Work Text:
The setting sun shines orange-yellow through the newly-installed window panes, night falling early in Oregon’s January days. The new triangular muntins cast geometric shadows on the kitchen floor.
“Well, uh,” his assistant asks. He has his thick winter coat on, just a few words from being out the door. “Got any plans for the weekend?”
Ford brushes his hair out of his eyes and stirs the pot of cola he’s preparing for sugaring. It’s the first time he’s been out of the bunker all day, and he thanks his sweater for helping him withstand the chill of the house.
“Catch up on scrapping, iron out those inconsistencies, continue theorizing on our safety problem, you know. It’ll be slower going without you, but one mind’s better than none.” The pre-measured ingredients for the syrup sit ready beside the stove, and Ford pours the brown sugar in, stirring the mixture together with his free hand.
“... And what?” Fiddleford asks. “Nothing else?”
Ford laughs, gaze still on the cola. “That’s enough on its own, isn’t it? I mean, I suppose I could continue to work on theorizing core systems, but I doubt I’d be able to finish either matter if I split my time between both.”
“Naw, Ford, what I’m saying is–” Fiddleford sighs. “You ever think about meeting the folks around here? You could–” Fiddleford stop a second. The only sound in the room is the bubbling from the pot. “Now, you oughta go out on a date. There’s a fine enough gal over at Greasy’s.”
Ford keeps himself from grimacing at the suggestion, although it still stings. The sugar dissolving suddenly is much more fascinating than it was seconds before.
“And why would she be interested in me? We’ve never even said hello.” Ford pretends not to be hurt by the suggestion, picking up the open can of molasses and pouring it into the cola, the syrup glooping slowly into the pot.
“Look, Fiddleford, making nice with the locals can come after we get the portal running.” Ford still doesn’t see the point of it – why meet people whose social best case scenario is a batch of awkward small talk? If it’ll ease Fiddleford, though, he’ll get around to it. “We’re close to some real progress – I can feel it.”
“You could feel it a couple months back, and just look at us now!” Ford almost turns to him, surprised by the sudden flash of anger, but the scalding syrup pops in the pot. Ford switches into damage control mode, moving the pot off the heat to try and stirring it.
“I just–” Fiddleford continues, tone softer, anger gone. Whew. “You do nothing besides this here work, Ford. You ever notice that?”
Syrup cooling, Ford plops a brush in the pot and carries the bundle toward the backdoor to use before the mixture crystallizes. He pushes open the door. The wind hits him, and a shiver passes through him in the crisp January air, coat forgotten inside in his rush. Whatever. He can get the sugaring done before he gets too cold.
“I do stuff, Fiddleford. I moth!” He holds up the brush as evidence as he moves to the tree line. “And I’m always happy to take a break for a game or conversation.”
“What games you talking about? We ain’t played something together in ages.”
Ford opens his mouth to clarify, but catches himself. He stops at the treeline in silence, and thinks over his words. Finally, he brushes the first stroke of the syrup onto the bark.
“No. We haven’t,” Ford concedes, because no. They hadn’t.
“Look, Ford,” Fiddleford presses, “You’re burning the candle at both ends, and by my reckoning, it’ll be months at the earliest before the portal’s ready for a test run. This ain’t how you keep at it.”
The dusk has entered that cardinal red that comes in its final moments. “Actually, it is,” Ford corrects, absorbed in his brush strokes, already halfway through the pot and moving to the next tree. “I’m sleeping at minimum six hours a night, with an average of eight and three-tenths hours, eating three meals a day–” that’s fudging the truth, but forgetting the odd meal when caught in the enthusiasm of an imminent breakthrough is natural, “and remaining physically active with my daily exercises. There’s no–”
“Ford, now–!” Fiddleford snaps, before he cuts himself off. He takes a loud exhale, steadying himself. “Ford, I just– I just worry, Ford.”
Ford freezes mid stroke. He turns to look at Fiddleford for the first time in the conversation. “Worry? There’s no reason to– to worry.”
Fiddleford’s expression stumbles Ford mid sentence. His friend sports almost a textbook picture of concern: his brows are furrowed, his mouth is curved into a frown. There’s something worse than that, though. Although he’s not the best at reading people, the other feeling on Fiddleford’s face is one Ford’s long familiar with. It’s in the squint of his eyes. It’s in the twist of his mouth.
Fiddleford looks disturbed . Deeply disturbed. Looking dead at Ford, as if he’s the reason.
Ford takes a step back, scrambling for something to get that expression off Fiddleford’s face. He tries to think of a reason for Fiddleford, the one person he trusts enough to ask to join him on his research, to look at him like that. As if he is some kind of alien, rather than a friend. More than a friend, even, Ford allowed himself to think at times, although faced with that disgust, he supposes not.
Fiddleford bites his lip, his expression shifting into something Ford can’t read as well, but at least it isn’t that expression. The silence stretches. Fiddleford awkwardly stands there and holds Ford’s coat in one hand and in the other the— The Gloves.
Fiddleford follows Ford’s frozen gaze. He snorts upon seeing the subject, tension leaving his posture as he holds them up.
“You done forgot these.”
The icy air is biting, and the atmosphere stifling, so Ford steps in promptly to take the jacket, grateful that the expression is gone. He shrugs it on, the cloth feeling as cold as the winter air. Fiddleford lifts the gloves up, prompting Ford to take them as well, and Ford winces. He hesitates, and in the end, he shakes his head. The conversation had already been going poorly, but Ford can only be honest.
“I don’t wear those while sugaring. I don’t…” The confession is dark, and guilty, and wrong, and Ford gets it out anyway. “I don’t want to ruin them.”
The words leave a dirty feeling on his tongue, but on the contrary, Fiddleford smiles shyly. He turns away slightly, bashful, as if they’re a couple of kids saying and hearing these kinds of things for the first time. “They’re made for using, Ford. What good’s a pair of gloves if you’re just gonna get yourself frostbit?”
Ford hesitates, but Fiddleford just holds the pair out again, meeting Ford’s eyes, his smile bolder. Ford grimaces as he wipes his free hand on his pants, trying to get the bit of syrup that managed to get on his fingers off. He reaches out and clamps the gloves between his fourth and fifth fingers, both relatively unscathed by the spreading stickiness. His large hands accidentally brush Fiddleford’s in the exchange. The touch is too quick to feel anything but the other man’s warmth, but Ford still feels scalded. He steps back as quickly as he stepped in, and curses himself. He can’t read his friend for his life.
Fiddleford takes a step back himself, putting his hands in his pockets. His expression is thoughtful, but beyond that, who’s to say. The only workable sign is his bright pink cheeks, but whether that’s due to the cold or something else, Ford can’t begin to guess.
“Take care of yourself, Ford,” Fiddleford asserts one last time, tone strengthened by confidence and light despite the worries he had shared minutes ago.
After all that flirting, Ford almost lets it go. He almost just smiles at Fiddleford and calls it a day. He almost bites his tongue, keeps the reminder to himself, but the bitterness in him is too strong. “Have a nice call with Emma-May,” Ford says. “And Tate.”
Fiddleford’s smile falters, and he looks down at his shoes. After a second, he nods and he turns, and his steps echo along with the doors closing behind him as he leaves Ford’s house for the weekend.
Ford stands for a second in the light snow of the backyard before the cold gets to him. Inside, the door closed behind him, the first thing he does is put the gloves down on the kitchen table, in a corner where they don’t have a chance of getting stained.
A half hour into his Friday night mothing, Ford’s heart just isn’t in it.
He has captured two new specimens, attempting to sketch them in the fluorescent light of the kitchen to add to his volume listing the moth species local to Gravity Falls, but as his pencil runs over the page, his mouth remains curved in a deep frown. His chest feels all bungled, like a gnarled clot of wire. A safety hazard, waiting to go up in flames in a class E electrical fire, the scope of which is of yet unseen.
