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geniusboyy · 2 months ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 26

Sweet Talker

It had been a day and a half—maybe more—since the manifold sequence unfolded in its entirety. Naturally, Ford had been in the lab ever since, running non-stop simulations through his system, the algorithms weaving through high-entropy encryption, tightening into a cohesive fabric. The calculations seemed to exist in his periphery now, swarming behind his eyelids whenever he blinked, their patterns aligning with the soft hum of his computer. He and Bill had entered that near-perfect rhythm, the kind that could go on for days if they let it.

The door at the top of the stairs clicked open and Ford’s gaze flicked toward it, his eyes narrowing just slightly as Fiddleford appeared. He moved down into the lab with a slow, deliberate ease, carrying a small bowl of food scraps in one hand and two mugs of fresh coffee in the other.

“Mornin’,” Fidds said, his voice still heavy with sleep, a gravelly drawl that stretched the word out lazily. He clinked the fresh mug against the empty one beside Ford’s keyboard, the sound sharp in the otherwise still room. “Figured you could use this,” he said.

Ford didn’t look up, his fingers still moving across the keyboard with practiced speed, but he nodded, the barest acknowledgment. “Thanks.” His voice was flat, a quiet hum beneath the surface of the work, but it was there—just barely, tucked into the motion of his hands and the flicker of the screen.

Fiddleford moved to where the rat’s cage sat across the room. He opened the top of the it, tilting the bowl and letting the scraps tumble inside. Stache scurried forward immediately, his tiny paws grasping a wilted piece of lettuce as he nibbled with quick, jerking motions.

Ford watched out of the corner of his eye—Fidds’ ritual, the care he took in feeding the creature. He muttered something low under his breath, the words lost in the soft hum of the lab, but it didn’t matter. His fingers never faltered.

Fidds eventually broke the silence. “I was at the library yesterday,” he said, leaning back against one of the consoles. The weight of the coffee mug in his hand seemed almost incidental, more a prop than a necessity as he tilted it slightly, watching the steam curl and dissipate. His eyes flicked toward Ford, gauging his reaction as he took a deliberate sip.

Ford didn’t look up, his focus still pinned to the endless rows of data scrolling across the monitor. “Hmm,” he replied, the sound low and dismissive, a placeholder that spoke more to habit than interest.

Unbothered, Fidds pressed on. “Found somethin’ that might be of use,” he continued, his voice carrying an undercurrent of mischief, as if he knew he was about to reel Ford in. He let the words hang for a moment before adding, “An article I read—report from a woman. A spelunker.” He paused, his lips twitching into a faint grin. “Ya know, one of those folks who thinks crawling into small, dark holes is a real good time.”

That caught Ford’s attention. His fingers stilled on the keyboard, his posture shifting as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “I’m familiar with the concept,” he said dryly, his tone tinged with both curiosity and impatience.

“Well,” Fidds began, setting his mug down with a soft clink against the counter. He leaned forward now, his weight resting on his elbows as though the information he was about to share deserved more than just a passing mention. “Apparently, she went exploring some caves up there in the mountains, and she ran into something… odd.”

Ford arched an eyebrow, his lips pulling into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Odd?” he repeated, his voice laced with intrigue. “We like odd.”

Fidds smirked at that, his fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm on the edge of the console. “Might be undersellin’ it,” he said, his tone casual but with an edge of anticipation. “‘Paranormal’ may be more accurate. Or at least that’s what she called it.” He paused, savoring the moment before continuing. “Her wristwatch? Stopped cold the second she stepped inside the cave. Just quit on her.” He let the weight of that detail settle before adding, “And her compass? Spun like a top. Couldn’t point her in any direction, no matter how she tried.”

Ford’s hands moved from the desk to the arms of his chair, his fingers curling slightly against the leather as he absorbed this. His glasses caught the faint glow of the monitor, obscuring his eyes for a moment as he leaned back, the quiet hum of the lab amplifying the tension in the room. “That a bit coincidental…doesn’t sound like a simple malfunction,” he said, reaching for the mug Fidds had placed beside him earlier. Ford took a deliberate sip, his gaze never wavering from Fidds. “Go on,”

Fidds nodded, encouraged by the way Ford’s gaze had sharpened, the faint furrow in his brow deepening as if each word was tightening a screw in his mind. “So,” Fidds began, shifting his weight and folding his arms loosely, “she says she kept goin’. Figured it was just some glitch or interference—maybe somethin’ magnetic in the rocks, y’know?” He tapped his fingers lightly against the edge of the counter, the rhythm uneven, thoughtful. “But then it got weirder.”

Ford didn’t move, but the way his eyes flicked slightly, as though he were already imagining himself in the cave.

