#fiddleford mcgucket fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saint-transfag · 1 month ago

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Afterimage: a Fiddlestan fanfiction

a sight lingering in view after seeing what one knew

A month after opening the Murder Hut, Stan is no closer to finding any clues as to how to get Ford back—until one literally jumps him.

Rating: E (not until much later chapters, nor central to plot) No archive warnings apply

Chapter 1

After reading Ford’s journal front-to-back for weeks now, it wasn’t really as if Stan ought to have been surprised when he saw the… thing? Creature? “Anomaly”? Weird little guy? Whatever it was.

And, after the colorful history of his entire adult life, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he got jumped. His body wasn’t, at least—long-trained reflexes had his assailants on the ground before they could drag Stan off to God-knows-wherever anyone would want to drag Stan off to in Buttfuck Nowhere, Oregon.

But seriously, getting jumped here? He hadn’t been expecting it. Nobody had caught up to him here yet. He knew that the faked death might not convince every person who wanted a pound of his flesh (and not in the fun way), but had still thought that between it and the literally-not-on-any-maps seclusion of this sleepy little town, he’d reached a rare place of relative safety.

Aside from, y’know, giant zombie bats or whatever, tree giants that ate cars. Shit like that.

Of course Ford would have been living here.

But, apparently, Stan now had to add “cloaked weirdos sneaking up behind you” to the list of exceptions to that safety. Seriously, what the fuck? The dude sprawling underneath him looked like some cultist out of a cheap comic book from his youth.

Stan went to lift their hoods—might as well have a better idea of what he was dealing with, especially if he saw these people around town or something later.

The first person was nondescript enough, nobody Stan was familiar with, but the second person—

Stan tensed.

He’d been all through Ford’s basement laboratory; had utterly ransacked it by now, searching desperately for some small clues as to the portal’s origins, reconstruction, and use.

And now, one was knocked flat on his ass unconscious beneath Stan.

The the very 70s facial hair was gone, replaced by a haggard sense of age beyond what a decade alone should have dealt to his looks—but the rest of the face was the same.

“Try to forget,” the ripped photo in the drawer had said.

Who forget who, Stan had wondered at the time; it hadn’t been in Ford’s handwriting, though.

Stan needed answers, and he needed them yesterday. And here before him was the first hope in hell of getting any that he’d had since the journal he'd already read cover-to-cover at least 20 times.

But how to get them from this guy?

Fiddleford H…—H…? …fuck—Fiddleford McGucket woke with a start, in about his second-least-favorite way to wake up. He started to shake as he thrashed against his bindings—how did the damned thing get at him—before he realized that he wasn’t in the bunker, and that these bindings weren't as extensive as before—and that he couldn’t quite remember what it was that he was even scared of in the first place, nor the bunker.

But he was still tied up, in the forest, at night, so he started thrashing harder.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” came an unfamiliar, gravelly voice from the shadows. Through them, Fiddleford could make out the silhouette of the man he’d been unsuccessful at restraining—at helping, he immediately corrected himself.

Clearly, the experience of not only seeing the eerie creature, but also of being unable to have the Society’s help in soothing his mind from the frightful experience had set this man on edge, and he’d lashed out in confused retaliation. Nevermind—he would feel better as soon as Fiddleford could, well, escort him back to the Society’s base, and they could calm his agitated nerves.

Getting an impression of the man’s bulk and the way he moved with the well-honed grace of a predator-prey, Fiddleford wasn’t sure how he was going to manage that on his own. Upon reflection, maybe it had been a bit foolish thinking that just he and a single colleague alone could usher this man back to their base of operations.

Fiddleford squirmed and jerked around, regardless of what the stranger said, as he tried to come up with a plan. He’d just have to use some manner of persuasion—somehow—but the silhouetted figure sighed, cutting off Fiddleford’s thoughts.

“Listen, those bindings aren’t comin’ undone ’til I cut you loose, you’ll just give yourself rope burn.”

The stranger shifted closer, and a beam of bright moonlight struck his face.

Fiddleford gasped, then gagged, then choked a little.