Why would Fiddleford look at him like that?
It doesn’t help that one of the moths is still panicking. Despite the calming effect of the winter air, working well on its companion who rests on the old slice of apple Ford has in its jar, the other desperately tries to fly to freedom. Again and again, it flies wildly into the glass. Ford contemplates trying to calm it by putting the jar in the refrigerator, but the weather outside is cooler. It might make the matter worse.
Finally, Ford huffs and stands to his feet, giving up on mothing for the rest of the evening. He has the sketches for the calm one, at least. He’d usually go for more rounds outside and see if any other moths were lured to the sap he had brewed, but an hour after dusk, what’s the point? If he isn’t even enjoying it, it's better to get back to work. Maybe that’d refocus his mind. Get him to stop lamenting over a situation that isn’t gonna change. Stop lamenting over Fiddleford. Stop getting lost in old arguments, and old memories.
And just why was he looking at Ford that way?
Ford releases the moths back into the night before gathering his journal and the cup of tea he’s been nursing, and goes to his study. Upon arrival, he lights a few candles – he really needs to get around to replacing that fuse – taking care to step over the pile of pillows and blankets on the floor for the nights when he’s too lazy to go back up to his bedroom. The familiarity of the study, a place that is uniquely his , along with the candlelight, usually comforts him like nothing else. The clutter of books and equipment is cozy, and he takes his seat to get to work on those safety calculations.
His six fingers idly flip the pencil between them as he looks down at his notes. Right. Preliminary theory into what they’ll need to account for to make the portal both safe and stable. Ford would rather deal with safety precautions later – better to build the foundation of the machine first and worry about safety once you know what you need to cover, but if it’ll please Fiddleford, Ford will get it done.
Fiddleford’s expression, with its disgust and concern, flashes in Ford’s mind, and he scowls to himself. Ford gazes at the notes in front of him, trying to retrain his focus, but his memory, usually an asset, gives him an all too detailed image of that face.
This is not the first time he’s disturbed somebody. He can’t remember the first time in his life when it happened, but he does remember Sandy Feinstein in the eighth grade, the second girl he had ever asked out, the first one who had actually said yes. The way she smiled shyly around her overbite. The wave of adrenaline and victory Ford had felt, the celebration he shared with his brother. All that joy, only for at the pizza parlor, Ford reaching for a napkin to sop up the grease on his fingers, for Sandy to shriek, Ford looking up to see her gaze on his hand. It had taken three washes and eight ounces of bleach to get the tomato and oil stains out from where her slice of pizza had splattered against his one good button down shirt.
Women throwing things at him before brutally rejecting him had become a characteristic of his love life. Who knows – maybe Fiddleford will be the club’s first male member.
Ford corrects himself: no, when Fiddleford had rejected him, he hadn’t thrown anything, and somehow, that had made it even worse.
Stop it, Stanford, he chides himself. He’s married. He’s married, and the more you think about him hand-crafting a pair of custom-made six-fingered gloves, the more you’ll drive yourself insane.
Especially when he thinks about how Fiddleford had forgotten to get his own wife a present.
Ford pushes those useless thoughts away. Why was Fiddleford even worried about him? He had mentioned Ford’s work-life balance, or rather, lack of one, but while at Backupsmore together, he’d pull biweekly allnighters to keep on schedule for his dissertation. How is his current work ethic any different? He doesn’t even need to physically stay awake to continue his work here, thanks to him , so his body is in arguably better condition.
Has something else changed? His behavior? Throughout the later years of University, he’d go to weekly DD&MD sessions that a few of the other PhD students had organized. Although DD&MD hadn’t been Fiddleford’s thing, he had always been excited to hear Ford recount highlights of that week’s adventure. That could be it.
Well, no. It can’t be. Ford doesn’t have a DD&MD group anymore, but, well, it’s Gravity Falls. Who would start a campaign here, let alone know the game exists? He doubts Fiddleford feels that Ford’s problem is not playing the game, either, as the man has never joined a session himself.
The source of worry can’t be Ford’s behavior. Maybe it’s Ford’s appearance? He gets up from his chair. Although he doesn’t keep a mirror in his study, he does have some silver plating around a painting that works as the next best thing. He maneuvers around the cluttered blankets on the floor to reach it. Through the forgiving dimness of candlelight, he peers at his own face.
The first thing he notices is his hair. It has always been crazy, a mound of brown curls that have a mind of their own, but today is definitely one of the messier days. Ford hadn’t brushed it that morning, or the previous morning, or, well, much at all lately, aside from running his fingers through it while shampooing, not seeing the reason to waste time on it. He’s not trying to impress Fiddleford, a man with a wife and child, the only human being these days who lays eyes on him.
Ford looks harder. It’s hard to make out through the orange glow, but Ford thinks he sees bags under his eyes, but again, that’s no different from when he was in University. Or, maybe it is. He doesn’t remember the circles ever being this bad, even after an all nighter.
He’s getting older. It makes sense that they look worse. It wouldn’t make sense for Fiddleford to be worried about that.
The only other feature that flags Ford’s attention is the bruise. It stretches the right side of his jaw, the color having darkened to a mottled purple and green since Ford had discovered it in the morning. Ford idly rubs at it, the wound sore but harmless. It’ll fade into nothing soon enough, leaving behind nothing but a memory.
This, though. He could see Fiddleford being disturbed by this
Ford walks back to his desk, hand on the chair about to sit down, before a burst of anxiety hits him, kindling him into a pace. His thoughts begin to spiral. Does it really only take some bad hygiene and a bruise to get Fiddleford to distrust him? To earn that look from him? Is that how weak their friendship has become after all these years? Ford absently brings a hand to his face, anxiety growing stronger. Is this how their partnership ends? Is this how Ford loses his only remaining friend?
And like that, it’s over.
With a blink, Ford’s mind, fogged over with anxiety, clears, just like a storm passing to expose a beach’s sky’s idyllic summer’s day. As if Boreas had stepped out of the pages of Greek mythology to blow the fog from Ford’s spiraling thoughts. His mind returns to its sharp and clear. His heartbeat slows back to its resting rate. An unbidden sigh of relief falls past Ford’s lips, and he walks – slowly – back to his desk chair. He looks up at the walls of his study. He had only added the images a few weeks ago, the depiction of Bill encircling Ford inescapably in a net Ford is all too happy to be caught in.
His own personal Boreas.
Well, Ford wouldn’t compare him to Boreas, per se. If Ford limited himself to the twelve major gods of Greek Mythology, Bill’s domain over Ford’s personal madness and his pleasure in indulgences of sensation would make Dionysus the obvious fit. He, however, had described himself as a muse.
To limit the comparison to a single muse would be a disservice to the breadth of his expertise, in Ford’s opinion, although he still enjoys engaging in such thought experiments. Checking his copy of Edith Hamilton’s Mythology , one of the few non-science books he had lugged along to Gravity Falls, Urania had seemed an option, due to her association with the cosmos, or rather, Bill’s familiarity with planes of existence that Ford hadn’t even imagined possible prior to their meeting. Erato also could fit: her association would acknowledge the breadth of his muse’s mastery, not limited to the stars. Ford has never played so heartracing a match of chess before, nor laughed so hard during a game of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons (although his muse had indulged him in that pastime only one night).
If pressed to pick only one, though, Ford finds Thalia the best sole fit. It acknowledges who his muse is, beyond his knowledge: his enjoyment of comedy, his actions of being Ford’s personal Grace, providing him the seeds from which to prosper. It also goes into her name’s meaning: to be verdant. To flourish. Yeah, he could give or take her dominion over idyllic poetry, the picture of his muse in the scapes of countryside spurring dissonance…
Ford can think over the question more later.