“She claimed the passages…shifted,” Fidds continued, his voice quieter now, like he was letting the weight of the words settle between them. “Said the cave felt alive—movin’ around her, playin’ tricks. No matter which turns she took, she’d end up in the same spot. Like it was leadin’ her in circles, on purpose.”

Ford’s grip on the mug tightened slightly before he set it down, the soft scrape of ceramic against the desk loud in the quiet of the lab. His gaze narrowed, his analytical mind already dissecting the account. “Hallucinations?” he asked, though his tone was more curious than dismissive, his skepticism tempered by intrigue.

“Could be,” Fidds allowed with a shrug, his drawl elongating the words. “But she wasn’t a rookie. Said she’d been spelunkin’ for years, knew the risks. Took precautions. And this? This didn’t feel like a bad batch of air or dehydration. She swore it felt real. Like the walls were breathin’.” He paused, his voice lowering slightly. “Took her damn near a full day to get out.”

Ford leaned back, the leather of the chair creaking softly as he crossed his arms. His expression remained neutral, but there was a gleam in his eye now. “And who published this?”

Fidds smirked faintly, sensing he had Ford exactly where he wanted him. “Some paranormal column. Y’know, the kinda thing you’d read for kicks while waitin’ for your coffee to brew. Not exactly Nature, but still.” He tilted his head slightly, his grin widening. “Makes you wonder.”

Ford brushed his hand over his mouth, gaze dropping momentarily to the floor. “It does…” he murmured.

“Seriously, Sixer?” Bill’s voice slithered into his thoughts, low and incredulous. “You’re sitting on a literal universe-cracking system, and you’re getting worked up over some yokel’s bedtime story?”

Ford’s jaw shifted—just slightly—an almost imperceptible acknowledgment of the voice at the edges of his mind. Yet, his focus had already shifted, no longer tethered to the room or the glowing screen behind him. His thoughts were climbing instead, winding along twisting trails of possibility and into shadowed recesses. The skepticism in Bill’s tone lingered, but Ford’s decision was already made.

“She ever go back?” Ford asked after a long beat, his tone measured, but his curiosity undeniable.

“Didn’t say,” Fidds replied, leaning back against the bench with a lazy shrug. “But it got me curious, so I did some digging on ol’ Mount Thorn.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, handing it over to Ford. “Came across this missing persons report from sixty-two. Thought it might tickle your brain.”

Ford snatched the sheet, unfolding it briskly. His eyes scanned the grainy photocopy—a missing persons report—absorbing the details. “‘Vanished without a trace… Last seen at the Redridge Lodge near the base of Mount Thorn.’” His lips moved slightly as he read, the gears turning visibly in his head.

Bill cut in, his tone sharp and sardonic. “Oh, by all means, Fordsy. Forget the multiverse for a second and chase after some ghost story on a mountain nobody’s heard of. Genius move.”

Ford’s lips twitched faintly, brushing Bill’s interjection aside.

“I figured something like this would be right up your alley,” Fidds added, taking another leisurely sip of his coffee.

“You figured right.” Ford stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor with a soft groan. “I think we’ve got ourselves a destination,” he announced, his voice clear and decisive as he handed the paper back to Fidds. Bill’s skepticism echoed faintly at the back of his mind but was quickly drowned out by resolve.

Fidds raised an eyebrow, his grin widening as he caught the shift in Ford’s tone.

Ford reached for his coat, shrugging it on with practiced efficiency. His movements were deliberate, his focus razor-sharp. “I’m just gonna stretch my legs,” he thought as he crossed the room.

From deep within his mind, Bill’s voice came again, smooth and dripping with derision. “Whatever you say, Six. Don’t forget your flashlight. Oh, and watch out for those big, scary stalagmites.”

The two men moved toward the row of lockers tucked against the far wall. Ford’s hand curled over the latch, pulling it open with a metallic creak. The locker’s contents were a study in organized chaos—spare wire coiled into haphazard loops, dog-eared notebooks crammed with scrawled equations, and an assortment of tools that bore the wear of use over years of fieldwork. He reached for his weathered backpack, the fabric worn thin at the seams, and tossed it onto the workbench with a muted thud.

He packed with methodical precision, his movements deliberate, almost mechanical. Latex gloves, field journals, and pens were tucked into their designated spots. A flashlight followed, its surface scratched but serviceable, alongside a compact toolkit whose latches clicked sharply into place. Finally, his revolver. He flicked the cylinder open with a practiced motion, pausing briefly at the sight of the single empty chamber. The meimory of its last discharge nudged at the corners of his mind, fleeting and unspoken. He pressed a fresh bullet into the gap, clicked the cylinder shut, and slid the gun into his belt without a second thought.

Across the room, Fidds followed his own routine with the same practiced ease. He reached for his hat, the brim softened and worn smooth by years of handling, and settled it onto his head with a precise tilt. His fingers brushed the edges, tracing the faint threads along the seam. He tugged his belt snug with a deliberate motion and adjusted his pants by the buckle before slinging his pack over one shoulder.

