buzzed with excitement as they crunched the numbers, his eyes bright with the thrill of discovery. For a moment, Ford felt a flicker of excitement, or at least a spark of connection. He let himself laugh at a joke Fidds made, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it. But just as quickly, the weight settled back in, and the moment slipped away. The corners of his mouth faltered, and he was left with that familiar emptiness again. So, he buried himself in the work, letting the repetitive motions consume him, hoping that somehow, in the process, he might feel alive again.

Sunday had slipped in without Ford noticing. It was always Sunday lately, the weeks bleeding together like they were cut from the same cloth, the same fabric of sleepless nights, hollow mornings, and long stretches of numbness in between. He knew it was Sunday because Fidds always had that look on his face, the look where Ford knew, once he saw it, he’d have about 5 minutes in the lab until Fidd came down to remind him it was Sunday. He sat hunched over his desk, getting something small done ahead of his roommate’s fretting. He opened his notebook, scribbling in the top right corner. Sunday— Ford paused. Was it the 31st or the 7th?

Right on cue, Fidds appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hands on his hips, already launching into his familiar routine. “Ford, it’s Sunday. Why don’t you—”

“The 31st or the 7th?” Ford interrupted, barely looking up from his notebook.

Fidds hesitated, caught off guard for a moment, then sighed. “The 7th…”

Ford nodded and looked back at his notebook, Sunday November 7th, 1982 he wrote in his careful script. He rose from his chair and Fidds stood back, watching him for a moment, a mix of worry and admiration in his gaze. Ford often lost himself in the machinery, but today there was an unsettling distance in his focus. “I’m heading into town for a bit, Ford. Planning to swing by Reg’s. I can grab any supplies you need,” he said, trying to sound casual.

Ford blinked, his mind slow to register the words. “Hmm?” he murmured, barely turning to look over his shoulder.

“Town, Ford,” Fidds repeated, leaning against the machine Ford tinkered with. “You know, outside?” His voice dripped with an impatient sarcasm, the kind that was meant to break through the fog. “Do you need anything?”

Ford barely had time to nod before he was rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a scrap of paper filled with his haphazard handwriting. He thrust it at Fidds without looking up.

Fidds unfolded the note and squinted at the list. Bolts, composition notebooks, soap, orange juice (with pulp), #2 pencils, aftershave… It went on like that, a jumble of different colored inks and graphite, as if it had been accumulating while he waited for Fidds to ask. He pressed his tongue against his cheek as he read. “You know, you could always grab some these things yourself.”

Ford’s jaw tightened, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I’ve been busy,” he replied, the tension in his voice palpable.

“You’re always busy,” Fiddleford sighed, exasperation creeping into his tone. He glanced at the list again, frustration evident in his furrowed brow. “Seriously, you need to get out. You haven’t left this place in almost a month, and you’ve barely left the grounds in two!”

“Spare me the sermon, Fidds,” Ford muttered, a dark edge creeping into his voice. “It’s only been… couple weeks. You’re my assistant. Assist me.” He turned back to his screen, continuing to type.

Fidd couldn’t help but laugh, a mix of amusement and disbelief spilling out. “Dammit, Ford,” he started, shoving the list against Ford’s chest with a playful shove. “Take your fuckin’ lab coat off and come on.”

Ford snatched the list just before it fell to the floor, irritation flaring. “Aw, c’mon, Fid—look, I’m right in the middle of something.”

Fiddleford crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe with a playful smirk. “My boots’ gonna be in the middle of your ass if you’re not in the car in five minutes,” he said, teasing but with an undercurrent of serious intent. The lightness in his tone did little to mask the firm set of his jaw, a clear warning that he wasn’t backing down.

There was a pause, the air between them thickening with unspoken tension. Fiddleford shifted on his feet, glancing around the lab as if searching for something to anchor them. “Please, Ford. Just come with me.”

Ford didn’t respond immediately, he sat there, shoulders hunched and tense, his thoughts spiraling in the familiar chaos. He was tired, so tired, and the idea of leaving felt insurmountable, like scaling a mountain. But he could feel the weight of Fidds’ gaze on him, a mix of concern and exasperation that cut through the haze. He knew he’d have to relent eventually, humor him so he wouldn’t worry as much. With a heavy sigh, he stood, pushing himself up from his chair, the motion a reluctant surrender. “Fine. Okay,” he muttered, the words carrying a hint of defeat.

But as he glanced back at the cluttered desk, the mess of equations and research notes, he felt a flicker of something—maybe hope, or maybe just a desperate need for a break from the relentless grind. He stripped off his lab coat and hung it in its usual spot, taking another glance at the lab as he followed Fid up the stairs.

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#covenants and other provisions #my writing #stanford pines #bill cipher #billford #gravity falls #billford fanfic #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #Woah nelly #i had to break this one up bc it was about to be super long chapter #so we’re gonna explore sad boy ford a little longer

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