Bill must have noticed Ford’s spiraling. Gratitude floods Ford as he gazes at the walls, his muse standing tall, holding twin flames that Ford added in his attempt to add soul to his depiction. Able to see through any image of himself, Bill must have seen the somatizations of Ford’s anxiety and decided to help. Ford imagines the picture he must have made, pacing up a storm from seemingly no stimulus.
Shame gnaws at him. Bill has open access to Ford’s mind and no reserves about using it – he must know what triggered this. What must he think, to see Ford bothered over such a trivial, human concern? Not only bothered by it, but distracted from his work when there is progress to be made?
Again, Ford wonders why a being as ascendant as Bill would bother working with someone trapped in the logic of the human brain. Even for someone as smart and self-aware as Ford, his feelings overpower his logic more than he’d like.
Well, his muse had said he had done this once in a generation. Ford retakes his seat. Hemay not understand it, but whatever reason Bill has to help, all Ford can do is be grateful it’s there. He turns back to his work. He wants the safety precautions outlined by Monday, needs them outlined by Monday. If he takes away just one reason for Fiddleford to look at him like that, just one less thing to keep him up at night, then Ford will be happy.
Hours later, though, the safety planning still sprawls before him.
Ford blinks to alertness in a blur of blue and distant light, the shapes sharpening to show a domain of stars and scientific notes: his mindscape. He must have dozed off at his desk after hours at work, even with his mind refocused on what’s important. He chides himself. He had finished outlining only one potential risk, and had been so close to finishing the theory work for another.
As he looks around, equations floating in blue script over invisible whiteboards, he admits that while he never feels truly rested after a night in the mindscape, working here is the next best thing to being awake in his dimension. This place is a playground for theory, Ford arguably achieving his best work here.
Arguably, because here, the credit isn’t all his.
“How’s it hanging, IQ? Here, take your tea of the night!” The reverberating voice chimes from behind him, and Ford turns, the rest of his surroundings shifting into the blue pseudo-holograms that make up most of the objects. The chess table stands just off center in their sphere of equations. A teapot appears, tea tag floating suspended from it as if gravity’s influence here works only so far as it is welcome. His muse floats before him, stretching for show as if waking from a long rest. As a two-dimensional being of thought, there is no possibility for Bill to be suffering from a tight muscle, unless the cause is psychosomatic, which Ford doubts.
Ford smiles at Bill’s enjoyment of the novelty of human gestures, expression soft. Every move is over-acted and easy to read, unlike most human behavior. Whether it is a yawn where the lashes of his eye become teeth of a mouth, or a faint where Bill makes a show of his form crumbling before it comes back together, at the end of the day, the way Bill throws himself into any mannerism is fascinating. And, well, cute.
Cute.
Ford quickly pushes the thought out of his mind, the thought not new but the company observing it all to present. He tears his eyes from Bill in favor of the chess board, pieces left in the opening where they had stopped last night, quickly distracted from the match by an idea striking Ford for work.
“Well, I had been on the cusp of finishing my application of Lobe’s law to the tearing possibilities that come with implementing an inter-spatial portal, when–”
“You’re already worried about dimensional merging?” Bill psh-es and waves a hand. “Tearing shmearing! We don’t even know what the finished product is gonna look like, and you’re already theorizing about a one-in-a-million chance bad case scenario?”
Bill is saying exactly what Ford had said to Fiddleford when his friend had first brought up the need for safety precautions, albeit changing the words a bit. They can’t begin to figure out what they need for safety when they still don’t know what they’re going to work with in the end.
A portal packing a punch like this one needs safety checks ‘round every corner. We best slow down, think it over. Step away and get back to it when the answers come.
Of course, Fids! Safety-proofing is one of the funnest parts of breaking the laws of science! I’ll get to that post-haste!
Despite Ford obeying Fiddleford’s ask to the letter, though, his friend had only looked more confused, and, well, Bill is correct. Ford wants the portal operational as soon as possible, and he’s wasting time sketching safety functions that may not even be applicable to their final product.
“Your head is too full of party-poopers and OSHA regulations that only get added in twenty-three years from now! You’re great at taking leaps and going places yesterday people think aren’t possible in their lifetime, but this? This calls for the classic approach.”
“Bottom up. Foundation first.” One of the standard critiques for his work. Usually, hearing it takes the wind out of his sails, spending the rest of the week pouting over the mind-numbing work a supervisor has stuck him with, checking boxes to be slow enough for whoever he’s working with to keep up. This, though? It’s what he’s been saying all along.
Bill winks, and Ford can tell it’s a wink despite the single eye, because while he can’t read people, he can read Bill.
With a snap, Bill brings the equations around them into further clarity. “That’s right, Smartie-Pants!”
The comment is a hair’s breadth from being condescending, but it still pleasures Ford. Not only a genuine compliment from one of the few beings smarter than him, but also the use of the diminutive? Addressing him like that, it’s almost as if –
No , Ford. He chokes the thought off before completion. He’s literally manifested in your mind right now . Now is not the time for these fantasies. Nope.
Ford focuses himself on the rows of equations that encircle them. He tries to reorient himself for work they’re there for. “Where’s the Gols principle sketch we were working on last night?”
Bill cackles, the frenzied kind of manic that Ford still can’t predict, and Ford finds himself spun, twirling on his heels as dizziness fills him, until he’s stopped, the right equation right before him. “Your six, Sixer!”
Ford grins easily – working with Bill miraculously manages to be both fun and productive – until he recalls what he had thought about in his study. He had lost himself so fully in his work, the problem gone from his thoughts until Bill’s heedless manipulation of his body brought it back.
How should he bring it up? Ford wets his lips, contemplating the problem before throwing delicacy to the wind.
“Before we get started, Bill,” Ford starts, turning his head to look at the other. Bill floats beside him, lounging on thin air, arms spread behind the tip of his shape as if propping up his ‘neck’. “The bruising can’t happen again.”
Rather than upset by Ford’s asserting the boundary, Bill looks amused. If an eye could smirk… “It can’t happen again, huh?” he echoes, words slow as they roll off whatever he uses to speak. He says them as if the line is some kind of joke.
Ford doesn’t understand what’s so funny. He clarifies. “Yeah. The bruising on my face, to be precise.”
Bill hums, still stretched out and appearing relaxed. “So, you’re fed up with my back-seating, huh? Hit your limit of bed-side post-it notes? I know it’s hard for genius to accept critique, especially when 9 out of 10 corrections are dodo-shit – that’s an earth animal, right?” Bill asks, leaning over, eye eerily sharp, staring at Ford, waiting for an answer.
Ford nods. “Yes, but–”
Bill continues, relaxing back into his recline. “Since most people just waste your time when they think you’re wrong, when really they’re wrong to the gnome’th power, but I thought we were on the same page! Human error is human error! No matter how big and buff and fascinating your brain is, it’s still a human one!”
Bill makes a sound as if blowing out air, bringing a hand to his ‘forehead’ as if wiping off sweat. “ Whew . Thank the third dimension for both our sakes that I’m not human! Imagine how disgusting and inefficient that would be! But anyway, what you were saying was, you don’t want any more physical-plane collabs?”
“No!” Ford rushes, grateful to finally have the opportunity to speak. His cheeks are flushed. Fascinating . The other part, though, the threat of their collaboration ending, is infinitely worse. He tries to pull himself together, tone smoother as he continues, “No, I mean–” He clears his throat. Keep it together, Ford. He takes a breath before continuing, “Why would I want an end to your guidance?”
“You were just about to ask me to leave, weren’t you? No more flesh-prison roomies? If my help is some kind of problem, if you want me gone, well, I can be gone. Off to find some other brainiac who wants inspiration.”