“You think this’ll lead to somethin’?” Fidds asked, tucking his shortened shotgun into one of the straps on his bag.

Ford glanced up from his own preparations, the faintest flicker of a half-smile curving at the edge of his lips. He adjusted his glasses absently, the motion almost second nature. “No idea,” he said evenly, though there was an unmistakable spark beneath his words. “But isn’t that the point of investigating?”

Fidds chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “Touché,” he said, tipping his hat.

Ford gave his bag one last inspection, tugging the straps taut and checking every compartment with the thoroughness of someone who couldn’t afford mistakes. Meanwhile, Fidds leaned casually against the edge of the counter, watching Ford with an expression that carried an easy confidence.

“Ready when you are, Doc,”

The drive out of Gravity Falls was steeped in quiet anticipation, the town dissolving into the backdrop of Oregon’s sprawling wilderness. Fidds gripped the wheel with one hand, the other resting loosely on the gearshift, guiding the car through the winding mountain roads as if they were an old challenge he was itching to revisit. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—subtle, but enough to suggest he relished the task.

In the passenger seat—puffing at a cigarette he lit somewhere between stepping out of the cabin and hitting the road—Ford sat hunched over a map sprawled across his lap. His finger skimmed the printed lines, pausing now and then to adjust for the terrain outside. The map rustled faintly with his movements, and his brow knit in that familiar way that signaled his complete absorption.

“About twenty minutes out now,” Fidds said, his voice steady as his eyes darted to Ford for confirmation, holding out an expectant hand.

Ford didn’t respond immediately, but he did reach into his pocket, pulling out his pack of smokes, his focus pinned to the map. “Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, passing the pack over to Fidds mindlessly. “Keep going. There’s a fork up ahead—take the left trail. From there, it shouldn’t be far.”

“Got it,” Fidds replied with a brief nod, popping one of Ford’s cigarettes between his lips, his tone easy but grounded. His attention shifted back to the road as it twisted upward, the forest tightening around them with every mile. The terrain wasn’t unfamiliar to him—he’d spent his share of time navigating mountains—but this stretch had an edge of novelty, a quiet, pressing mystery woven into its unfamiliar bends. Even so, he trusted Ford’s judgment implicitly, especially when it came to chasing down obscure trails marked only in fine print.

The road grew steeper as they climbed, the tires crunching over patches of packed snow and loose gravel. The towering pines flanked them like silent sentinels, their branches sagging under the weight of snow that gleamed faintly in the pale winter light.

Finally, the road tapered off, narrowing into a hard stop. The dense forest opened into a clearing, its edges framed by the jagged rise of the mountain beyond. Ford ran his finger over the map one last time, his brow furrowed with purpose. “Looks like this is as far as we’re driving,” he said.

The two men stepped out into the cold, their boots crunching against the frosted ground. Ford turned in place, scanning the treeline until his gaze caught on an opening that aligned with the map’s markings. He tossed the smoldering cigarette, burned to the filter now, into the snow before he motioned toward the entrance without a word, Fidds already following his lead.

The trail wound through the dense forest, snow thickening in places where the trees didn’t shield the path. Their breath puffed into the air in steady bursts, the rhythmic crunch of their steps the only sound that broke the stillness. They walked for nearly two miles, the mountain looming closer with every turn.

Then, almost as if it had been waiting for them, the trees parted, revealing a small, weathered structure nestled at the mountain’s base. It stood alone in the snow, stark and stubborn against the wilderness, as though time and nature had long since swept everything else away, leaving only this relic behind.

The sign above the door read Redridge Lodge, the faded letters nearly indistinguishable against the time-worn wood. Snow clung stubbornly to the sagging roof, pressing it into a shallow bow.

Fidds planted his hands on his hips, tilting his head as he surveyed the structure. “Well,” he drawled, his voice edged with wry amusement, “ain’t that just the coziest lil’ place you ever seen.”

Ford smirked faintly, his breath fogging in the cold air as he stepped away from the car. “This must be the lodge mentioned in the report,” he said, his tone distracted, already moving toward it without waiting for confirmation.

Behind him, Fidds swung his bag over one shoulder, pulling his hat low against the biting wind. He fell into stride beside Ford, their boots crunching against the snow as they approached the entrance.

Inside, the lodge smelled faintly of cedar and coffee, the kind of aroma that seemed to seep into the wood over decades. The space was small but well-worn, its age apparent in the scuffed floors and weathered furniture. A wood-burning stove in the corner radiated a muted warmth, crackling softly beneath a mantle adorned with dusty knickknacks.

Behind the counter stood a woman, her figure tall and lean. Her hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail, and a battered brimmed hat rested slightly askew on her head. She was thumbing through a magazine with the kind of deliberate ease that suggested she wasn’t in a hurry for much of anything.

