#and it’s honestly just as easy to read fiddauthor into it with the way Fidds is behavior

[a-writing-otter]

This is a little something I wrote for @a-scary-lack-of-common-sense ‘s Kook Ford AU. Sorry that it’s not actually Ford, but the post about what Fiddleford and Stanley were doing kind of ate at me for a bit until I blacked out and this was on my screen.

Go check out his AU art, it’s absolutely delightful. Honestly, thanks for inspiring me with this to write anything. It’s been a minute. Thanks for your killer AU, I hope I did it justice. Enjoy!

It’s well after five in the morning. Tate, Soos, and the twins are all asleep. Fiddleford is standing on one side of the kitchen, glaring at Stan who is looking through the cabinets of this old ghost of a house with something intent on his face, pointedly not looking at Fiddleford.

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. God knows I wouldn’t drink that swill, ha!”

Fiddleford says nothing. Stanley looks at him, then winces, and looks away.

“C’mon, Fidds, you can’t be that mad.”

“Can’t I?” Fiddleford reaches a hand up and then pushes his goggles to the top of his head to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Let’s count it out, shall we? Y’turned on that portal after your brother and I told you not to; you endangered the lives of your niece and nephew, your supposed heir, and, apparently, my son; you faked your death; you abandoned your brother; you took my name; and you run a leg of the mafia. Am I forgetting anything else?!”

“Hey! I saved your life!”

“You almost killed everyone in this—!” Fiddleford stops at the sound of shuffling from upstairs. He clears his throat, exhales a breath, and tries again, quieter.

“You almost got everyone in this damned town killed. And for what? This ain’t Casablanca.”

Stan turns sharp eyes on him.

“Don’t,” he says pointedly at him. “I didn’t—“ Stan fists a hand and thumps it against the wall beside the cabinet he’s still searching through, though not nearly loud enough to let out the frustration Fiddleford can see building up in him.

“You’re right,” Stan says, measured. “You are also… the only one that can fix this. I tried. I tried real hard, Fidds. There ain’t nothing I can do. No money, no power…”

“That’s why you brought me back. To clean up your mess,” Fiddleford sneers.

“No. To save Ford.”

Fiddleford goes quiet and his mouth draws into a line.

“You said he went crazy after I left,” Fiddleford says slowly. “That he— With the memory gun and—“

Stan looks up the stairs and finally gives up his pursuit and comes in close to Fiddleford. His words are quiet and low.

“Ford… After you went through, he got a little skrewy. He got… agitated and scared. He was convinced that Bill was comin’ after him after everything with the portal.”

“Yes, well, if I do remember, my last words were ‘oh god, Bill’ before I disappeared into another dimension.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You’re going to blame me? You’re seriously going to blame me? Who in the hell’s fault was it that that portal even turned on?”

Stan winces and then rubs a hand over his face.

“I know, I know, I know. It’s mine. It’s all my fault. Everything in this godforsaken—!”

Stan reels it back and forces another breath out his nose. All things considered, Fiddleford is rather impressed how well Stanley is handling his temper. He was never the kind of lash out, but certainly the kind of get loud. Fiddleford shakes his head, walks away from Stan, and goes over to the cabinet just above the fridge. The robotic wrist extends out to grab the extra few inches he needs to open the cabinet. From there, he can open the door and then pull out a crystal clear mason jar. Pulling it down, he struggles with it for a second. Stan holds a hand out and Fiddleford meets his eyes fiercely before something in his robotic wrist clicks and the seal pops. He keeps looking at Stan as he takes a swig.

“Does that taste good?” Stan asks, disbelieving. Fiddleford is trying not to gag.

“Like vinegar. Better than nothing though.” After a second, he holds it out towards Stan who shakes his head. “Y’always were a wuss, city boy.”

Stan’s lips twitch slightly.

“Not all of us were kitted out to be hicks.”

They lapse into silence again and Fiddleford leans into the counter as he continues to nurse the jar of moonshine like it’s some kind of fine wine—after the swill he’s had these thirty years, he’s happy to have this, vinegar or not.

“What happened next?” Fiddleford finally asks, looking at Stanley. “What happened to Ford, why does my son call you my name, why are you a mob boss?”

Stan takes a deep breath in.

“That’s where it gets a little… eh, complicated. Ford and I got into an argument about him refusing to boot the portal back up. I told him if he was going to leave his best friend to die, he should consider me dead too. And I, uh,” Stan pauses for a second, expression haunted, “I don’t think I’m never gonna regret that. I got in the car, I left. Decided to tell your wife and kid something, didn’t know what. It, uh, went… Well, I—“

He looks at Fiddleford and holds his hands out like an offering, expression sheepish.

“I don’t know, Fidds, it happened so fast. I was— I was convinced that you wouldn’t want them to be left alone and I— I mean they missed you, so—“

“Did you wipe their memories to make them think you were me?!” He hisses out. Fiddleford doesn’t really believe a word of what he himself is saying, but it gets louder and almost desperate when Stan nods his head.

“You stole my identity?!”

“You were gone! Or dead! I didn’t know! I didn’t know how long it’d take to get you back! I just thought, well, you know… I’d look after them, make sure they were okay, and then when we got you back, everything would be great!”

“Stanley Pines, you’re insane!”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Apparently, it’s a family trait.”

Stan is running his hands through his hair over and over again to the point it’s sticking up in every direction. It takes more effort than Fiddleford cares to admit not to reach out and smooth it out.

…he almost misses the mullet.

Fiddleford shakes his head—no, no, he doesn’t. There’s nothing about this bastard that he misses.

“So, what? You convinced my family that you were me and then just left Stanford?”

“Well, no. I, uh, went back to Gravity Falls, figured that he’d had some time to think, so we’d team up, figure out what to do, all that good stuff. Your family managed that long without you, figured a little longer would be—” A pause. “Except he wasn’t himself anymore when I came back. I—“

Stanley slumps down into the chair, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

“I didn’t know what happened. I came back and he started howlin’ about ghosts. His head was bleeding and there was metal in there and he had—“ Fiddleford sees Stanley shudder from head to toe. “Fidds, he had no idea who I was. I tried to jog his memory, you know, I’m his brother? Twin? Stanley? And then he started wailin’ about his dead brother. Shook me off to crawl over to a phone that wasn’t even plugged into the wall, talkin’ to no one, wouldn’t even look at me. I— I was a coward, Fidds. I couldn’t stay, didn’t know what to do for him, so I just— I left. I faked the death of Stanley Pines he thought was real and put the whole thing behind me.

“Only problem is that my life as ‘Fiddleford McGucket’ wasn’t exactly charmed. Couldn’t wipe Em’s mind of you bein’ gone for four years and she was real pissed. Then, of course, I couldn’t work a computer for the life of me. So, uh, Em left me, took Tate, and… and it was just me. Alone. In Palo Alto. No brother, no…” he hesitates for a second before pushing on, “you, no your family to look after. Everything I’d done, I’d kind of come up empty on.

“So, I, uh, did what I was good at. Clawing my way out of bad situations. I’m real good at lying, you know. Pretty damn good. And you had some real amazing equipment still at your house. Some tongue-in-cheek lies, some bravado, some promises I threatened others to keep, and I—“

“You used my technology to bribe your way into the mob?” Fiddleford groans. “You couldn’t even replicate my stuff!”

“You’re right! Tech? Computers? Screw that! But I’m great at making connections with people who know people. And, uh, when the connections ran out, I made other connections. And, eventually, with enough time and connections and power, I—“

“Became the head of the mob?”