“No!” Ford trips over his words in the rush to get them out. “No, that’s not what I mean. I Know how lucky I am that you chose me of all people to help. No!” Ford takes another breath, trying to rebuild his composure. “What I mean is, I’m usually good at covering… the things up and whatnot, but if they’re on my face, I can’t hide them.” He had tried to think of a way to hide the bruise, but wearing a scarf in the bunker or some kind of mask would raise more questions than prevent them. “I’m fine with you experimenting with sensation in other places, but facial injuries make more problems for me.” Pain in the face also isn’t any different from pain to the arm. It doesn’t deprive any unique sensation. There is only the inconvenience of having to experiment only on certain places.
“You’re not lucky, Sixer.” Bill’s tone is dead serious, its jovial lilt absent for once.
Ford doesn’t understand, and when Bill doesn’t elaborate, argues, “No, I am lucky. What has taken months to achieve would have taken years without you, if at all. You give me inspiration that no person ever could.”
“You’re not lucky that I chose you,” Bill repeats. Bill leans in, eye inches away from Ford’s face, and his heart quickens as Bill continues. “I chose you, Fordster, because you’re special. Out of the four billion six hundred and eighty-five million thirty-two thousand nine hundred and twenty-seven human beings alive right now on this planet, you’re the one weird enough to be worth working with. Worth playing chess with! Worth making surrealist collages out of from the funky colors of blood under your skin!”
Ford steps away from his muse, a bit flustered.
“I shouldn’t have said lucky,” Ford amends. “I should have said blessed, because I am. Blessed by you.” Bill closes his eye, giving an approving nod, and Ford feels encouraged to continue. “It’s just that it’s m– the face. It’s hard to hide bruises on a face.”
Bill shrugs and pulls back into his lounge, materializing a teacup out of thin air to swirl. He rarely drinks from the things, using them more as a prop. “Why hide them? You say you feel blessed, but I dunno, it’s starting to sound like–”
“No, no, I am blessed!” Ford insists. Bill stares at Ford, frozen mid word from Ford’s interruption. There is a coldness to him Ford can’t put his finger on, but Ford blathers forward, pushing past it. “I just need– we need Fiddleford. He’s the best guy I know for engineering, but he’s not like us. He– he’s not open minded the way I am. I don’t want to drive him away.”
Bill continues to stare at Ford, that cold look still frozen in his eye. Ford hesitates – what else can he say? — but finally, Bill shifts.
“Us, huh?”
He says the words with dark amusement. Ford furrows his brow, but before he can reply, Bill falls back into his recline, expression of relaxation restored. “So, what I’m hearing is, someone is better than you at something.”
What? Ford pulls back. Bill looks at him expectantly, amused and waiting for a response.
“Fiddleford is the best engineer to come out of my university.” Not saying much when that university is Backupsmore, but… “If we want to finish the portal as soon as possible, he’s our guy.”
Bill hums, not buying it, and not relenting. “Sounds like someone is better than you at something.”
Ford bites his tongue, anger catching in him, but he bites it down. This is Bill. He can’t let himself get angry. It’s annoying, but… “Yes,” he admits, quickly qualifying, “I’m theory and experimentation–” a double threat, mind you, “and he’s engineering. The bridge that brings my ideas and their implementation together.”
Bill oohs . “Sounds like you need him more than I do! Like he covers a blind spot of yours, doesn’t he, even with all of your excess eyes!”
Ford sputters. “I’ve never specialized in–”
“Ah-ah-ah!” Bill wags a finger at Ford, arm outstretched to be a breath from his nose. “ You need him.”
Ford opens his mouth to argue, but catches himself. Why is Ford even fighting now? What is the point of this conversation? How did they even get here? He feels discombobulated, not entirely understanding every beat of the conversation as he rarely does with Bill, but at the end of the day, he knows what the conclusion is.
His muse is always right.
Still, the words fight against him as Ford forces them out as if he’s prying them free with a crowbar. “Yes. I… need him.”
Bill laughs, throwing the cup into the void, contents untouched. “As long as you admit it, bud! You know what they say: recognizing there’s a problem is the first step towards snatching it and making it go up in flames!
“You know what, you are lucky, Sixer. It’s a good thing for you that your species can be so underwhelming and backwards. It makes me have to put up with someone like you, someone who isn’t a fully-rounded experimental powerhouse!” Ford’s expression twists, and Bill laughs in his face, condescension rich. “Aw, don’t beat yourself up about it!” Peals of laughter crowd Ford’s ears.
Ford flushes again, but this time, not pleasantly. He turns his back to Bill and crosses his arms, facing the equations with a glower. So, he’s not taking Ford’ seriously, huh? Not only that, but he’s making the whole thing a joke. Anger burns in Ford, alongside a part of him he does not quite yet want to acknowledge, a part that says that well, to the perspective of a being like Bill, Ford’s small human issues are a joke. They don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. He’s letting his emotions rule himself rather than facts.
Ford looks at his work in silence, not pouting, but not paying Bill attention. The silence sinks in, the minutes ticking by, his muse quiet in a way he typically isn’t. Ford’s arms shake where they’re crossed on his chest, anger hard to contain. Damn, he hates his temper. He knows that if the being beside him were anything but a god doing him a favor by his mere presence, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back from snapping. Stopping the interaction before he blows up is the best thing he can do for now.
Bill gives a heavy sigh behind him, breaking the silence. Ford stubbornly keeps his gaze forward. When Bill finally speaks, Ford hears his voice close by his ear. “If you really want me to stop, Sixer, of course I will.” Some of the tension leaves Ford, as well as a bit of his anger. “Flesh-prison roomies for life.”
“Really?” he asks, skeptical. Ford almost glances at Bill, the last vestiges of his anger keeping him stubborn.
“Duh, smart guy,” Bill affirms. “I mean, sure, that bruise is barely noticeable, even by human standards, but hey – your body, your choice! Let one guy’s judgment rule what you do with it!” Bill gives a dramatic sigh. “Even if it’s a guy as stupid as Fiddleford.”
That gets Ford to turn around. “Fiddleford Isn't stupid.”
“Isn’t he, though?” Bill floats by his shoulder, expression easy. “Turning you down has got to be in the top 10 of dumb things any human can ever do. Period!”
Ford’s jaw drops.
Bill continues on, rolling his eye. “Dumber still to make it a gender thing. If it were the moths, then, well Sixer, it would still be stupid, don’t get me wrong, but at least then I’d understand.”
Ford… well, gapes. His usually quick mind freezes in face of the subject that he hasn’t spoken about, well, ever. Has in fact pushed from his consciousness ever since Fiddleford took that final away from him and married Emma-May.
“For your species, Sixer, you’re a real modern man!” Bill continues, “Comparatively advanced!” The comparatively rubs Ford the wrong way, but Bill goes on before Ford can respond. “You’re handsome by mammalian standards, always and I mean always the smartest guy in the room, and with only success lying on the road ahead: only an idiot would turn you down! Now, now, don’t make that face, I know you don’t like talking about it – I’m dropping it like a sack of one thousand degree spiders! Degrees Kelvin, mind you! But you know what, I’m with you – your assistant is a bit of a caveman.”
Old embarrassments bitter Ford’s tongue, and his muse’s flattery makes him reluctant to disagree with him, but he can’t help but defend his friend. “He’s human.”
“Yeah – yuck! Good thing you don’t let the haters beat you down! Keep you stupid! Ha! Trying to make you just like any member of your species. Sheesh! I can already imagine what a buzzkill you’d be!”
The air beside Ford ripples and an image emerges, colors coalescing into a person. Ford does a double take, quickly checking the hands, and yeah, no, it’s himself. It has the same glasses, the same lanky build, the definitive twelve-finger total, but rather than the sweater vest, the checkered button down, and the corduroy khakis that are just so comfortable, the image sneers. He wears a leather jacket with miscellaneous patches. His hair is poofed to the limits of hairspray. His pants are high-waisted and patterned psychedelically. The finishing touch is his face, smile as sleezy as a snake-oil salesman’s.
“Now that’s a poindexter.”