“What can I do ya for?” she asked, her voice steady and low, carrying the cadence of a thick Texan drawl. She didn’t bother looking up, stretching the words out with a lazy cadence.

Ford stepped forward, his movements purposeful, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “We’re looking for the quickest way up the mountain,” he said, his voice clipped, direct. “Who handles access?”

The woman flipped a page, the sound faint but deliberate. After a moment, she tilted her head up, two deep blue eyes meeting Ford’s. Her gaze narrowed slightly, sweeping over him with an assessing edge that seemed to linger on his impatience.

“Well,” she drawled, her tone slow and deliberate as she leaned back against the counter, her boots creaking softly against the floorboards, “that depends on where you’re lookin’ to go.”

Ford’s posture remained rigid, his sharp demeanor unwavering. “We just need the route,” he replied curtly.

Before the exchange could sour further, Fidds stepped in with his characteristic charm. He doffed his hat with an easy grace, pressing it to his chest as though to smooth the atmosphere. His smile, warm and effortlessly disarming, spread across his face.

“Beg pardon for my friend here,” he began, his voice carrying that slow, honeyed cadence. “We’ve come a long ways, and he’s got a one-track mind when it comes to gettin’ things done. Reckon you’ve probably dealt with that type before.”

The woman’s expression softened, just a touch, the sharper edge of her gaze dulling. Her shoulders relaxed as she folded her magazine and set it aside. “Sure have,” she said, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. Her tone had warmed, though it still carried a thread of caution. “Guess you’re lookin’ t’head up sooner rather than later, huh?”

Ford’s eyes flickered, the briefest hint of a smile passing across his face, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s the plan.”

Fidds shifted his weight and, with an air of casual familiarity, nudged Ford’s ribs with his elbow. The gesture drew a sharper glance from the woman, her attention landing more firmly on him.

“I like yer Stetson, stranger,” she said, her tone gaining a note of curiosity. “You ain’t from around here, neither, huh?”

“No, ma’am,” Fidds replied, his voice light and confident, the natural warmth in his drawl inviting. He settled the hat back on his head with a practiced tilt.

She gave him another deliberate once-over, a slow smirk curving her lips. “Which side’a the mountain you hail from?”

“Campbell County, Tennessee,” he answered with an easy nod, his accent deepening ever so slightly as he spoke.

Her eyes brightened, the smirk widening into something more genuine. “Ah, Blue Ridge boy,” she said, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the counter. “Thought I caught a whiff off ya. Coal or copper?”

Fidds chuckled softly, the sound low and effortless, like he’d expected the question. “Little coal town,” he said. “Ain’t even on the map. But my granpaw was the town preacher—Daddy took up hog wranglin’ instead. Not too glamorous, but it kept us outta the mines.”

She leaned forward now, her earlier coolness toward Ford dissipating as her attention locked fully onto Fidds. “Spent a summer out that way myself,” she said, her tone warming, edged with nostalgia. “Drivin’ cattle through Powell. Ranch work—way back when. Y’ever hear of a Copper Valley Caravan?”

Fidds tilted his head, genuine curiosity flickering in his eyes as he shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”

“Well,” she continued, her words finding a smooth rhythm as the memories seemed to rise unbidden, “them ranchers send me and a couple others up with the herd, movin’ ‘em along the trails to summer pasture. Hard work, but good work. Always left a mark, y’know?” Her smile softened, worn with time but still tinged with pride.

Fidds raised an eyebrow, his grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, sounds like you’ve got a hell of a yarn or two tucked away.”

She chuckled, a flicker of mischief lighting her features. “Don’t get me started on them toad-stranglers y’all got up there. Imagine huddlin’ under a tarp with twenty cows lowin’ their heads off ‘cause the thunder’s spookin’ ‘em—and that wind?” She whistled softly. “Cuts through like perfume at a prom. You learn real quick what you’re made of.”

Fidds let out a low laugh, nodding appreciatively. “Sounds like you’ve earned your stripes, all right,” he said, his hat tapping against his chest with an easy motion.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before flicking toward Ford. A glint of humor sparked in her eye. “I reckon your corn-fed friend over there might make a decent hand, iffin he can keep his gun greased.”

Fidds cast a sly glance back at Ford, his grin widening into something downright teasing. “Him? Oh no, ma’am. He’s the type to squat on his spurs—doesn’t have the patience for cattle work.”

“Well, bless his heart,” she drawled, a playful lilt in her voice.

“Ugh, can these two get a room already?” Bill’s voice sliced through Ford’s mind, sharp with a touch of annoyance.

Meanwhile, Ford stood stiffly to the side, his foot tapping impatiently. He was clearly losing patience. “That’s great, but the mountain? Access?” he interjected, cutting into the conversation before it could get any more comfortable.