“I mean, that’s a bit of an over-exaggeration, but, eh, more or less. Was able to keep the house, keep myself afloat, even made sure I could be ‘round Tate’s life.”

“You exposed my son to the mob?!” Fiddleford takes a step forward that Stan reels back from as much as he can while seated.

“I kept him safe! Look, he and Em were always safe, I made sure of that!”

“Okay. Great. Wonderful.” Fiddleford takes another two gulps of moonshine and, again, tries not to gag. “You put my family at risk, you abandoned my best friend. How the hell did you end up back here?”

It gets quiet again and Stan goes from looking like that cocky bastard who believes his own lies to that scared kid who got caught telling a lie.

“It was Tate,” he starts. “He was stayin’ with me, sleepin’ real tight in bed before he came in to get me. It was nightmares for a bit, nothing out of the ordinary for a ten year-old. But they kept happening over and over and— And finally, I ask him to tell his old man what’s eating him. …and he says there’s been something coming to him in his dreams. That a man who looks like me with yellow eyes and so many teeth keeps talking to him, trying to tell him he needs to come to Gravity Falls. I— I don’t know. I tried to convince myself it was a coincidence, that he’d seen something on TV. You know kids and their imaginations, right?”

Fiddleford just stares at Stan.

“But he was shoutin’ one night, went to go check in on him and— And he said my name, clear as day. Said Ford’s name too and I— knew I couldn’t stay away.”

Stan folds his arms over his chest. Fiddleford’s eyes are drawn to the way that the tattoos bulge slightly when he does. He’s not the starved vagabond he once knew. All things considered, he looks healthy. Well, healthier.

“Came up here, came to the house. I expected to find Ford, but… he wasn’t ‘round. Looked high and low for him ‘til the dame at the diner told me about the ‘Crazy Kook Ford’.”

“…Crazy Kook Ford?” Fiddleford presses, jaw dropping. “You left your brother to— to be a crazy old townie?”

“Not like I didn’t try to bring him inside! Geez, I’ve had better luck taming seagulls and those things are nasty. But, no. No matter how much reasonin’, how much cajolin’, I couldn’t get him to talk to me or recognize me. He’ll talk anyone’s ear off if given the time, but me? He avoids me like the plague.”

Then Stan shrugs.

“Couldn’t leave him again, though. Came up here, kept up my work long-distance and brought some of it here. Small towns like Gravity Falls are happy to take in someone who can keep it afloat and prosperous. And I knew that, if anyone was going to get Ford back to one-hundo, it was going to be you. So I tried to rebuild the damned portal. It, uh, took longer than I would have liked.”

Thirty years is a helluva long time, Fiddleford has to admit.

“What do you want me to do?” Fiddleford finally asks. “I mean, you got me here, sure, but I don’t know damn about neuroscience and memory. Well, other than how to scramble it. That’s all frequencies and brainwaves and hypnotism. I can’t put memories back, that’s a lot more complicated.”

“You’re not even gonna try?” Stan demands and Fiddleford throws his hands up.

“I didn’t— Christ Jesus, Stanley, I didn’t say that! Just— This ain’t gonna be easy. This is gonna take time. Might be years.”

“…we don’t have that kind of time.”

Fiddleford snorts.

“Look, I know you’re not keen on Stanford spending his golden years as a drooling, crazy, old man, but—“

“He’s got Bill in his head.”

Fiddleford stops at that. Blinks. Shakes his head a little.

“Come again?”

“I mean that Bill Cipher, that rat bastard is still inside of Ford’s head. He takes him over in spurts, does all kind of crazy shit. I think that when Ford put that metal plate in and did whatever to his head to wipe the memories, he ended up trapping Bill in there.”

“We might not have a choice than to keep him like that,” Fiddleford says, slowly. “Look, I know, I know, that’s not ideal, but Bill—“

“Is using him to create a tear in the universe.”

Ah.

Right.

Of course.

Because Fiddleford couldn’t escape one point of insanity without landing in another.

He sets the moonshine down and puts his head into his hands.

“So you’re telling me, Lee, that Bill Cipher is inside of your brother’s mind and he’s taking him over to try and take over the universe again.”

He hears Stan suck air from between his teeth.

“That’s about it.”

Silence settles in the room and Fiddleford leans his head back into one of the cabinets. He’d spent years trying to escape Bill Cipher and the monsters that he kept company with. All things considered, he wishes he’d known about Bill being trapped on this plane. …beggars can’t be choosers, though, right?

“Give me two hours to sleep, a pot of coffee, and time alone in the basement. Don’t know where to start, but I’ll figure it out.”

A smile cracks across Stan’s face and it does something to Fiddleford’s chest that makes him have to grit his teeth and look away. He seizes up when Stan grabs his shoulders before immediately shaking him off.

“You’re amazing, Fidds, I can’t thank—“

“Don’t,” Fiddleford says firmly. “This don’t mean nothing. I’m not doing this for you. After this is figured out, frankly, I don’t want to see you again. I want my life back, I want my name back, and then I don’t want to breathe the same air as you ever again, y’get me?”

He’s seen kicked puppies look less pathetic. Once upon a time, he’d have raced to soothe the burn, but there’s thirty years of rage that’s only growing hotter as they stand there in the kitchen.

Stan balls his hands into fists, pulls them back down his side and looks away.

“Right. You got it, McGucket. I’ll, uh, let you to it.”

Fiddleford doesn’t spare another look to Stanley as he pushes past him and towards the stairs, remembering where Stanford’s old room used to be. He passes by a mirror and winces at his own reflection. Lifting a hand to his head, he pulls the goggles back on and winces at the old, weathered man staring back at him. He hasn’t had a proper look at himself in god knows how long. The wrinkles are plenty, his hair is white save the few strands of blond that try to peek through. It’s a miracle, he supposes, that he still has hair. He’s tired and he looks it.

“No rest for the wicked,” Fiddleford sighs before ducking into the bedroom to try and catch some shut-eye before attempting to fix yet another of the Pines’ messes.

[novantinuum]

The Time We Lost, the Time We Mended (Ch. 6)

Read and comment on AO3!

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Rating: T

Words: 3700~

Story Summary: Before the summer of 2012, Ford and Fiddleford never thought they’d get the opportunity to see each other again. Now… they have a second chance. A chance to rekindle the love they once shared, reconnect a family once lost, and to mend old wounds. But as they'll quickly discover, fixing the mistakes of the past, especially in the wake of inevitable apocalypse, doesn't always come easy. RP to fic.

A Fiddauthor reunion story written by @the-ill-doctor​ and I! 

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Chapter Summary:  In which Fiddleford leads Ford on a romantic walk through the woods, Ford has an unpleasant encounter with a townsfolk, and Tate discovers Ford's return.

Chapter 6: Universal Constant

Despite the long decades that had passed since he’d last set foot in this dimension, some features of Gravity Falls’ surrounding forest still retained a certain familiarity to Ford’s eyes. The trees and foliage had grown up, engulfing old cobbled paths and casting deep shadows in spots he once recognized as clearings, but even still he could notice details that, for all the area’s progression, hadn’t changed a bit: the deep clawed gouges in the bark of a tree that he always used as a landmark on his hikes, various large stone formations, a gaping pit in the ground he’d accidentally left behind after misfiring a spell he’d picked up from some wood nymphs. The difference now was that unlike thirty years ago— where he was Fiddleford’s guide through the untamed thickets of these magical woods— Fiddleford was now the expert, leading him along the dirt paths and between the thickets with practiced ease.