Ford can’t help himself. He coughs up a laugh, despite the guilt that comes with mocking this particular image, looking down to look away. A rich satisfaction fills him. Ford has long accepted that he’ll never be normal, inside or out, but Bill? Bill’s the first to make Ford feel like that’s a good thing.
Humanity really is backwards. Atrocities have become commonplace, just another story on the six o’clock news, but having six fingers is some sort of sin? Even Fiddleford, the one person who’s supported him through his work, has started to lose faith because Ford’s passionate? Because he puts his all into his work? Is that all it takes to go too far?
While new anger fills Ford, his annoyance at Bill wanes. Although Ford admires how brilliant Bill is, smarter than any human has the possibility of ever achieving, his humor is really Ford’s weakness. How he can solve a complex physics dilemma without a second glance and in the next sentence make a joke that most clowns would be too embarrassed to try. His muse is all powerful, but that doesn’t stop him from being, well, silly. Silly with Ford.
Ford thinks back to his reflection in his study. Maybe the bruise hadn’t been that bad – in the candlelight and distortion of the frame, Ford hadn’t been able to get a good look at it. And, again, again , Bill is right. Why should Ford cave to some nonsensical judgment from another? All his life, when he’s tried, it’s never been enough in the end to be ‘normal’. His weirdness has always run too deep.
Now, though, his quirks have caught a god’s eye. Made him worth his muse’s attention. Really: why worry about people-pleasing anymore?
Ford exhales, and turns to face him. “You’re right, Bill. My apologies for letting this take time away from the portal. Let’s get back to work.”
Suddenly, Bill is a breath away from Ford’s face, grinning in that way he does. “ That’s my Sixer! Back on it like a Trevarian iron demon on a six-hundred ton blood-bag!”
Ford flushes – damn mindscape and its weakness to displaying subconscious bodily responses! – although he still laughs, awkwardly yet genuinely, and takes a step back, turning back to the equations to get back to work.
Ok, Ford. Refocus. Back to the core issue – making the portal work, period. Safety checks come at the end. Really, what had Ford been thinking, doing work that he’ll have to redo after the portal is finished just to please Fiddleford’s whims?
As Ford tweaks the equations, Bill joins in the workflow. They get into their rhythm, Ford thinking aloud and Bill giving ah-ha moments like free samples at an ice-cream shop. The negative emotions from their conversation completely fade away, and Ford works with a grin on his face as they march forward, basking in the joy of working with the best assis– best partner he has ever had.
It’s the definition of contentment. In a lull in the workflow, Ford smiles as he thinks over their partnership. He could spend his whole life like this, if only his muse deigned to bless him as such. Silently staring at the equation, he shoots Bill a glance. His muse stares ahead at the work, relaxed.
“You know, I was wondering again which muse you most resemble today. In moments like this one–” Ford’s face flushes, knowing what he’s about to confess but determined to push forward “ – I find that Thalia does you the most justice. The way you cultivate genius, and grant inspiration like air. Any other comparison fails to give you proper service.”
Bill looks at Ford skeptically and tsks, disapproving. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Fordsy. I don’t like being minimized by being compared to one of your fake earth deities.”
“O-of course that’s not what I mean!” Ford manages, both crushed with rejection and flustered because cute? Fordsy? That’s a new one. Fordsy. Fordsy? No, Ford, focus. “I– what I mean is–”
Bill cackles, hand reaching out so close that Ford think’s his muse is going to boop his nose. At the last moment, Bill moves the hand up and away, movement ending up being a long upwards stretch back. “Relax, IQ! Learn how to take a joke.”
Disappointment floods Ford at the teased contact, and he can’t identify exactly which part of the statement had been a joke – all of it, maybe? – but he forces out a laugh. Get yourself together, Ford. Sure, Bill had called him cute and almost touched him, but he hadn’t! He won’t! He never will! No matter how much you–
Nope. He’s right here, Ford. Right there. And during one of the few times you two did touch was you shaking hands, agreeing to let him have free reign of your thoughts at all times, always . Nope.
Ford pulls himself together enough to take a breath. He can adjust to this. Okay. No comparisons for his muse. As he exhales, he chuckles, raising an eyebrow and looking Bill back in the eye. “Maybe you should take a joke.” Ford smiles, unable to keep all the softness out of his expression. “Because that’s all Thalia is compared to you, at the end of the day. All any human god is: a joke.”
Bill hums and squints in thought, tapping a finger against his ‘face’ like a human deep in thought. “Decent attempt, Wiz. I’ve gotta think it over, grade it through my sacreligious-compliments-sacrifices-and-sundry-goods rubric to see if it’s enough to satisfy me.” He floats back, reclining on thin air, before he raises his finger with the thought, “As you continue your work on the portal, of course.”
“Of course,” Ford replies smoothly, turning back to the equations with a smile. Fun dances in him as he looks at the work. Not only is Bill brilliant, but he’s just – just so strange in the best of ways. So unlike anything Ford had ever imagined before they met. So lovely.
Ford clears his throat out loud in the mindscape, cutting that dangerous train of thought off. Damn human mind. So susceptible to distraction. He plucks the cup of tea from where it has been floating in the mindscape all this time and sips it. The water is still hot, entropy not a phenomenon in the mind. The taste of it doesn’t check any one box for Ford’s experience with earthly tea, as none have since their first month working together, Bill bringing varieties from who knows where for Ford to sample.
“What’s this flavor?” Ford asks, taking another sip to test the water. There is acidity, but nothing like that of fruit. The after-feel of green tea, but not the flavor. The taste itself has no comparison.
“You like it?”
Ford hums, uncommitted. “It’s… different.”
Bill laughs hard at that. He sticks his finger on the rim of the cup. “It’s the seeds of the Hitkpwaka plant from dimension 9384! The plant consumes hundreds of mealworms to create each seed, their essences inseparably infused with each pod! A high protein delicacy!”
Mealworms, huh? Ford looks down at the cup, and calmly swishes the liquid around. Before his eyes, the liquid changes from the transparent blue that is the default color of everything in the mindscape to the color of light mud. Bill fills in the appearance so Ford can see what the real thing looks like. The liquid is thin but opaque, checked with flecks of black from who knows what. Ford finished his examination with one last swirl. Mealworms, huh?
He takes another sip.
“Is this what earth mealworm tastes like?”
Bill’s eye is trained on Ford, strangely focused. Sharp. He shrugs, rest of his body posed casually. “I dunno. I only have your limited human senses when I’m in your body, buddy. Can’t say I know what pattern of stimuli your tongue’d deliver from a fine blended grub smoothie.”
Ford hums. He breaks their eye-contact to look back down at the tea, taking one more experimental sip before setting it aside. Back to work. The equations evolve, Ford cleaning up his work as Bill throws out the odd suggestion or question that lets Ford realize what is missing.
After a good productive stretch, Bill leans over Ford’s shoulder, so close that if Ford were to turn his head, they’d bump. The man tenses from the proximity as Bill hums, scanning the just-added corrections. The near-miss earlier with Bill almost touching his nose, the leaning over his shoulder now – his muse has been much closer to Ford than he usually is.
And Ford wants to touch him. During that handshake for their deal, Bill’s hand had been cold, smooth, strange in texture. He wants to test that sensation again, and he could . Bill is just a twitch away.
Before Ford can do anything, though, Bill pulls back, turning his back on Ford to look at the other work around them. Ford feels disappointed – he had taken too long – but then, again, what was he even thinking?
Work continues. Ford takes the occasional sip of Hitkpwaka tea, the flavor growing on him as he nurses the infinite cup. Occasionally, when stuck in their progress, he chews on the end of the dream-marker as he takes in the work before him. Will committing to the actualization of Grayson’s theory bear fruit, or will it be another dead end? Will he need to incorporate a different perspective to continue? Try to figure out some sort of blending of the theories that will give them what they want?