The woman’s smirk returned, carrying an edge of playful defiance. “Sure. I’ll get to that in a minute,” she said, her words stretching deliberately, savoring the moment of control. Her gaze slid back to Fidds, her expression softening just enough to make her preference clear. “Nice to meet someone who knows how to hold a conversation first.”

Fidds gave a small shrug, his knowing smile widening just a fraction. He seemed to enjoy the banter, leaning into the moment with an ease that contrasted Ford’s growing frustration. Ford sighed audibly, his posture stiffening.

Leaning against the counter, the woman let her smirk linger, a spark of amusement lighting her gaze. “Well, boys,” she drawled, tilting her head slightly, “hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the only way up this here mountain’s on horseback. And we ain’t rentin’ today—not with the snow.”

Ford’s frown deepened, skepticism clear in the sharp set of his features. “There’s barely a dusting out there,” he replied flatly, a note of challenge in his voice.

Her eyebrow arched, unimpressed by his dismissal. “A dustin’?” she echoed, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. “There’s ‘bout a foot and a half all ‘round here, darlin’. And up there?” She jerked her thumb toward the window behind her, where the mountain loomed in the distance, draped in its winter shroud. “A whole different beast. Drifts are likely belly-deep to a mule by now. I’d hate to see ya lose your fancy city boots in the first mile.”

Ford opened his mouth, clearly ready to fire back, but she cut him off, redirecting her attention to Fidds with a glimmer of interest.

“Truth is,” she went on, “we might not be sendin’ anyone up till spring. Almanac’s callin’ for one of the worst winters we’ve had in years. Legend has it last time it got this bad, feller lost his way. Probably frozen stiff ‘cause he thought he could brave it with nothin’ but a wool coat and some stubborn pride.” Her words hung in the air for a beat before she added, with a pointed glance at Ford, “Sound familiar?”

Fidds chuckled quietly, clicking his teeth as he stepped in, cutting through the tension before it could boil over. “Well, that’s a shame,” he said, his tone polite and easy. “Guessin’ you’ve seen plenty of winters like this, though.”

She nodded, the sharpness in her smirk softening into something more genuine. “Sure have,” she said. “Been out breakin’ ice off water troughs at dawn for three seasons now. Snow like this teaches you real quick to respect the land—and to listen to folks who know better than to go stompin’ into a blizzard unprepared.” Her gaze lingered on Fidds, a subtle hint of approval in her expression.

Fidds tipped his head, his voice warm and agreeable. “That’s why we came to you first,” he said, flashing her a grin that seemed to win her over just a bit more.

Ford exhaled sharply, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. “So, no way up the mountain. Got it. Is there anyone else we can talk to?”

“I’m ‘fraid not. Best advice I can give ya? Come back in a few months when the snow melts and the trails open up.” she said, her hands already busy sorting something behind the desk.

The two men drifted away from the counter, pretending to browse the rack of maps and trail guides, though neither of them were particularly interested in the glossy brochures. Ford’s gaze lingered on the spines, his fingers flipping through one absently, as though the repetitive motion might calm the storm brewing behind his eyes. The air in the lodge felt heavier now, the kind of stifling silence that made even the smallest movement seem loud.

Ford leaned slightly toward Fidds, his voice low and clipped. “We can’t wait that long.”

Fidds exhaled through his nose, his eyes darting toward the woman at the counter, who was now absorbed in her clipboard. His hand tightened around a map, crinkling the edges. “And what do you want me to do about it?” he muttered, his tone carrying a quiet weariness. “She said the trails are closed.”

Ford’s eyes shifted briefly toward the woman, his expression calculating. The map in his hands was nothing more than a prop now. His fingers tapped against the edge as he leaned in closer. “You distract her,” he said, his voice sharp and deliberate. “I’ll handle the rest.”

“Distract her?” Fidds hissed, his brows pulling together. His disbelief was palpable, his voice barely above a whisper. “Ford, how in the hell am I supposed to do that? She’s been runnin’ the place like a hawk.”

Ford shrugged lightly, his face betraying no concern. “She’s into you. Go put on the moves.”

“The moves?” Fidds repeated, incredulous. He leaned back slightly, his voice dripping with disbelief. “C’mon, man. It’s been almost five years since—”

“Oh, don’t tell me ‘Fiddle-Her McStuff-It’ lost his touch,” Ford interrupted with a sly quirk of his eyebrow and a smug smile tugging at his lips.

The heat rose in Fidds’ face as his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He hissed through gritted teeth, “Brilliant, Standford. There’s just one little hang up—” He held up his left hand, pressing it towards Ford’s face, the gold band glinting in the lodge’s muted light.

Ford groaned, tossing his head back slightly in a show of exaggerated exasperation. “I’m not asking you to propose,” he said, waving dismissively, “just a little schmooze.”