“I can tell you’ve journeyed through these woods quite a lot in the past few decades,” he said, walking alongside his dear companion.

“Oh, all the time!” Fiddleford chirped, swinging their hands as he led. “It’s the best place to look for nuts and fruits for munchin’! Jus’ gotta be sneaky when grabbin’ berries, ‘cause them pixies can get mighty noisome. Those critters have the nastiest bites.”

“Goodness yes, they do,” he agreed with a lopsided smile. He glanced down at their feet moving parallel, his clad in worn boots and the soles of Fidds’ feet swathed in thick bandages. (He offered him a pair of open toed sandals to wear before they left, but he vehemently refused, labeling them ‘feet prisons.’) “I must say, after all this time you must know your way around this valley more than I ever did.”

“Well, I ended camping out here a lot whenever it’d get dark. Gets pretty tough getting’ back to your shed when ya’ can’t see nothin’. But I reckon I’ve come a long way from wanting robo-legs for hiking, eh?” He nudged at his shoulder.

Ford chuckled, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze. “I honestly forgot about your joking obsession with robotic legs. Didn’t you always beg for me to carry you back home after our field studies?”

“Ya’ kept on takin’ me on day long hikes, Ford! I wasn’t used to walkin’ for that long back then,” he shrugged. “That, and it was a nice excuse to get a free piggyback from ya’!”

“Wait, wait, let me get this straight in my mind,” he began, pausing in the clearing, next to one of the rock formations he recognized from his researcher days. He pressed the fingers of his free hand against his temple. “Did you— in the early 80s, after your divorce— did you still have feelings for me? Even back then?”

Fiddleford turned bright red at his question, and started to softly laugh in embarrassment. “Well, ya’ see, they might’ve still been there even after we broke up.”

"Oh, Fiddleford," Ford sighed sadly, pulling him into a close embrace. "If only I'd known...”

“If only we could’ve been more honest with each other,” Fiddleford said, his voice slightly muffled through the thick fabric of his sweater. “But...” He gazed up at him, smile warm and steady despite it all. “I think we’ve done enough regrettin’, don’t ya’ agree?”

“I do,” he smiled in return. “As difficult as it may be to avoid dwelling on the past, what is most important is to enjoy the time we have to be together now.” Ford gently released him from his embrace, and took both of his hands in his own, folding all of his fingers tightly around his. “I’m so thankful we could find each other again. To be honest, when I returned to this dimension I never thought I’d see you again. It was... heh, it was actually Mabel early this morning who informed me that you still lived in town.”

“In that case, I’ll have ta’ thank her next time I see her,” Fidds said, beaming. He planted a kiss on each of his hands, sudden affection which caused the tips of Ford’s ears to go red. “She helped me reunite with my favorite pillow.”

When Fiddleford began to snicker— a sound which he reveled in hearing— his lips curved up in amusement. “Oh is that what I am to you?”

“Well, you’re strong, handsome, and very warm,” he said, and nestled into his side once more. “And ‘sides, anyone would be lucky to cuddle with that soft belly ya’ got!”

Ford swore he could feel the blood vessels in his face widening, increasing blood flow to the skin. “Th- thank you?” he stammered, glancing down at the, as Fidds put it, soft belly in question. He’d ran his body to its bitter limits beyond the portal, for sure— and had gained quite a bit of muscle mass for his troubles— but thankfully in the last handful of years he had access to enough food to retain an optimal, healthy amount of body fat as well. Which was nice, as there’d been a hard span of years early on where he was dangerously close to skin and bones.

Fiddleford let out a loud snort as he watched his dear friend’s face turn beet red. “You’re mighty welcome.”

“As flattered as I am though,” he laughed, “the only person lucky enough to cuddle with me as far as I’m concerned is you.”

“Then I suppose I must be the luckiest fella in the whole multiverse.”

“Actually, I might have to contest you with that one,” he replied, gently rubbing circles into the back of Fidds’ hands with his thumbs. “Because I happen to know another ‘fella,’ one who now gets to share his days with the kindest, most brilliant, forgiving, incredible man he knows.” Ford reached forward and tilted up his wide brimmed hat so he could see past the shadows cast on his face. “A man whose eyes are just as bright and beautiful as they were the day I first met you.”

Now it was Fiddleford’s turn to blush, not used to being showered in sincere compliments. Shyly, he glanced away, his knee bouncing. “Nah, I ain’t. I- I ain’t got those eyes no more, Ford.”

Hearing him brush aside his affection like this tore him apart. “You do to me,” he insisted, cupping his cheek in his hand, running his fingers through his beard. Apparently taken aback by his earnest words, Fiddleford sniffled, the corners of his eyes growing damp. He blinked, unable to keep the tears at bay. Gently, Ford wiped them away.

“G-Golly...” He let out a small, embarrassed chuckle. “Ya’ really mean it.”

“Of course I do,” Ford said, his soul swelling with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in this intensity for years, a feeling that— before today— he wasn’t sure he was still capable of experiencing. Although perhaps it wasn’t accurate classifying it as only a feeling, so much as it was a promise. A promise he’d forged within the deepest parts of himself to protect and care for and experience life alongside this man for as long as time would allow him. “All these years, all our experiences, the very shifting of our worlds... so much has changed, I admit this. Hell, I embrace this. And yet, even through the shadows of everything still unknown to me, through each unpredictable variable, there’s one universal constant I know in certainty to be true... and that’s that I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

For a moment, Fiddleford’s mind went blank, just like the confused, muddled fuzz he’d experience each time he used that dang memory gun on himself. Did he really hear those words? Was this real, and not merely a construct of his old, messed up mind? For years, despite his frazzled memory, the man had never truly left his deepest thoughts. Sometimes he’d even show up in front of him like a mirror to the past, an illusion only shattered when he tried to take his hand. But the hands holding his face now were solid and warm and fixed. This time, the Stanford Pines in front of him was real, and the promises he spoke were too.

The next moment was all but a blur to him. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself leaning closer... and giving him a sloppy, yearning kiss.

Ford fell into the rhythm of the kiss with ease, wrapping his arms tight around Fiddleford, allowing his hands to cradle the back of his head and his shoulder. His heart almost wanted to laugh in joy amid all of this at the gentle tickle of his beard against his lips and chin. For one very real, beautiful moment, the universe smiled down upon these two old men, and Ford experienced a sense of content like he never had before. When they finally pulled apart, he felt alight. Renewed. He beamed at Fidds with adoration, intertwining their hands once more.

In all these years Fiddleford never felt so much romantic love for another person. He gazed into Ford's eyes, the tiredness he had seen in them from last night having long melted away. “I love you too,” he replied, breathless in the wonder of it all.

Ford laughed softly, a sound that nearly blurred into something of a relieved cry. He pressed his forehead against Fidds, and allowed them to gently sway back and forth as a unit, their fingers still wrapped together. It was almost a dance, the two of them swathed in the privacy of nature and the heat of the late morning sun. Faint, but still noticeable all the same, the familiar scent of tackle filled his nose.

"Is the lake nearby?" he asked, still swaying with him.

"Hm?" Fiddleford said in a happy daze. "Oh! Yeah, I reckon' we're close! There's a lotta good spots for banjo practice n’ relaxin’ there! Wanna head on over?"

"Of course," Ford said, grinning as well. "The lake was always one of my favorite places in Gravity Falls..."