Bill’s continued spurts of proximity certainly don’t help Ford’s thought process. Mostly he keeps his typical distance, but at times, he gets so close to Ford that the latter’s heart races. Ford attempts to keep his focus sharp and on what it should be on. Bill occasionally makes humming noises as they continue, appearing equally stumped, at least, which makes Ford feel better. If Bill’s having issues, they are truly facing a conundrum.
That gives Ford pause. Why would Bill have trouble with this? His knowledge is near omniscient. What would be his blindspot? What lies in his area of ignorance? The answer is on the tip of Ford’s tongue.
And with that, clicks. Excitement surges in Ford, and he leaps to the board, scribbling down his adjustments in his barely-legible scrawl of script, hand not fast enough to keep up with his mind. When he’s done, he steps back, hands on his hips, looking at Bill expectantly with barely concealed pride on his face.
Bill’s response doesn’t disappoint.
He looks over the holographic scribbles, and hums in a flat tone, almost bored. “Implementing a local intra-molecular phenomenon in order to balance multidimensional inconsistencies. Decent, IQ. As expected.”
He talks as if Ford’s jump in logic is just another Friday, rather than a leap on par with Nobel-prize winning work. He doesn’t mime an exaggerated gasp, or gaze at Ford with worship. It’s as Bill said – as expected.
Warmth floods Ford’s chest, and he grins at his partner, heart soaring, enthusiastic enough for them both. No, Bill is never caught off guard by Ford’s intellect. He doesn’t see his brain work and put Ford in a box or on a pedestal. No, he appreciates it as a part of Ford, a part that could be improved. He tells Ford, again and again, to use it. To not be content with what he has, but to be better. To become twice the man he was the day before.
No one has ever expected more of Ford the way Bill has. It’s why Ford loves him.
And like that, seconds after their breakthrough, Ford’s happiness is sapped out of him, panic dominating him.
He’d really done it this time; he’d let the forbidden thought slip while his muse was actively in his mind. He really had thought the L-word despite his weeks of trying to keep it to himself! What a fuck up. No, Ford doubts that the issues that would come with such a confession to a human apply. A being like Bill probably wouldn’t bother themselves with biases such as homophobia – who knows if Bill is even male, his outward appearance and pronouns only conforming to a certain standard of human masculinity.
No, gender is not the problem. However, Ford fantasizing about him, the center of his universe, thinking of him as a being who would fulfill such trivial desires? Such useless human whims? If there were such a thing as sin, wasting Bill’s gifts to play to Ford’s romantic fantasies would be it.
At the end of the day, his muse is a two dimensional being. There is no way he wants Ford the way Ford wants him.
Ford’s anxiety peaks. Despite it being his mindscape, he’s sweating bullets. Bill must know what he has thought. He’s right there beside Ford. Curses! With his muse a brush away from Ford’s fingertips, it’s undeniable that he heard Ford’s confession.
Bill hums, though, staring at the revisions. “How could we realize this theory in the earth dimension? You’ve been scrapping that UFO, but here, I’m thinking titanium. How much could five tons of titanium cost, Sixer, ten dollars?”
Oh, thank God, he’s not gonna bring it up–
“Whoa, hold it, IQ!” Bill interrupts turning on him, eye wide, and Ford’s heart sinks. “If you’re gonna be thanking anyone, thank me .” He swoops in close again as he emphasizes the word. Despite his heart racing, his face heating in a tsunami of embarrassment, Ford stands his ground. He meets Bill’s gaze, jaw clenched, stubborn. Bill stares at him, expression unreadable. One-second. Two-seconds. Ford’s face feels hotter by the microsecond, and Bill breaks, cackling suddenly as he floats away.
“Ha! Humans really are a riot! Even you, smart-stuff, with all your brains, get so caught up in your desire for physical touch – even here, where you know all sensation is just an illusion!”
While this is not a worst-case scenario, it doesn’t feel much better. Ford tenses and feels the urge to turn his face away, but keeps himself facing his muse, even as the heat spreads from his cheeks to his whole face. He fumbles through his bungled thoughts for a comeback.
“I-It’s you! Of course I can’t control myself!”
Bill cackles harder, and Ford feels like he’s gonna pass out there and then. His muse is laughing as if his words are some kind of joke. As if their truth is meaningless. As if all of this is inconsequential.
Well, compared to the work they have been doing, it is inconsequential. Ford swallows, and tries to pull himself together. He loses the fight against himself and turns his face away with the poor excuse of looking at an equation he hasn’t touched in days.
Bill, however, is relentless. In a blink Ford feels his presence beside his head as he hovers, again too close. It takes a good chunk of Ford’s willpower to keep looking ahead.
“Aw, Fordsy, don’t pout. It’s just another side of you – another face of the apeirogon that comes together to make you exactly the guy I know! Another side I get to have fun with.” There is a lowness to Bill’s tone, and Ford feels warm in a new way. “Another side I get to know, that no one else knows, because no one sees this side of you, do they, Stanford? That idiot assistant of yours all but lost his marbles when you tried to show him. Stanford Pines, local genius, a red-blooded human male with red-blooded human desires? Gah, the horror! I still don’t get your species’ fixation on gendered attraction,” Bill waves his hand in a dismissive gesture, “but your man-crush on Sagan is just one part of the deranged crystal hodgepodge that is you!”
Mentioning Fiddleford’s rejection those years ago almost cools Ford back to rationality, but his muse remains too close, flattering Ford too much for the arousal clouding his mind to fully clear. He’s never thought about if his pants could obscure an erection in the mindscape, but, well, he supposes the distinction is useless given the telepathy.
“That’s not what a man-crush is, Bill. It’s–”
“Why aren’t you working, kid?” Bill snaps, and Ford startles. Genuine anger laces Bill’s words. “Are you gonna waste all my time tonight on these whims of yours? At least be productive while I humor you.”
Ford glances back at where they had worked their day, mind not cooperating at all, dazed by how aroused he’s become. He doesn’t know what part of the statement to reply to. “Preliminary research into the myth of productive multitasking has actually shown that there are limits to–”
“ Your brain has limits? Mr. Sky-High-IQ has a ceiling? Is that what you’re telling me?”
What Bill’s asking for is physiologically impossible for the human brain. It literally cannot be done, and the demand will only be frustrating for both of them if Ford tries to fulfill it. At the same time, no one has ever pushed Ford this hard. No one has ever believed in his potential like this.
“I’ll try better,” Ford says, a little miserable, and yet, a little thrilled.
“You won’t try , IQ,” Bill orders. “You’ll do better, even if at the end of the day, you think of me as some sort of Playboy Abomination.”
Ford shakes his head quickly. “No, you know that’s not true! You know my mind better than I do: nothing supersedes my dedication to our work together. Human… urges are just that – urges. My knowledge rules above the rest..”
Bill gives Ford a meaningful glance down. “And it’s your knowledge ruling you now, huh?”
“Yes!” Ford insists, flushed but maintaining their eye contact. “You’re my muse above all else.” In his state of arousal, his thoughts blur and muddle. What can he say to prove that his dedication to Bill as idol dwarfs any romantic fantasy his mind concocts?
“The depictions of your visage that I’ve placed in my study – I know I’m a scientist and not an artist, but I’ve tried my best to do you proper justice. To make an image worthy of being you! They aren’t just portals for you to look through. The two flames you wield, they show your benevolence. The right one, the flame of wisdom that burns out the rot of ignorance – the left, the passion which razes waste to give way to the wealth of truth!”
“Hmm…” Bill weighs. “I dunno. Passion still sounds pretty gay.”
Ford thinks his blush has reached his neck, but he doesn’t give up as he steps forward closer to Bill, so close that he goes a bit cross eyed looking back at his muse. “Tell me, then! Tell me what I should do to pay you tribute properly, and I’ll do it! My feelings won’t get in the way of my work.”