Fidds glared at him, his posture stiffening further. “Why can’t you do it?”

“Because,” Ford said smoothly, his gaze steady and unbothered, “I’m not the one who broke the dorm record for sneaking girls in past curfew in a single semester.”

“Ford—”

“Chicken,” Ford interrupted, tilting his head with a mocking glint in his eye.

Fidds straightened up, his shoulders squaring, the challenge igniting something in him. “I am not.”

“Then do it,” Ford said, his smirk deepening, the tone of his voice both infuriatingly calm and entirely smug.

Fidds stared at him, his lips pressed into a tight line, before muttering under his breath, “This is a bad idea.” He slammed the brochure back onto the rack and turned toward the counter, already beginning to marshal what Ford was so insistent on leveraging.

Ford smirked again, giving Fidds a light pat on the back. “You got it. Go put that southern charm to good use.”

“Shut up, Ford,” Fidds grumbled under his breath, but he was already turning toward the counter, his face a mask of reluctant determination.

He exhaled sharply, the sound thick with frustration and resignation. He straightened his back, fingers hovering over his wedding ring for a brief, contemplative moment before twisting it off. A quiet sigh escaped him as he tucked the ring into his pocket, tugging the brim of his hat down, giving Ford a quick, irritated look. Ford, in return, offered an exaggerated thumbs-up from the aisle.

With a final grunt of resolve, Fidds strode back to the counter, his gait easy and casual despite the unease settling deep in his chest. He leaned against the counter, tipping his hat with a practiced flick of his thumb, just enough to meet her eyes. She paused her sorting behind the counter, meeting his gaze.

Fidds flashed a cool smile, lifting his chin slightly, a confident glint in his eye. “What’d you say your name was again?” His drawl was warm, far smoother than it should have been.

A faint smile teased the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t,” she replied, her words holding a quiet challenge of their own.

Fidds let out a low chuckle, the edges of his grin curling up a little more. “Well then,” he said, his voice low and teasing, “how’s about I just call ya Tex? Seems fittin’.”

Her smile broke into a brief, genuine giggle, and she swatted at him with a folded brochure, the playfulness undeniable.

Fidds tilted his head slightly, dropping it just enough to give her a look of feigned innocence, the grin never leaving his face. “What’s a Southern belle like yourself doin’ all the way up here in Oregon?”

She raised an eyebrow at him, smirking. “Funny, I was gonna ask you the same thing.”

“Well,” Fidds drawled, stretching the word out as if he had all the time in the world, “figured I’d come see how y’all do things on the West Coast. Turns out, you got your fair share of friendly folks after all.”

Her smirk softened into a laugh, and she folded her arms, leaning slightly toward him. “You sure you’re not just here to cause trouble?”

“Trouble?” Fidds echoed, feigning innocence, pressing his hand over his heart. “Ma’am, you wound me.”

As her focus stayed firmly on him, Ford slipped silently toward the door, his movements quick and deliberate. With one last glance over his shoulder to ensure Fidds had her attention, he ducked outside, disappearing toward the stables.

Just as his boots hit the snow, Ford felt the familiar buzz against his temples, Bill’s voice slipping its way into his mind. “What’s the plan, smart guy?”

Ford didn’t break stride as he walked toward the barn, boots crunching against the snow with each step. “Waiting for spring certainly isn’t it,” he replied flatly, barely any humor to soften the sharpness of his tone.

“Think ole Rodeo can pull his weight back there?” Bill’s voice dripped with amused skepticism.

Ford smirked faintly, glancing over his shoulder toward the lodge. Through the window, he could see Fidds leaning casually against the counter, his body language relaxed, the soft sound of the woman’s laugh spilling out from behind the glass. “I think he’ll be just fine,” Ford said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward briefly before his focus shifted back to the barn ahead.

The barn loomed ahead, quiet against the cold, its sturdy wooden doors bound shut by a thick padlock. Ford approached cautiously, eyes scanning the empty stretch of snow surrounding him, the wind only carrying the faint whistle of the trees above. He crouched low in front of the doors, fingers brushing against the cold, icy surface of the lock.

“What now, Genius?” Bill teased. “Gonna huff and puff and blow it down?”

Ford chuckled softly, barely a sound. “Please,” he said dryly. “This is child’s play.”

Still crouched, Ford glanced over his shoulder one last time, making sure the lodge was out of sight, its occupants distracted. Satisfied, he shrugged his pack from his shoulder, setting it down with a muffled crunch in the snow. Unzipping it, he pulled out his toolset, fingers finding a small screwdriver and a thin, precision instrument with a pointed edge amid the arrangement.