“Ah fuck—” he heard the unfamiliar voice mutter, and a meaty fist was pounded to Fiddleford’s back as he coughed.

“Y—you,” Fiddleford gasped. “Th—wh—who—”

His face worked furiously as his mind scrambled through half-shredded fragments of memory.

Then it clicked, hitting him in the gut like a freight train as broken recollections pieced themselves back together again.

“Stanford?!” he started, staring up at his former friend, wild-eyed—then, looking him over, he registered the slight incongruities of the heavy man’s features, and blanched.

Five fingers.

The voice hadn’t been right, either.

Memories of the shapeshifter came crashing back to him, and his heart raced like a hunted rabbit as he searched for a way out. He found none.

Fiddleford flopped frantically like a hooked fish, senseless with terror.

He would have fallen flat on his face and probably broken something had it not been for strong, broad hands catching his pathetically panicking form.

“Woah, uh, hey there—” an awkward rumble came from Not-Stanford, as thick arms loosely encircled Fiddleford.

There was a hesitant gentleness now to this creature's voice and gestures that Fiddleford couldn't reconcile. The shapeshifter was masterful at visual deception, but he couldn’t imagine it capable of being startled into tenderness, nor imitating such a reaction so well.

And not so masterful this time with the visual deception either—so then, what…?

Fiddleford shook violently in Stanford-Not-Stanford’s hovering grasp as he searched the doppelgänger’s face. The trickles of memories knitting themselves back together had become floods, and he remembered Actual-Stanford rambling enthusiastically about the traits of certain shapeshifting anomalies: those who could become lookalikes, but usually missed some key features.

Like the cleft chin, Fiddleford remembered.

No glasses either, and the hair was much too long for the time that had passed.

In his wild panic, he even examined the hands for signs of stumps where sixth digits used to be, but nothing.

There was only one explanation that Fiddleford was drawing, and it was not a good one.

Why then the genuine concern on this shapeshifter’s face?

Cautiously, the creature lowered Fiddleford’s back to rest against a tree, propping him into a more comfortable sitting position.

“Look, I’m sorry about the restraints—sort of; to be fair, you did jump me.”

“You’re not Stanford,” he spat at it.

“I’m not Stanford,” the creature agreed.

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darlingdaisyfarm · 26 days ago

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✧・₊˚ 🕯️christmas with the gravity falls characters 🎄₊˚ ・✧

𝒃𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒊𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒙 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

a/n: i know, i know, Stan and Ford are jewish, but still, i wanted to make this little gift for you all with your favourite characters

・₊˚ ❄️ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

definitely loves watching the same old black-and-white holiday movies, cackling like he’s never seen them before. you spend the day with him in the mystery shack, surrounded by all the tacky decorations he somehow managed to find for fifty cents or less, because of course he’d never spend actual money on something frivolous like a real christmas tree. nah, you get the plastic one he found at a garage sale, still missing half its branches but looking perfect in his eyes. and then he winks at you, smiling awkwardly, as if you didn’t just catch him trying to use duct tape to stick a piece of tinsel back on.

he’d totally try to sell you the idea of the “mystery shack christmas deluxe experience” where you roast hot dogs instead of chestnuts and every gift is “mystery-themed” (read: stuff he didn’t sell during summer tourist season). but then, once he realizes you're not buying into the grift, he’ll sit with you on the couch in his beat-up old slippers, placing an arm around your shoulder while you both share a bottle of wine, Stan keeps glancing at you during such quiet moments, because he’s simply not sure how he got so lucky to have you around for a holiday he didn’t even care about before you showed up in his life.

𓂃⋆.˚ his gifts come straight from the heart. something handmade, like a charm bracelet he cobbled together from trinkets he’s kept from his con days, or a mixtape full of the music that reminds him of you.