Bill hums, looking Ford over, thinking hard over the question. A beat passes, and then two, and Ford’s imagination starts to run wild as it tries to guess what Bill might ask of him. Still, he doesn’t regret his offer. His desire to prove his dedication is genuine. And, he trusts Bill; he wouldn’t ask anything too difficult of Ford.
Finally, Bill snaps his fingers. “Alright, I’ve got it, Sixer.” His eye stares at Ford with the focus of a scientist observing a test. “Bow for me, and I’ll take that as proof – for now.”
Bow for him. That’s… it? After all that wait, the best way Ford can show his devotion is bowing? Bill is not even of Ford’s world. Is bowing a thing in other planes of existence?
Disappointment hits Ford. If it’s what his muse wants, then sure, of course he’ll do it, but bowing means nothing. It’s a physical gesture of submission, something easily disingenuous. Ford has always thought that the action’s significance in historical context was overrated. The gesture is like any other: just a bodily contortion, not expressive of any true volition.
“Ehhh, I dunno, Sixer,” Bill hedges, responding to Ford’s thoughts as if they were spoken aloud. “Sure, I’m with you halfway: if you really do believe that it’s meaningless, that it has no significance, well, then you’d be right! The whole thing would be worthless – worse than worthless, because you’d be thinking how stupid I am the whole time for believing you mean it!” Bill cackles, until he cuts himself off. He leans in, voice turning measured and serious. “But, do you really believe that? On your knees, bowing to me, in your proper place: would you really feel that it’s meaningless?”
Bill pulls away, and it’s as if there is a sandstorm in Ford’s mind, arousal too strong to think straight. What counterargument does he have for Bill? Does he agree? Does he disagree? He can’t think well enough to put together anything coherent enough to be worthy of being said.
Well, if Bill wants him to bow, he’ll do it. Easy. No problem.
“Alright,” Ford confirms. Alright. He’ll do it. Done.
Bill cocks his head, and floats a step away, saying nothing. The ball is in Ford’s court.
Ford takes a step back, feeling suddenly awkward as his hands hang by his sides, marker from work still in his right hand. He lets go of it, letting it drift away, and thinks over Bill’s words. Bill wants him to bow, but what does that mean exactly? There are so many ways to complete the gesture.
On your knees. Okay, so specifically not a standing bow, but Ford wasn’t going to half-ass it one way or the other. Prostrate on the ground, then. Ford can do that. He shifts his weight from one leg to the other and grows determined. A gesture is trivial in what it betrays, but Ford will make it matter. He’ll put all the meaning he can into it, and find a way to express his dedication through every small variation of posture possible.
Ford takes a step back as he looks his muse in the eye, knowing his own face must be bright red. Bill looks back at him, appearing bored, impatient. Embarrassment burns at Ford, although logically, he knows it shouldn’t – his muse asked him to do this, and is the only one to witness this. Why be embarrassed about something he was asked to do, in front of a being who knows him the way only Bill does, the way only Bill can? No. He needs to get over himself, and just do it. Ford strategizes. He decides it isn’t just the end position, but how you get there. He’ll put thought into all stages of the thing.
He lowers his eyes from Bill, slowly and purposefully shifting his gaze to where the floor would be between them in a gesture of deference. He stands still, gives the gesture a beat before he lowers his head as well, bowing just at the neck and bringing his arms behind himself to hold one wrist in the other hand. His mind begs him to rush, to get it over with, but he holds himself back.
No. He’ll put all his effort into this, even if it’s just a simple gesture.
He lowers himself onto one knee, again taking his time before he lowers his other knee to the ground, the rest of his body straight aside from his bowed head. He quickly glances up at Bill to check his expression. His muse is uncharacteristically stoic, eye seemingly blank. All Ford can read is that all of Bill’s focus is on him.
Fine. He’ll try his best.
He lowers his gaze and and lets his thighs fold, resting into kneeling, hands still behind him. His knees feel tight, and his muscles strain. His body’s weaknesses being so ingrained in him that they manifest even in his mindscape is annoying, but he pushes the thought away. The gesture is what matters now. He lets the position take its beat despite its discomfort. He keeps his eyes down on the floor, committing to acting out the gesture rather than checking his muse’s reaction.
Ford shifts his torso down and takes his hands from behind his back to go out in front of him, propping himself half up. The floor below him is transparent, showing fathoms of space, some constellations familiar, others alien, probably from a plane out of reach for now. Ford stretches his hands before him as he slides into the bow, and he sinks into the final stage. His arms stretch in front of him, and his knees are balled beneath him. His lower back becomes the focus of his discomfort, but he breathes through it.
He’s here. He’s splayed in front of his muse. Now, all that is left is for Bill’s judgment.
To Ford’s chagrin, though, Bill stays silent. The seconds tick by, and Ford keeps his pose. Minutes in, his muse remains uncharacteristically quiet. Ford’s body begins to protest more. His knees, his hamstrings, his lower back, his shoulders even, all call out to him, and he fights the urge to fidget against the discomfort. It would be too easy to sit up, to shift his knees to the side to relieve just a bit of that pressure. Too easy to fidget and give himself just a second of relief.
He keeps himself in check. He can hold out. If this is what his muse wants, he can keep himself still. He can. Anything for his muse. Anything for his satisfaction. Almost anything.
But, as more time passes in the dead silence of uncertainty, Ford grits his teeth. Why is he even here right now? Does Bill even appreciate his efforts, or has his muse become distracted, focused back on the work they should be doing rather than whatever the hell this is? Embarrassment tugs at Ford, and doubt infects his mind. Is Bill even looking at him anymore, the man making a fool out of himself to prove something to the being who means more to him than anyone in the galaxy? Why would Bill even care about Ford’s humiliating display? Why would he care about some human, one of many he’s worked with to inspire over the eons, aping deference before him?
Ford decides it: he’s gonna look up. He has to. How long has it been, even? At least fifteen minutes. All his arousal is drained, put out by the way his body aches. He can’t hold himself back any longer, his body screaming at him to move, doubt the only thing in his mind.
And then, Bill speaks.
“Spread your legs, Fordsy.”
The words come right out of an uninspired Playboy write-in, but they still do it for him, topped off with the use of Ford’s new favorite nickname. Although his body aches, Ford’s arousal comes back with a vengeance.
Ford obeys and shifts his knees out to either side, position otherwise unaltered. The pressure in his legs and back subsides, and he holds in a sigh of relief.
“No, no, no,” Bill chides. “ On your stomach , knees bent. You’re quick enough to know what I mean.”
Ford grasps for what Bill could possibly be referring to, feeling not quick enough at all. He was never into porn, only browsing the occasional magazine out of curiosity rather than lust. Character has always driven him more than appearance regardless of if that person was a woman or not, although he’s never voiced as much aloud. Now, he curses his ignorance. Whatever pose Bill refers to, it would have been easy enough to visualize if Ford just knew what the standard was for these kinds of things!
On your stomach , though. That’s something. He brings his arms in to prop himself up as he adjusts and straightens his legs. A fresh pain from moving his aching limbs mixes with the relief of the position ending. He lowers his stomach to the ground, and as he stretches his arms back in front of him, his shoulders immediately protest. He almost pulls them back to his sides, until he hears an approving hum from above him. Oh. Okay. Ford imagines this is one of the few things he’s done right in his position, and keeps his arms ahead of him, fingers splayed.
That’s fine. He can hold out a bit longer. Just a bit.
Now for the knees bent part of the command. He doubts Bill wants him to kick his heels up into the air. No, maybe it’s the way he wants to spread his legs. On his stomach, hips tight, Ford pictures what Bill may be asking, and flushes at the image. Why ask this of him? He must be misinterpreting the command, but he can’t think of any other position that fits the description. Should he really go for it?
Through the building pressure of his embarrassment, he decides to do it. Bill can always correct him again, and trying something is better than staying still.