The lock was worn but stubborn, its mechanism sticking slightly as Ford applied pressure. His hands moved with a steady, practiced precision, working in silence, the faint scrape of metal the only sound except for the distant murmur of the wind. Then, with a soft click, the lock gave way, the shackle springing open. The metal hit the ground with a dull thud, half-buried in the snow, and Ford pushed the barn door open just enough to slip inside.

“Nice work, Specs,” Bill said, his voice tinged with surprise. “Didn’t know you had that little trick up your sleeve.”

Ford stepped into the barn, adjusting his glasses, a flicker of amusement flashing in his eyes. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“Stanford,” Bill purred, his voice smooth and saccharine. “What have you gotten up to, you bad boy?”

Ford smirked faintly as he scanned the barn’s interior, eyes landing on the stalls lined against the walls, their two inhabitants stirring faintly in the shadows.

The air inside the barn hung heavy with the mingled scents of hay, leather, and damp wood, a rustic tang that seemed to anchor the quiet within its walls. It was still, save for the soft rustle of straw beneath hooves and the occasional low whicker from the pair of horses in their stalls. Ford paused just inside the door, his breath fogging faintly in the cold as his eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through the wooden slats.

He moved carefully, each step deliberate, his boots muffled against the packed dirt floor. The chestnut mare in the nearest stall lifted her head as he approached, her ears pricking forward at the sound of his movement. He stopped just short of her, raising his hand in a slow, measured motion, palm up and open.

“Easy, girl,” he murmured, his voice low, carrying a soothing undertone. The mare hesitated, studying him with a steady gaze before flicking her tail and lowering her head ever so slightly. Taking the gesture as permission, Ford stepped closer, his movements smooth and unhurried. He ran a gloved hand gently down the length of her neck, feeling the warm ripple of her coat beneath his touch. “I need a favor,” he said softly, the words a quiet promise. “Think you’re up for it?”

The mare made no move to resist as he sidled to her flank, reaching for a saddle from the rack nearby. The leather creaked faintly as he hefted it onto her back, the weight settling with a practiced ease. Ford’s hands worked deftly, securing the cinch with a firm but careful pull, his fingers double-checking the straps before giving them a final tug to ensure they were tight.

Once satisfied, he shifted his focus to the second stall. The dark bay inside shifted uneasily, its large, liquid eyes watching him with wary curiosity. “You too,” Ford murmured, his voice calm, steady as a slow-moving stream. He repeated the process, his touch practiced and patient, the faint scent of oiled leather mixing with the animal’s warm breath as it snorted softly but stayed compliant.

With both horses saddled, Ford took hold of the reins, their cool leather threading between his fingers. He clicked his tongue softly, coaxing them forward. Their hooves thudded faintly against the dirt as he led them toward the barn door.

The lodge’s warmth hummed low, the faint crackle of the woodstove and the occasional creak of timber underscoring the easy rhythm Fidds had found in his conversation. He leaned against the counter like it was second nature, one elbow propped, his hat tipped just so, his expression carefully arranged to be open, warm, unassuming. The attendant—Tex, as he’d taken to calling her—seemed entirely at ease, though the faint pink at the edges of her cheeks betrayed her amusement.

Fidds kept the banter light, his voice laced with just enough drawl to remind her where he came from, just enough charm to hold her gaze. But his attention wasn’t wholly hers. He caught the faintest flicker of movement behind her, out the frost-dusted window. Ford. The familiar figure slipped past, leading the horses with careful, deliberate steps. Fidds’ heart gave a sudden jolt, but his face didn’t flinch, his practiced ease holding steady.

“What’s a pretty lady doin’ cattle runs and ranch work for?” Fidds said smoothly, the words coming out on instinct, a casual distraction.

Tex tilted her head at him, narrowing her eyes playfully. “Lady, huh? Don’t reckon you’d last one summer keepin’ up with me out there.”

He laughed, low and easy, like her reply was the best thing he’d heard all day. “I’d take that wager.” he said, flashing another grin. He leaned more of his weight on his arm, pressing his tongue against his cheek as his eyes scanned her face. “Still, must be hard for a little thing like you.”

Her grin widened. “Been runnin’ cattle since I could get my boots in the stirrups,” she shot back, her tone teasing, though there was a sharpness to it—a quiet pride.

“Tougher than you look, then,” Fidds replied with a wink, his eyes flicking quickly to the window. Ford was almost clear now, the horses stepping carefully over the snow-packed ground. But then one shifted, its hoof scuffing loudly against the frozen earth. Tex stiffened slightly at the sound, her head beginning to turn toward the window.

Ford froze mid-step outside, reins clutched in his hands, his eyes shooting up to Fidds through the window.

Fidds acted on instinct, his hand darting out to lightly catch hers across the counter. The movement was quick but gentle, enough to halt her without startling her. “Pardon my boldness, I just…” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, scrambling for the right words. “It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to someone who reminds me so much of home.”