𓂃⋆.˚ he buys you your favorite snacks, no matter how obscure or hard to find. it’s his love language to see your beautiful eyes light up when you see them on the counter, all for you, his most beloved person in the whole world

𓂃⋆.˚ one christmas, he gave you a framed picture of you both, taken during one of the rare moments he wasn’t scowling at the camera. you’d been laughing, mid-snowball fight and he’d secretly printed and framed it because he thought it was the best picture of the two of you ever taken

𓂃⋆.˚ Stan loves christmas movies, especially the cheesy, feel-good ones. you’ll find him crying over the ending of It’s a Wonderful Life and insisting it’s “just allergies.”

𓂃⋆.˚ he’s a sucker for mistletoe. he’ll hang it everywhere, just so he has an excuse to kiss you. even when you’re not under it, he’ll point vaguely upwards and say, “hey, mistletoe,” before pulling you in.

𓂃⋆.˚ Stan puts antlers on the stanleymobile. he would

***

Stan isn’t big on planning, but he knows you’ve been looking forward to the holiday festivities downtown. he grumbles about the cold and the crowds, but the moment you take his hand and lead him toward the string lights and decorated shops, he softens.

he insists on winning you something at one of those cheesy carnival games, even though he curses every time he misses. eventually, he manages to snag a small, wonky-looking stuffed reindeer and hands it to you with a self-satisfied smirk.

“there. merry christmas, kid,” he says, ruffling your hair in teasing, affectionate way.

you drag him to the ice rink, and though he complains the entire time, he lets you pull him onto the ice. he’s clumsy as he tries not to fall, but when you laugh and hold onto him, he relaxes. by the end of it, you’re both clinging to each other, red-faced and breathless from laughter, but so happy to share this moment together.

when the evening winds down, Stan buys you both hot cider from a street vendor and finds a spot by the giant christmas tree in the town square. he slips his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as you both admire the lights.

“this ain’t so bad. . . as long as you’re here.” as he leans to kiss you.

✧𐙚 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬

ford’s version of christmas is surprisingly tender, a little awkward at first because, you know, the guy’s been trapped in alternate dimensions for thirty years and kinda forgot how to do this whole “holiday cheer” thing. he insists on going all out though: a real tree, real ornaments (none of Stan’s tacky nonsense), and actual thought put into the gifts he gives you.

you catch him late at night in the living room as he fiddles with an ornament in his hands. it’s something handmade, probably from one of his crazy adventures in random universes. when he notices you watching, he smiles shyly.

“this holiday. . . it reminds me of what i missed out on, but being here with you, it makes me feel like i’m reclaiming some of that.” he hesitates for a second, taking your hand in his. “thank you. . . for reminding me what home feels like.”

𓂃⋆.˚ he’s the kind of guy who surprises you with heartfelt little gestures, like writing you a short story as a gift or carving something intricate out of wood

𓂃⋆.˚ his gifts are so painfully thoughtful because he stays awake all night thinking about the perfect thing. a first edition book that reminds him of your favorite stories, complete with a personal inscription in his cursive handwriting

𓂃⋆.˚ little treasures from his multidimensional travels: pressed flowers from an alien world, rocks from another dimension that shimmer in the light, a hand-drawn star map of the night he first realized he loved you

𓂃⋆.˚ he’s too shy to hand them over directly so he’ll leave them on your desk or your pillow with a note that simply says: “for you.” his heart always pounds until you smile and kiss him in thanks

𓂃⋆.˚ he loves practicality but puts so much heart into it. one year, he crafted a custom notebook for you, complete with little sketches and a pressed flower he found on one of your walks

𓂃⋆.˚ he wraps everything with precise care. edges folded sharply, no stray tape. it’s absurdly cute watching this man hunch over his workbench, tongue sticking out slightly in concentration as he tries to make the wrapping paper perfect

***

Ford plans everything. he doesn’t let you know until the last second, of course, he just tells you to bundle up and meet him outside the cabin, a thermos of hot chocolate already waiting for you in his hands. his scarf is wrapped haphazardly around his neck and his glasses are fogging up as he waits for you.

“you’re going to love this,” he promises excitedly as he leads you toward a clearing in the woods where a telescope is already set up with its lens gleaming in the moonlight.