Fiddleford started to pull him along. "Well, come along then!”

The closer the two came to the lakeside, the more Fiddleford’s pace receded and slowed. He was trying to calm his anxieties, but he knew his son was working in the bait shop today, and not only that, but the townsfolk could be so cruel in their jeering sometimes. On any other occasion he’d shrug off these realities like water off a duck’s back, but along with his memory’s return came his long forgotten sense of shame. He prayed there wouldn’t be any problems, that he and Ford would be left to their leisure unbothered.

But he still wasn’t convinced.

Ford eventually must have noticed his incessant twitching and squirming, because he squeezed his hand to ground him. “What’s bothering you, dear?” he asked softly, the lakeside looming on the horizon.

“Hm?” he muttered, snapping out of whatever repetitive mental blockade he’d fallen into. Ford’s worried face greeted his gaze. “Oh, it’s nothin’! I’m just spacing out a little.” Not entirely a lie.

“Fiddleford... please know I’ll listen to anything you have to say, if you’re ready to say it. No matter what.”

His shoulders tensed for a moment, scrunching up beside his neck. He took his hand from his partner’s, twiddled his fingers together. “All- all right. I don’t, uh, I don’t exactly have the best reputation in town.”

Ford’s eyes softened. “I know the feeling,” he said. “From my time in the multiverse. I’m so sorry they’ve judged you so harshly. If you’re not up for walking around the lake with all the people who are here today, I’m more than willing to continue our trek through the woods instead.”

“Nah, nah, it’s fine,” he replied, breaking a small smile again. “There’s actually someone I wanna see.”

“Oh, you have a friend in town? Excellent! I’d love to meet them.”

He started to fidget with his beard again. “You already have. It’s my son, Tate! He’s the ranger at this here lake.”

Ford’s eyes shot open wide, for a split second flashing with an emotion Fiddleford could only hope to describe as something between hurt and dread. “Tate?” he exclaimed. “Tate lives here?”

“Yup, moved on up and started workin’ here right outta school.”

“Goodness, I... I haven’t seen that boy since the week he stayed with us in ’81,” he mused. Something about his demeanor as he spoke still seemed... unusual to Fiddleford, but too distracted by his own worries he chose not to bring it up.

“Well, I can guarantee he’s grown up a whole lot since then!”

“So I’m sure,” Ford said, the edges of his lips curving up.

As per every weekend, the lake was crowded with townsfolk enjoying themselves in the sun. Fiddleford clung to his partner’s side as they approached the shore, readying himself emotionally for all the misplaced attention his presence was sure to attract. He squeezed his hand, and Ford squeezed his back in an effort of comfort, three times.  

Where Ford himself was concerned, the glimpse of townsfolk he caught— some he vaguely recognized, and others who were all but strangers— spiked his heart rate up. This was the largest group of humans he’d been faced with since returning home. Hell, even a simple family breakfast alongside his brother, Fiddleford, and his new grandniece and grandnephew was nerve wracking enough. He dearly hoped he’d be able to act halfway normal around these strangers, to act as if he hadn’t been entirely detached from the customs of humanity for thirty years.

They reached the dock, and naught a breath after their feet touched the wooden planks, an older woman with a beehive of powder blue hair and caked eye shadow spotted them and made her sinister advance.

“Well hi, Stan!” she said nasally. “Haven’t seen ya’ in the diner for a while. And wow, what a nice sweater that is!”

Initially Ford was met with nothing but confusion, before he realized with frenzied frustration that his brother had lived here and build a rapport with these people for the past thirty years. They thought he was Stan. As much as he didn’t desire to have a conversation with this woman at all, however, he knew this was a great opportunity to set the records straight...

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve actually met?” he began. “I think you’ve confused me with my twin brother, Stan. My name is Ford.”

“Wait, whaaat?” she gasped, lifting up her lazy eyelid to gain a better view of him. “Well, I guess your hair is styled a lot different than I last saw it. And you do have more fingers than I remember...”

“Heh,” Ford laughed softly, nervously glancing between her and Fiddleford. “Indeed. It’s called polydactyly.” He raised his hand up so she could clearly see it. “A genetic mutation, resulting in extra digits. For future reference, between Stan and I, just check the number of fingers.”

“Oh, all right! My name’s Susan, by the way, Lazy Susan! ‘S nice to meet you.” They awkwardly shook in greeting. As they did so, she leaned closer to whisper in his ears. “Between you and me, I’d watch myself around that hillbilly fella you’re with. I’ve dealt with him in my diner for years, and he’s quite the pickpocket.”

Ford’s jaw clenched. Even ignoring the sheer level of ignorant judgement interwoven into her words, his blood boiled at the cavalier way she referred to him. That hillbilly. They lived in a town small enough that everyone could reasonably know everyone else’s name, and either she hadn’t made that tinniest effort with someone she perceived as lesser, or she knew his name and didn’t care.

“His name is Fiddleford, for the record, not ‘that hillbilly,’ and he’s my most dear friend. I assure you, the person I ought to watch myself around? It isn’t him,” he said, scowling deeply at her. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

With that, Ford took Fiddleford's hand and walked him away.

Fiddleford was stunned with how protective Ford had gotten. It was actually quite flattering. He never considered hillbilly the worst thing people could call him, but he had to admit it did sting the callous way a lot of the townsfolk would sling that word at him. He leaned closer to Ford and nuzzled his head against his side as a way of thanking him. As they neared the bait shop, they became aware of an almighty ruckus emanating from inside. Clearly whoever wandered inside had no concept of indoor voice.

"Welp, sounds like Dan and the kids are shoppin' again!" Fidds declared, a skip in his step.

"Dan?" Ford says, making a face as he tried to place the name. "Wait... do you mean that Dan? The lumberjack? Oh, what was his name... Corduroy!” he exclaimed, snapping. “Boyish Dan Corduroy? He still lives here too?"

"Yeah, he lives in a cabin down in the woods with his kids! But, uh..."

The three Corduroy boys piled out of the shop all at once, adorned in matching life preservers and each holding a pole. "FISHING! FISHING! FISHING!" they chanted.

"KEEP THE CHANGE, RANGER!" Dan yelled.

"He ain't exactly boyish, anymore.”

Ford watched, mouth agape, as the mountain of a man dutifully lead his sons to the shoreline, where he’d tied up their boat. Wow. That was perhaps the most hair he'd ever seen on a single person. That young Corduroy kid certainly grew up into one manly fellow.

“He had a bit of a growth spurt,” Fiddleford giggled as he walked him inside the shop.

Inside, Tate rubbed his sore neck. Just seconds previously, Dan put him in an affectionate chokehold as an unconventional way to thank him for a discount he'd given.

"One of these days he's gonna pop my head off like a grape," he grumbled, not yet paying attention who had just walked in.

Instantly Fiddleford's fatherly instincts overrode his initial nervousness. He let go of Ford's hand and lifted himself onto the counter, swinging his legs over the edge. "You all right there, Tater-tot?" he asked, voice unusually calm.

"Hm? Dad?" Immediately Tate noticed the difference in his voice. For one thing, he hadn't heard that nickname since he was a kid. Was this one of his more lucid days? He glanced up to speak, but froze when he noticed who stood beside him, decades of guilt written on his face plain as day.

Cleft chin, six fingers, a leaner body type than the so-called ‘Stanford Pines’ he'd neglected to get to know in town.

"I— it's you.”