Tex blinked, her head tilting back toward him, her cheeks warming again. “Oh,” she said, caught off guard, her voice softer now.

“You ever think about headin’ back South?” Fidds asked, his voice steady, his grip still loose on her hand. His eyes stayed on hers, his smile unwavering.

She bit her lip, though her gaze didn’t waver from his. “I haven’t thought much about it, honestly,” she admitted after a pause. “Oregon’s got its charms, y’know?”

Fidds nodded, keeping his voice low and even, his smile tugging just a little wider. “That it does,” he said. “But somethin’ tells me you’d fit right back in where the tea’s just a little sweeter.”

Tex laughed, the sound soft and genuine, her fingers curling slightly around his. “I reckon I would,”

Outside, Ford exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The cold air felt sharp in his lungs, but it was a relief all the same. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Fidds’ just for a moment. A sharp tilt of his head was all he needed to signal him to wrap it up. Fidds gave a subtle nod, but his focus didn’t waver from the woman across the counter.

Fidds cleared his throat, straightening slightly. “Well, I oughta get outta your hair,” he said smoothly, his tone casual but polite, as though their conversation had been nothing more than a passing exchange. “Thanks for your time, Tex. You’ve been more’n helpful.” He gently released her hand, stepping back just enough to show he was preparing to leave. “But I’ll let you get back to work before I get myself into trouble.”

Tex smiled wider and reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of his sleeve as she pulled him back just a touch. “You already did, sweet talker,” she said, her voice low and teasing, a soft laugh threading through the words.

Fidds felt a rush of heat creep up his neck, his cheeks flushing despite himself. He chuckled awkwardly and cleared his throat, his charm stumbling for just a moment. Squaring his shoulders, he regained his composure with a slight grin. “Well…Duty calls.”

With that, Fidds spun on his heel, the sound of his boots striking the wooden floor steady and swift as he moved to catch up. The cold hit him again as he stepped outside, the sharp bite chasing away the lingering heat from the interaction. Ford was already mounted, reins in hand, his horse shifting impatiently beneath him, its breath puffing in white clouds against the brisk air. He glanced at Fidds, one eyebrow raised in wry amusement.

“Nice work, McStuff-it,” Ford quipped, his voice light with humor. He tightened his grip on the reins, keeping the mare steady as she pawed at the snow, eager to move. “Looks like the old dog’s still got some bite.”

“Can it, Pines,” Fidds shot back, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t waste a second. With a quick run-up, he leapt toward the chestnut mare, grabbing the saddle with one hand, swinging himself up in a smooth, practiced motion. “Get goin’!” he shouted, digging his heel into the mare’s flank and cracking the reins with a sharp snap.

The mare reared, hooves slicing the air in a display of power. Fidds leaned into the motion, his hat nearly flying off before he caught it and jammed it back down on his head. With a whoop that tore free without thought, he steadied himself in the saddle as the horse surged forward, snow kicking up in an icy spray behind them.

Without missing a beat, Ford snapped his reins, urging his own horse forward with a sharp, “Hyah!” The horses broke into a gallop without hesitation, the sound of hooves pounding in unison as they tore toward the trail.

The lodge door flew open with a crack, slamming against the frame as the woman stormed onto the porch, her boots skidding slightly on the icy boards. Her face was a fiery mix of disbelief and sheer fury, her breath visible in the frigid air as she bellowed after them. “You low-down sons a bitches!” Her voice rang out, sharp and cutting, a fist raised high in indignation. “Git yer ass back here!”

Fidds risked a glance over his shoulder, his grin breaking wide across his face like a kid caught stealing cookies. “Sorry, darlin’!” he hollered, his voice buoyant with adrenaline. He snapped the reins, spurring the mare onward. The powerful animal responded instantly, her muscles surging as she tore ahead, snow spraying out in white arcs beneath her hooves.

Ford, meanwhile, didn’t bother looking back. His sights remained fixed on the trail ahead, a quick smile flashing over his face as he kicked his horse forward, pushing them both into an even faster pace. The horses hooves struck the frozen earth in unison, their bodies working in tandem as the snow-capped landscape blurred around them. The cold air whipped past, biting at their faces as they tore through the pass.

“You’re crazy!” Fidds shouted, his voice high with exhilaration, his laughter chasing the words out into the wind.

Ford’s answer was a bark of laughter, ragged and wild. It cut through the pounding of hooves, an edge of shared recklessness threading through his shout. “I know!”

Fidds threw his head back, a wild whoop escaping him, and Ford couldn’t help but to follow suit—their laughter carried away by the wind, the sound of shared exhilaration reverberating down the mountainside.

#their friendship is everything to me #ford is such a jerk no wonder bill is obsessed #billford #stanford pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #covenants and other provisions #billford fanfic #my writing #ford pines #fiddleford mcgucket

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