Ford’s breath is visible in the cold night air as he begins pointing out constellations. his voice is soft but brimming with passion as he tells you stories of orion, cassiopeia and scorpius. then he smiles and points to one bright star in particular.

“that’s sirius, the dog star,” he explains. “it’s the brightest star in the sky and it rises in winter.”

you’re so caught up in his voice that you barely notice him draping his coat over your shoulders to keep you warm. his arm brushes yours and he leans in close to adjust the telescope for you.

later, you both sit on a plaid blanket he brought along, sharing marshmallows from his pocket (a surprisingly cute habit of his). he points out meteors and tells you about the science behind them, but when you notice him stealing glances at you, you realize that he’s more interested in the stars reflected in your eyes.

🕯️✧ 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐫

you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even understand the concept of Christmas at first. he just likes the idea of shiny things, chaos, and people losing their minds over last-minute shopping. this demon will conjure up decorations that shouldn’t exist in this reality, like ornaments that sing creepy songs when you touch them or garlands made out of what you hope are fake teeth.

“aw, sweetie, you mortals and your ridiculous traditions! let me guess, you want peace on earth, goodwill toward men, blah blah blah.” he laughs. but what you don’t expect is when he snaps his fingers to make snow fall inside your living room. romantic, isn’t it?

but just when you think he’s gonna ruin the whole thing, he floats close to you, winking at you with his single eye. “y’know, for a meat sack, you’ve got some pretty decent taste in holidays. let’s make this one memorable, shall we?”

and memorable it is. whether it’s him warping reality to give you the most extravagant gifts you’ve ever seen (did he just pull a diamond-encrusted reindeer out of nowhere?) or making the stars spell out your name as a “christmas present,” he’s nothing if not dramatic. it’s so chaotic and unsettling, but dating Bill, you got used to find it weirdly romantic.

𓂃⋆.˚ he doesn’t wrap his gifts. he just hands them to you saying “you’re welcome, sweetie.”

𓂃⋆.˚ snowball fights with bill are intense. he cheats., making snowballs hover in the air before pelting you with them. but he’ll let you win in the end, claiming it’s because you’re his “favorite meat sack.”

𓂃⋆.˚ bill tries to summon krampus just to spice things up. it does NOT go well.

𓂃⋆.˚ bill LOVES christmas carols, but he never sings them right. he changes the lyrics to absurd or downright creepy things just to make you laugh. “oh, the weather outside is frightful, and so are the screams of mortals!”

𓂃⋆.˚ bill would absolutely gift you something ridiculous, borderline threatening. you open it and it’s. . . what? a cursed snowglobe? a contract you accidentally signed by touching the ribbon? he’s laughing, until you roll your eyes and toss the whole thing in the fireplace. poor guy is shocked

𓂃⋆.˚ he’s got a twisted sense of humor, so his gifts are always a bit offbeat too, for example, a bottle of some mystical liquid, or even just an empty box with a cryptic note inside (pls don’t read it out loud!!)

𓂃⋆.˚ but then he’ll surprise you with something. . . oddly sentimental, like a necklace engraved with your initials in gold

***

Bill shows up uninvited on christmas eve because he loves bothering his little human. no warning, no knock on the door, just bam and your the fireplace goes cold and there he is: spinning lazily above your living room, his one big eye watching bc you. “surprise, sweetie! It’s me, your beloved demon!“ is he. . . wearing a tiny santa hat perched on his corner??

“HO HO HO! MERRY APOCALYPSE!” he shouts, throwing candy canes that explode on impact. your couch is gone, replaced by a pile of something vaguely moving. you don’t ask

he’s already decorated your living room. except “decorated” is generous, it’s like if christmas threw up on a nightmare. ornaments float mid-air, blinking like eyes; tinsel coils around the walls like it’s alive; the tree is definitely moving, it waves at you.