“Greetings, Tate,” Ford said quietly. “It’s… been a while.”

"A while?!" Tate snapped then, clenching his fists tight against his side. "You have the nerve to waltz in here after 30 years, after the state you left my father in, and all you have to say for yourself is that it’s been a while?! No phone call! No letters! No way of contactin' ya! The rest of the town never noticed the difference when that other Stan acted as your cover all this time, but I did!” he shouted, advancing towards him in fury. “I genuinely thought you died!"

"Tate—" Fiddleford attempted to interrupt, jumping off the counter to stand between his son and his partner.

"Why did you leave him?!" Tate yelled, his voice starting to crack. "Why did you leave my father behind? He needed your help! I needed your help to save him!" he finished, bitter tears streaming down his face.

Ford backed away from him slightly as he watched him fall apart right in front of him, his throat suddenly feeling as tight as it did in the elevator this morning. "I didn't know," he whispered hoarsely. "Didn't know where he went, if he left town or not. I lost him, Tate- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know it's my fault. I was distracted, falling into madness... I-I failed to look, I didn't- didn't think to," he stammered. "You have every right to be upset with me for- for a multitude of reasons."

"Yer damn right I'm upset! You abandoned him!" He wrapped his arms around his father, almost protectively.

"Tate..." Fiddleford looked up at his son worriedly. "He didn't want to leave me! He was forced into a right pickle with no way back," he cried out. "You gotta believe me, he wouldn't knowingly abandon me!”

"Why... why are you defendin' him?"

"Same reason I'd defend you," Fiddleford whimpered, hugging him back.

"And why would you do that, either?!" Tate snapped, holding him tighter. "I'm a horrible son. I started givin' up on ya’..."

Ford watched them silently as he considered his words, their past, the sum of his mistakes. A lump formed in his throat. He wrung his hands together.

"Tate..." he began softly. "Tate. You're not a horrible son. You... you stayed here with him, for thirty years. You picked up your entire life, and moved it so you could keep an eye on him. Even if you started giving up, at least you tried. It's... more than I can say for myself." He turned towards Fiddleford, gently cupping his cheek in his hand. "Fidds, I'm afraid he's right about me. I had all but abandoned you, had given up all hope of seeing you again... until Mabel told me you were in town. Like I told you earlier, we only reunited because of her. But don't you both realize?" He opened himself to both the McGucket men. "Despite all of our past mistakes, despite lasting regrets. We're all together today. And we all have a chance to make tomorrow a happier memory."

Both the Mcgucket men stared at Ford for a moment before Tate broke the silence.

"Damn, you’re still as overly poetic as I remember," he snarked. He wiped the remainders of the tears off his face, letting out a stifled, low laugh. "Damnit... damnit, I knew it... I knew I couldn't hate ya’!" he lifted the brim of his hat, revealing tired eyes and faint scaring slashed over his eyelids. "You’re here admitting everythin' and..." He laughed again. "What's wrong with me? I'm already ready to give ya’ the benefit of the doubt..."

"Tate," Fiddleford took his son's hand.

"I'm fine, Dad."

“Would you… would you prefer if I gave you two some time alone to reconnect?” Ford asked, a slight frown crossing his lips.

"Nah, nah just—" Tate let go of his father’s hand and pulled himself to sit on the counter. He hung his head low, and gave a loud sigh. "Just tell me... what happened. I want the full story."

[siodymph]

Fiddauthor Request 1

Ok I got a fiddauthor request from @bananaquits “i love your fiddauthor fics, i'm so glad you're taking requests! maybe you could write something about their first kiss???”

I definitely can! This was a really sweet request and prompt and I hope you enjoy my take on Ford and Fidd’s first kiss!

And just so you know I’m taking fiddauthor requests all day today as well as tomorrow (august 4th) So don’t be shy if there’s any last-minute prompts you want to send my way!

You can read this fic under the cut or over on my AO3! Hope you enjoy!

word count: 1454

Spring semester at Backupsmore was winding to a close. Exams were in one week and everyone who wasn’t planning on staying for the summer was already packing up their dorms.

And while it hadn’t been what Stanford originally wanted he had to admit his freshmen year wasn’t all that bad either. His pre-credentials were easy and if he stayed in school for the summer semester he’d have enough credit hours to already wrap-up his AA. And if he kept up the pace he could be writing dissertations in only a few year! Sure it wasn’t his healthiest year. He’d become a bit of a shut-in here at school and his workload was a nightmare in itself, not to mention his job in the labs to make sure he broke as close to even as he could. But all this intensity and pressure would be worth it if he could get out of this school as fast as he could and start doing the things he actually wanted to do.

Even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that even was yet…

He was doing some light reading, going through his chemistry text book, prepping himself for next week when he heard Fiddleford knock on the door. At least he was pretty sure it was Fiddleford. No one else ever stopped by his room besides his own roommate. And he recognized the light, rhythmic tapping Fiddleford always seemed to use.

“Door’s open!” Ford called out over his shoulder. And still not looking up from his book he heard Fiddleford open the door and step in. “Hi, Fidds.”

“Hi’ya Stanford!” Fiddleford called out, he seemed to be in a happy mood. But his voice went flat when he saw what Ford was doing. “Are you seriously trying to study?”

“I thought it would be worth the effort.” Stanford said, still not ready to put down his book and trying to absorb as much information on polypeptide chains as he still could. If he were honest, it felt like he was reading over the same line a couple times now.

“Worth the- You ain’t spent a day in your life actually studyin’ and you know it!”

It was true. Growing up Stanford had memorized things easily and passed most his classes without even trying. Sure he took notes and did assigned reading and work but he’d never actually taken the extra time to make flashcards or whatever people did to study. And most of his associate’s school work was going the same way. Still though, since all his records from this point forwards would be permanent and the first thing any school saw… “It never hurts to prepare ahead of time. Just in case I forgot anything from earlier this semester. Don’t you study?”

“Nah, I learned a long time ago pouring over books like that don’t help me a bit. They may work for other but it doesn’t really stick for me, ya know?” Fiddleford said.

“I can understand that.” Stanford replied. “But I at least want to try. I can’t afford to get cocky and have to retake everything over the summer. It’d bruise my GPA and waste my time!” And money, Stanford added silently. If he ever failed a class and needed to retake it who knew how Pa would react? Better to just not find out.

“If you have A’s in your classes now, it’s unlikely you’d do anything real bad on you finals. You’d have to get every single question wrong just to get a low C!”

That caught Ford off guard and looked up from his book. He saw Fiddleford was dressed up a little more colorful than normal, yellow “That can’t possibly be right.”

“You better believe it Ford. These exams are only 30% of our grades, and we already have pretty high averages. Don’t have anything to lose by taking the test.” Fiddleford said just a little smugly. “Honestly, I thought you would of done the math as soon as we got them syllabuses.”

“I guess I hadn’t thought of that.” Stanford replied. He’d hadn’t even thought of doing that. Then again he hadn’t planned on getting by on just the bare-minimum alone so it wasn’t something he would have done anyway. Probably.

“So if I asked you to go with me to a concert, you’d say no? Too busy with all your school work.” Fiddleford said, falling down onto Stanford’s bed melodramatically.

Stanford spun around in his computer chair t look at him. “Concert?”

“Yeah, a couple groups here at school are doing this free gig over at the park. I was planning on going with the gang and thought you’d like to come too.” Fiddleford explained.

Stanford gazed down at his page of polypeptides and back at Fiddleford. It would be nice hanging out with Simon and Betty, Rick less so, and it might be fun going to a concert. He’d never gone to any before he started hanging out with Fiddleford more so he didn’t have much point of reference yet. But whenever Fiddleford dig drag him out to some social event he always ended up having a good time with Fidds, no matter what it was they were doing.

Not like he actually know how to study anyways.

So he got up from his desk, finally whittled down. “Ok. I’ll go!”

Fiddleford looked delighted as he hopped off of Stanford’s bed and grabbed him by the hand. “Perfect! It starts and half-an-hour so we better get down there with the others. Find a real nice spot!”

Stanford just nodded, following Fiddleford and being willingly dragged along. And he could already feel himself smiling. Honestly the man acted like a beacon to positive emotions sometimes, maybe something worth experimenting on.

~~~

Stanford, Fiddleford and their small group of friends claimed a spot up on the hill under an oak tree. They had a great view of the make-shift stage in the middle of the field and were far back enough that they could do their own thing without looking like asses. And Rick went on about long-distance sound waves, optimal positioning and acoustics. Stanford knew next to nothing about music but he took Rick’s word for now.

So the five of them had been sitting up there enjoying the evening as the sun set, and afterwards when everyone lit up torches and lamps to keep the concert going. Most of the music was the hippy-experimental sort of stuff Stanford didn’t give much thought to but Fiddleford adored it. He’d get this adorable awed look on his face as groups came on stage and sang ballads about freeing the mind or the cruelty of the world at war. And whenever he closed his eyes, body swaying freely with the music, Stanford couldn’t help but watch, infixed.

After being lab partners, acquaintances, and eventually becoming much closer friends Ford had come to really, really value Fiddleford’s friendship. He honestly had no idea wat he would have done if he hadn’t met Fiddleford. He’d definitely be a lot lonelier, more miserable too no doubt.

He was a great friend. He wasn’t just smart, he was wise. He held on to everything he learned, never wasted anything. And he was kind. One of the kindest people Stanford had ever met. He listened. He cared. When he looked at Stanford he never felt like he was being belittled or observed…

In between performances as each new band set up Fiddleford would pull out his banjo and begin strumming. He had the soft little smile on his face as he played. He looked so peaceful. There was a light breeze tussling his hair. Stanford couldn’t deny it. Whether he was hanging out in an open field playing a banjo like a new-age minstrel, or wearing safety goggles, a lab coat, surrounded by vials and beakers of acid, Fiddleford was beautiful.

When he caught Fiddleford’s gaze he couldn’t help but look back.

And then all at once, without thinking he found himself leaning forwards. And he was pressing his lips against Fiddlefords.

Then he realized what an idiot he was being and pushed himself away. Oh god, that had he just done?

Fiddleford had a strange look on his face. Oh no, oh no this was over. He’d have to transfer to a different school. What had he done?

“Hey, hun wait.” He felt a hand grab his arm.

“Fidds I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok. I promise. Just-“

And then he was pulled back into a kiss.

It was a little weird feeling. Stanford had no idea what he was even doing. But even when he felt like he was fumbling or awkward and sloppy, Fiddleford was there. And he couldn’t have felt happier.

[novantinuum]

the time we lost, the time we mended (Chapter 4)

AO3

Rating: T

Words: ~ 3600 

Story Summary: Before the summer of 2012, Ford and Fiddleford never thought they’d get the opportunity to see each other again. Now… they have a second chance. A chance to rekindle the love they once shared, reconnect a family once lost, and to mend old wounds. But as they’ll quickly discover, fixing the mistakes of the past doesn’t always come easy. Nor is it always possible. RP to fic.

A Fiddauthor reunion story written by @the-ill-doctor​ and I! This chapter features Stan and Fidds bonding over cooking, the ol’ McGucket family gravy recipe, and scrapbook-ortunities. Also, Ford can’t deny it any longer- he definitely still has a crush...

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Fiddleford crept across the hardwood floor at a sloth’s tempo, gently testing the corners of each board for extreme creaks and whines before pressing his full weight upon them. The little alarm clock resting on the dresser in the parlor Stanford let him sleep in read eight o’ four when he left. Since he didn’t know how late or early anyone in this here Shack slept in normally, he figured he should stay as quiet as he could. The last thing he wanted to do was give any of the fellas living here an unexpected spook.

He yawned deeply, quickly slamming his hands over his mouth when he realized how unintentionally loud he was being. Dagnabbit, he wanted his surprise breakfast to be a surprise to the family, not announced to the whole world before he could cook it! Muttering to himself, he hurried his pace, luckily managing to avoid the brunt of the squeaky boards as he entered the kitchen. He then set about rummaging through the shelves and drawers to see if they had all the right ingredients for omelets, or maybe biscuits and gravy. Definitely biscuits and gravy, he decided, since Stan didn’t seem to have any veggies he could toss in an omelet.

Hopefully he could remember his ma’s recipe in full this time...

Fidds heard heavy footsteps approaching, and a brash yawn. He turned and froze like a spooked deer intercepted by headlights on the backroads, standing on a chair in mid-reach for a baking sheet on the top of the shelf. Stanley stood in the doorway of the kitchen in his underwear and a tank top.

“Oh,” he said flatly, drinking in the scene before him. “Good mornin’, possum breath. Need help cooking anything?”

“M-mornin’, Stanley,” he said, and nervously tugged at his beard. He climbed down from the counter. Honestly, he still wasn’t sure how to act around Ford’s brother, considering how stand-offish he’d acted towards him in the past. “I- I’m fine, I just wanted to surprise y’all with some grub to thank you for lettin’ me stay here!”

“Well, no need to thank me,” Stan mumbled almost imperceptibly. “It’s Ford’s house, after all. But... eh, you’re welcome I guess.”

Fiddleford could practically sense the cool metallic intensity of that man’s eyes boring through the back of his head as he continued searching about the kitchen, trawling for ingredients. He scratched at his arm. Constant surveillance made him feel kinda itchy.

“Uh, hey? If you’re making biscuits, then how ‘bout I make some bacon?” Stan spoke up then.

He grinned wide, flashing what teeth he had left. “Sure! Can’t have biscuits and gravy without ‘em! Now let's see, after flour I need... uh-" His brows sank, growing pensive as he desperately tried to sort through recently recalled memory. "Come on, Fiddleford, you should know this..."

Wordlessly, Stan pulled the correct ingredients off the shelves and placed them on the counter for him. He then got out a frying pan for himself, for bacon duty.

"Oh, thank ya’," he said, walking over to the counter to observe the ingredients. "Although-" He placed his hand on his mouth and leered at the food Stan set up for him. "There's somethin' missin', I just know it! Mcgucket, Mcgucket... The Mcgucket Family Secret Gravy Recipe!" He opened the fridge, and found a half used can of brown meat. "I can't believe I almost forgot this! My ma would have my hide if I messed up her gravy!"

“You’re rememberin’ more and more every day, aren’tcha?” Stan asked suddenly, glancing towards him as he watched the bacon beginning to sizzle. “After all that mind wiping cult stuff got taken down…”

Fiddleford nodded amicably, amid measuring flour and baking powder into his bowl. "Some days I get a ton o' them back and other days it's very slow." He looked up at the other man, smiling sincerely. "It's tricky piecin' a lot of them back, especially the ones about your brother. But I'm just happy I finally remember who I am!”