“you didn’t think I’d miss the holiday season, did you?!” he laughs loudly, his tone got a weird excitement in it, like he genuinely loves this. “ahh, Christmas, a time for giving, receiving and unraveling the fragile sanity of your pitiful mortal mind! i brought presents!”

he snaps his fingers and it’s not a good sign, because every time he does it, you prepare for something creepy and weird. suddenly there’s a pile of gifts under the writhing tree. you’re hesitant, obviously, because one of the boxes is hissing and another is. . . uh, glowing? but Bill’s so excited, floating in circles and chanting “open ‘em! open ‘em!” you cave.

you hesitate. “. . . what’s the catch?”

his single eye narrows, offended. “oh, come on, baby. dont you trust me?”

you don’t, obviously, but curiosity is a terrible drug. so you reach out.

the first box is full of. . . how cute, teeth. just teeth. human? animal? who knows. Bill cackles. “thought you could use some spare parts!” the second box explodes into confetti that screams too damn loud your head hurts. and the third. . . oh, the third box contains a perfectly normal sweater. you blink at it, suspicious.

“what? cant a guy be sentimental?” Bill grumbles, narrowing his eye. then he lunges forward, the sweater levitating out of the box and straight onto you. “aww, look at you! you’re adorable! now let’s go and sing carols and by carols I mean we’re summoning an eldritch horror to devour the moon!“

merry christmas, you guess?

🎄๋࣭⭑ 𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐦𝐜𝐠𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐭

Christmas with Fiddleford is the epitome of cozy. he’s humming holiday tunes while tinkering with some gadget that probably doesn’t belong anywhere near the christmas tree and the smell of something sweet and homemade fills the air. . . probably pie, because you know that man can bake.

a goofy smile is plastered on his face the whole day, his laughter fills the house every time you catch him singing off-key or accidentally setting something on fire in the kitchen, but don’t worry, he’s got a fire extinguisher handy.

“now don’t you worry, darlin’, christmas ain’t ‘bout fancy gifts or big ol’ decorations. it’s about spendin it with the folks ya love!”

he insists on sitting by the fire with you later with his banjo on his knee as he strums something soft and slow. he swears it’s not a carol! but god, the way this man looks at you while playing. . . you swear your heart melts a little right there. “merry christmas, sugar.” you smile and lean your head on his shoulder

𓂃⋆.˚ Fiddleford also loves making little gadgets as gifts. one year, he made you a wind-up snow globe that plays a soft lullaby and snows glitter. he was so proud of it

𓂃⋆.˚ he loves making you laugh so his gift might be something silly, like a tiny, dancing robot chicken. but it always comes with a heartfelt, “just somethin to remind ya how special you are to me.”

𓂃⋆.˚ oh, he knits. scarves, mittens, sweaters, you name it, he’s made it. he even knits little ornaments to hang on the tree. your first christmas together, he made you a scarf in your favorite colors and was so shy about giving it to you

𓂃⋆.˚ he always makes a little handmade card to go with his gifts, with a sweet note inside telling you how much you mean to him.

𓂃⋆.˚ he’s a baker during christmas. the smell of cookies fills the house and he always sneaks you a bite of dough, claiming it’s for “quality control.”

𓂃⋆.˚ when it’s snowing, he’ll insist on taking you outside to build snowmen!!

𓂃⋆.˚ gets really embarrassed but also so happy when you compliment his work. he blushes furiously and tries to brush it off, but deep down, he loves that someone appreciates him

***

Fiddleford’s kitchen is a mess of flour, sugar and cinnamon. he insists on baking cookies from scratch, even though he’s clearly winging it.

“don’t worry, darling, a lil bit of mess just means it’s gonna taste better,” he assures you, his whole face is dusted with flour.

he hums christmas carols as he works. when you try to help, he wraps his arms around you from behind and guides your hands as you roll out the dough. and damn, his touch is so comforting and warm, better than any fireplace.

“now that’s the spirit, love,” he says, nuzzling your neck.

the cookies come out slightly misshapen but so delicious and cute, Fiddleford insists on decorating them together. he smears frosting on your nose at one point, laughing when you retaliate by smearing some on his cheek.

later, as the cookies cool, he pulls you onto the couch with a cozy quilt and mugs of spiced cider. he kisses your temple and murmurs, “best christmas i ever had,” as the fire crackles softly in the background.

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