"That's, uh... that's real great," he said with a weak laugh, attention drifting away to the bacon again.

His smile faltered. Part of him wondered what was going on in Stanley’s mind right now, but the other part of him feared gathering the nerve to ask. It probably ain’t his business anyways.

Within a few minutes, he’d mixed everything together and formed the biscuits between his hands on the baking sheet. As he waited for the oven to heat up, he began to hum an old silly song he recalled his pa used to sing while strummin’ on the guitar... Oh, grandma’s in the cellar, and boy don’t you smell her cookin’ biscuits on that darn ol’ dirty stove? In her eye there’s a matter that keeps drippin’ in the batter, and she whistles as a- *SNIFF*- runs down her nose! His ma despised it, if he remembered correctly. He carefully edged the sheet into the oven, and pretty soon the sweet aroma of his cooking began to waft throughout the shack.

"Ya know, I used ta’ make this all the time for your brother,” he mentioned offhand.

"Is that so?" Stan said, raising a brow. "Well, good on ya'. Some days I think Ford would've starved to death if there weren’t someone there ta' feed him. I swear, it’s like he’s too distracted to eat half the time."

"You’re tellin’ me!" Fiddleford laughed. "I literally had to wrangle him into a chair and tie him down to get him to eat whenever finals came around!"

The other man’s face lit up, and he let out a loud bark of laughter- genuine, this time. "Yeah, that sounds like 'im, that nerd," he said, laying the cooked bacon on a plate. "Hey... it, uh- sounds like your memory's returning better then you thought. You said you had trouble remembering stuff about Ford, but... that's two memories right after another."

Fiddleford's amused chuckling died down as he stopped to think for a moment. "You’re right,” he murmured, eyes widening into saucers. He stared up at Stanley with probably the calmest expression he's ever given him. "Thank ya’!"

"For what? You're the one remembering everything, all I did was talk to ya'..."

"Well, talking to ya’ really helped." Fiddleford replied, still smiling. "It's hard rememberin’ on your own."

At that moment, the two heard footsteps approaching from around the corner, and muffled voices. It sounded like Ford and Dipper, cheerily talking about some supernatural creature they’d both encountered in the woods. Stan froze at the sound, and Fidds was sure that man was mentally hyperfixating on every last detail of his last not-so-friendly interaction with his brother the night before.

Ford poked his head into the kitchen first, drinking in the sight of the home cooking occurring. He inhaled deeply, likely having followed his nose to the kitchen. "Good morning, Fiddleford. Stanley." Can I talk with you outside? he mouthed at his brother.

Stan nodded nervously, ducking out of the kitchen with him.

"Mornin', Dipper!" Fiddleford said.

"Morning, McGucket." Dipper shuffled toward the breakfast table. “I, uh- I see you're making breakfast?”

"Yep, biscuits and gravy!" Fiddleford scooped up a heaping spoonful and offered it to Dipper. "Wanna taste? I promise it’ll be the best dang gravy you’ve ever tasted!" he said with a wink.

Dipper seemed hesitant, which he didn’t blame him for— the kid saw him cooking roadkill on a spit a few days ago, after all!— but it seemed the smell was too alluring. Walking over, he took the offered sample and gave it a shot. The moment his lips closed around the spoon, his eyes widened, and he promptly licked the utensil clean. Fidds beamed.

"Heh heh, guess that means I made it right!"

The boy stayed at the counter next to him after that, watching him finish cooking the gravy. "So Mr. McGucket, you and Great Uncle Ford were roommates in college, right?"

"Yes, siree we were!" Fiddleford replied.

"What was he like?"

Fiddleford paused from his cooking, considering the question seriously. "Honestly? I love that man, but he was an absolute pain in the tush to bunk with!"  

Stanley tensed as he walked into the hall with his brother, already getting flashbacks of the first argument they had here. As with every other interaction with Ford lately, nothing good could come out of this. He crossed his arms pensively. "Whatdy'a want?"

Ford sighed, pressing fingers to his temple. He seemed to almost deflate in his presence, oddly enough. "Stanley? Let me be frank with you."

Nevertheless, Uh-oh was all that could run through Stan's mind.

"I was-" Ford continued, forcing himself to look Stan in the eye. "I might have acted a little harsh towards you last night, and..."

"You think??" Stan burst out suddenly, residual anger from last night's encounter boiling over. "You were 'bout ta’ kick me out before the summer ended! Before my time, before I was ready, and exactly like what Dad did all those years ago!"

Ford stiffened at the comparison to their father, and continued. "I'm aware of that. Or at least, I was helped to become aware of that, and..." Another weary sigh. Where was he going with this? "There's no reason for me to treat you this way,” he said finally. “I'm- I'm not kicking you out. Obviously, you're free to leave if you ever wish to, but it would be unfair of me to uproot you from this place."

Stan stopped, and blinked. Dumbfounded. Did he just-? Did those words seriously come out of Ford's mouth? It wasn’t exactly an apology, but...

"So you're... you're letting me stay?" he said, mouth agape. "I don't have to leave after the summer?"

"No, you don't have to leave," Ford confirmed, a gentle smile crossing his face. "This has been your home for far longer than it's been mine, after all. I'd still like to talk about your Mystery Shack at a later date, and determine what compromises if any we could come to on that front, , but-"

Without any warning, Stan rushed forward and wrapped his arms tightly around his brother. Ford nearly stumbled back in surprise, at first not sure how to respond to this at all. But eventually, his hands stopped awkwardly floating midair and settled on Stan's back, tightly returning his embrace. They might still have a lot more to hash out- issues from their past to unpack- but for the moment they were simply happy to share in the kind of sibling affection neither had experienced in over forty years.

Meanwhile, Fiddleford continued to share embarrassing stories about his college years with Stanford, Dipper seeming wholly engrossed with each tale.

"Wow, so you two really didn't get expelled for setting the lab on fire?" he asked.

"Nope!" Fiddleford replied as he started to set the food on the table. "And luckily, too, the last thing we needed was to get kicked out of school. But boy howdy, were they not easy on us with the community service!"

“Are you giving me up, Fiddleford?” Ford asked suddenly, peaking around the corner of the doorway with a wry smile on his lips.

Fiddleford let out a surprised yelp. "H-howdy, Ford!" he said, grinning sheepishly. "Just sharin' some of our tamer days."

"Really? That's tame?" Dipper asked.

"My boy, setting a university laboratory on fire is child's play. Just wait until you hear about the time we almost accidentally released an alien superbug into all of greater Gravity Falls!" He walked over to his old friend, grinning mercilessly. "Fiddleford and I had all sorts of misadventures, back in the day..."

Fiddleford leaned his cheek against his arm, giggling at the memory. "Most of them were ‘coz someone liked to poke his nose into other critters’ business," he said, playfully nudging him in the stomach. "Yer’ just lucky we were able to synthesize that antidote, or else the town wouldn't be here anymore!"

Ford could feel the blood rushing to the capillaries near the surface of his face at the sudden physical affection, and while it left him with a sort of light, jittery sensation in his core he couldn’t necessarily attach a bad connotation to, he also felt a tinge of embarrassment that Dipper was there to see his reaction. He hadn’t gotten the chance to properly explore and catalogue his increasingly muddled thoughts on the matter yet. He’d far prefer to do that in private than in front of family, yes...

"Yeah, I fear we nearly destroyed the town on a number of occasions in those days," he replied to Fidds.

"Don't stop fearing yet," Stan butt in suddenly, returning to the kitchen. "Now that you're back in this dimension again, you've got plenty more years of potential destruction to cause!"

Ford frowned, picking at the stray threads on his jacket. Something about the way Stan phrased this brought the rift to mind, the rift he'd securely enclosed just this morning.

Mabel sleepily shuffled behind Stan, clutching onto a stuffed unicorn. "Mornin'," she yawned before climbing into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Mornin', pumpkin," Stan said, and gave her hair a nice big ruffle. He turned to the rest of the group, all loitering in the kitchen and surrounded by food. "Hey, we gonna eat, or what? This all smells delicious! Whoever cooked it must be a culinary genius... especially the fella who cooked that bacon!" He laughed boisterously at his own not-that-funny joke, and Ford promptly rolled his eyes.

"Do you need help taking any of these plates to the table, Fiddleford?" he asked, grateful for the change of topic from before.

"If y’all don't mind givin' me a hand. I'm hoping y’all like the food! Been a while since I've properly cooked anything."

"Tasted amazing to me!" Dipper smiled while helping a sleepy Mabel up to migrate.

Stan and Ford each grabbed a dish and carried them to the table in the living room. Ford carefully placed his at the center, and promptly returned to the kitchen to find some plates. Stan on the other hand, sat directly down, strategically positioning himself in the chair right in front of the bacon. "Hey, uh, kids," he began. "Just so ya' know, the Shack won't be open today. Maybe not for the next few days, who knows. But anyways, until this pigsty is fixed up, you two little gremlins are off the hook, okay? Go play with your friends, or in the woods, or whatever it is ya' do when I'm not lookin'."

"Really?" Mabel asked with a sleepy smile as she climbed into the seat beside him.

"Yeah, what's the catch?" Dipper asked, skeptical of his intentions as always.

Stan frowned deeply, more for show and dramatics than any true expression of disgruntlement. “The catch is, do it before I take advantage of Gravity Falls’ lax child labor laws and put you two to work on somethin’ else! Now, who wants bacon?”

“I’d like a strip or two,” Ford said eagerly, just returning to the table with plates and silverware for the five of them. He set the plates down and let the kids pass them out. “I don’t think I’ve eaten bacon for over thirty years. There’s not anything quite like it, out there in the midst of the multiverse...”

"I'll have a slice!" Dipper replied.

"Me too!" Mabel added.

Fiddleford walked in and set his gravy pot on the table. "It's been a long time since I've seen any bacon smellin’ this good,” he commented as he took his seat. "I wanna thank you again for helping me out with the cookin', Stanley."

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome, or whatever,” he said, brushing off his thanks with a flourish of his hand. Ford shot him one of those looks, but said nothing. Stan dished out the bacon to everyone, grabbing four slices for himself, and soon everyone began digging in.

Fiddleford noisily gobbled down his share of biscuits. To him, this was the most luxurious meal he'd eaten in months. After polishing off his first, he realized he’d spilled crumbs all over his beard, but he was so caught up in enjoying his food that he couldn’t bring himself to truly care. Meanwhile, Dipper practically drowned his poor biscuits in the gravy, and with food in her stomach Mabel was finally beginning to wake up.

Stanley worked away at his own plate quietly for a moment, too hungry to provide much in the way of conversation. As he ate, he glanced from Dipper, to Mabel… to Fiddleford, and sitting next to him— after all these years— his brother.

“Heh,” he muttered suddenly. “Y’know, now that I think of it, it’s funny…”

The four of them paused, Fiddleford mid-chew, when Stan spoke up.

"What is, Grunkle Stan?" Mabel asked.

“This… well, it’s dumb, but once I got ta’ thinkin’ about it, this is the first real meal I’ve shared with Ford in over forty years,” Stan said breathlessly, staring off into the distance, not quite meeting anyone’s eyes.

Ford dropped his fork against his plate, brows furrowing as he counted the years, calculated and double checked his claim. “You- my word, you’re right,” he said, eyes widening as he contemplated the truth behind this statement. Even yesterday— his first evening back— they hadn’t crossed paths much, since he’d dedicated nearly all of that time to constructing a containment field for the rift in the basement.

Mabel let out a loud and dramatic gasp at Stan's realization. "And it's the first time Grunkle Ford has eaten with me and Dipper period, meaning-" She shot up from her seat, all the vim and vigor Ford remembered from early this morning returning in a flash. "Be right back!" With no explanation, she rushed out of the living room, excitedly stomping up the stairs. Before anyone could truly comment on her outburst she returned with her polaroid camera.

"SCRAPBOOK-ORTUNITY!" she announced, holding the camera with lens facing her, the entire family in the frame behind her. When the camera flashed Stan was in the middle of picking his nose, and Ford was eighty percent certain he blinked. The greyed scientist began to laugh heartily at Mabel’s happy antics.

“You remind me of my Ma,” he said through laughter. “She was always taking pictures of Stanley and I, and mostly when we weren’t prepared for them.” He took another bite of his biscuit. A stray bit of gravy dribbled from his lip.

Mabel giggled and shook the polaroid when it came out of the camera. "I never miss a scrapbook-ortunity!"

“Mabel,” Dipper whined, “I was chewing when you took that picture!”

“It’s candid photography, that’s kinda the point, duh!”

Fiddleford gave his finger a lick, and reached towards Ford’s face. "Ford, ya’ got a little somethin' on yer chin..."

Ford blushed a deep scarlet as Fiddleford dabbed the gravy off his chin and the corner of his lips, his eyes blowing wide. He suddenly felt clammy, almost itchy as he felt the rest of the room stare at him… He knew for a fact they all saw the way his ears and cheeks flushed like some lovesick fool at Fidds’ touch, and his heart pounded at the thought of having to explain this to his own family when he hadn’t even taken time to fully consider these feelings himself. Not for the first time, he felt achingly like an alien— perhaps even an imposter— in his home, that is, if he could even claim it as such.

Mabel slammed her hands over her mouth and excitedly wiggled in her seat. She began to repeatedly nudge her brother's side, much to his annoyance.

When Fiddleford finished, he gave Ford a shy smile and leaned back in his chair. "Sorry, old habit from the old days," he said, blushing as well.

“Sheesh, if you two want to leave the room for a sec or somethin,’” Stan said snarkily, “then don’t let me stop ya’.”

Ford roughly set his cup down on the table. ”Stanley. That’s enough,” he hissed. “We will not be discussing this at the breakfast table.”

The kids flinched from Ford's sudden outburst.

“Wow, okay, okay,” Stan muttered, recoiling a little. “Hit a nerve there...”

"Stanford, there's no reason to get so upset, he was only teasin'." Fiddleford said, trying to diffuse the tension.

“I-I…”

Ford looked back and forth, from the kids— who were staring at him with slight apprehension— to Stan— who looked much like a kicked puppy— and finally to Fidds. Fiddleford. The man he knew deep down he’d never gotten over, never stopped loving, not even after thirty plus years, and the man who was currently gazing at him with such a gentleness in his eyes even despite his rough outburst. His palms sweat as he clasped them together, nervously threading his fingers between each other. Before his mind could catch up with his body, he found himself bolting through the door between the house and the gift shop.

Stan stared at the chair he left empty for a moment, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. He was only teasing. Surely Ford didn’t think he would judge him if he did have an old crush on Fiddleford, if his prediction was in fact accurate? “You, uh,” he began lamely, glancing towards Fiddleford. “You might wanna go after him before he locks himself away in the basement for the rest of the day.”

"Yeah, uh..." Fiddleford stood up. "E-Excuse me fellas."