Ford rotates his hips outward, bending his knees slightly to prop himself up slightly. His hips are tight, but the shift raises his ass as he sinks into the pose. His back arches from where his chest and stomach are on the ground, arms ahead, and he thanks– he thanks Bill that he has a pair of pants on, ass raised. His heart races, stress building in him as he holds the position, but he breathes through it. If anyone else had asked this of him out of the blue, he’d never do it. But Bill? This sort of thing is nothing compared to what Ford is willing to do for his muse. Ford’s raised hips prevent his pelvis from falling flush to the ground, although that’s maybe for the best.
Because Ford definitely, undeniably, unmistakably, has a full erection.
Still, he stays still. Bill had asked this of him. He won’t leave the position because of embarrassment, no matter how much he cringes.
In a blink, Bill is before Ford’s eyes beneath the clear plane of the transparent floor, eye raking over Ford’s body. His muse cackles, and Ford’s blush deepens. “The human body really is hilarious! The same physical responses for both arousal and fear? The only difference is that cocktail of endorphins you’ve got shaking in your skull and one big thing hanging between your legs!”
If Ford had thought earlier had been humiliating, well. He hadn’t known his limits.
What does he even say after his failed display of devotion to his muse, in the end his base desires still running amok? Does he… apologize? Meditate regularly going forward to clear his mind of romantic delusions? Commence with a routine of early-morning jack-off sessions to fend off the worst waves of desire for his muse?
Bill grins wider, somehow, shaking his head as he continues to take Ford in, finally meeting his gaze. “ That’s my sharp Fordsy! That’s exactly what I wanted to see.”
… What?
The mindscape shifts into light gray-ish blue, the hue it turns when Ford’s about to wake up. Bill looks around with a sigh, hands on his ‘hips’, before he looks back at Ford.
“Ok. Tonight, you’ve held up your end of the blood-and-soul-unbreakable- even-when-you-die- from-that-heart-attack-at-92 bargain. You ground your teeth through all the sliminess and decay of your horrible humanity – for science! You’re still bowing, even, despite how your mind writhes and shudders, so I guess I’ll give you something.” Bill vanishes from Ford’s line of sight, and when he speaks again, Ford hears it from above his head. “Jack off when you wake up. You can even think of me. I’m cool with it!”
Ford struggles understanding the words. Bill has just given him permission to… cum to him? He had praised him a second time for the same work, something he’s never done before? And Ford hasn’t even begun to process my sharp Fordsy.
The light turns more blue than gray, the items around him blurring together, time running out.
“Thank you,” Ford rushes out, and finally, looks up from his bow to see his muse staring back down at him, half blurred from Ford waking, features too smudges to read.
There is a pause before Bill replies, “Don’t mention it,” voice fainter and tone eerily flat. Before Ford can say anything else, his mindscape finishes blurring out, smudging and coalescing until the image before his eyes is the mahogany of his desk, the faded white of his piled notes. Ford grunts, pushing himself up and blinking blearily. His office. Right. He had fallen asleep at his desk. Only one candle still flickers, wick almost done from being left to burn all night.
And Ford, even awake, still very much has an erection. And his muse’s permission to do something about it.
Half asleep and hopelessly aroused, Ford doesn’t think twice.
Ford unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants, sticking a hand down his pants to start touching himself immediately. There is no soap or lotion to make things smoother down here, but in his half-awake wholly-aroused state, Ford doesn’t much mind. He strokes himself fast but not too fast, the way he likes best, easily picturing Bill, replaying what he had said in the mindscape. Spread your legs . He had really said that to him. Ford’s breathing speeds up, but after a minute, his thoughts start gnawing at him.
Bill had said he could think of him… why? As some sort of treat for having a decent breakthrough? For humiliating himself so utterly in front of him? Does he mean that Ford can think of him abstractly or go over memories, or imagine in fine detail how Bill would feel, how–
Ford’s shame over the thoughts hits him quick, and although his arousal doesn’t wane, it hits a wall. What did Bill exactly mean with his vague offer? What does he think of Ford, pleasuring himself wantonly in his study in front of Bill’s image, where he can see him?
The thoughts are not conducive to orgasm. He wishes things were easier. He wishes this weren’t just some sort of fucked up good-job sticker from Bill. He wishes Bill could enjoy it, too.
That’s when the thought strikes him, and in his aroused haze, Ford immediately acts on it.
Ford gets up from his desk, glasses askew, stumbling toward his makeshift cot. He almost lets himself collapse onto it immediately, only just stopping himself. No. He had already made this decision.
The way that you enter the bow matters.
Ford straightens his posture so his back is tall, his hands at his sides. He moves his feet to be firm on the ground beside each other. Around him the depictions of Bill paint the walls, able to see his work at all angles, now able to see him. Ford lowers his gaze to the ground, to the far edge the blankets, before he bows his head.
This time, he changes his descent. He bends at the waist, hands behind himself again, bowing deeply in a more traditional manner first, something he had completely neglected in his panic in the mindscape. He then straightens up, bending his legs and slowly lowering himself to the ground into a kneel. The blankets are soft beneath his legs in a way the floor of the mindscape hadn’t been, pillows bumpy. He slides himself forward from his kneeling position to end up in the end pose Bill had guided him into, behind raised and back arched, arms stretched in front of him, except this time, rather than do it in his mind, he does it in reality.
He moans, biting the sound off halfway. He can’t think of a time he’s been this aroused in his life. His glasses smush against his face in a way they hadn’t in the mindscape, and he quickly pulls them off and puts them to the side. His cock begs for friction, and Ford quickly takes his pillow, folds it in half and stuffs it below his hips, the surface squishy but firm enough to work as sensation. He thrusts against it experimentally and gasps, the sensation not nearly as precise as his hand, but still causing pleasure to roll through his body with the added pleasure of the motion. He thrusts again, and again, and starts getting into a rhythm, arm back in front of him in the bow, breath growing unsteady as he lets pleasure dominate his mind and take over his movements.
So, Bill is okay with this. He doesn’t mind Ford’s feelings toward him. He probably doesn’t reciprocate them, but he’s a whole different form of being – reciprocation was never a real possibility. Ford gets in a good thrust, and a shudder wracks his body, Ford turning in against his arm to press his face against it and bite himself to keep his moans in.
Approval is all Ford could hope for. After last night, he feels it’s safe to say, boy, does he have it. His muse is fine with his feelings. Not just fine, but he finds them normal. Just another part of Ford. He gave him permission to get off to him. Ford groans as pleasure builds in him through the moment, the sensation of the pillow a bit too soft to give him the pressure he yearns for, but unwilling to move a hand to himself to jack himself off.
No, the arms had been one of the things he had done right.
Ford wonders if Bill is watching him. If he’s staring down from his portraits at For bowing for him, grinding against a pillow in order to get himself off. If he is, what does he think of Ford, even in the depth of arousal, trying to convey the extent of his devotion? Does he like what he sees? He pictures Bill’s eyes around the study, all on him on the floor, as he gets himself off all the while showing his endless dedication.
He’d do almost anything for him.
The thought of Bill’s further approval is enough to push Ford over the edge. His mind washes blank from pleasure and Ford’s mouth goes slack as he cums, moaning loudly without thought or shame as his orgasm rolls through him, letting himself fall boneless in its aftermath, rolling to his side and out of the prostration.
The study is dark, candle almost burnt out, as Ford catches his breath, mind pleasantly numb from his orgasm. Head foggy, almost dizzy from the force of his orgasm, something tickles at the edge of Ford’s hearing, something like a laugh. He tries to focus on the sound, but the more he focuses, the more it fades away, until there is nothing for Ford to hear in the emptiness of his study.
Ford catches his breath. The aftermath of the orgasm leaves him relaxed. He feels his cum drying into his boxers, though, and sighs, stretching out on the floor, a bit sore from sleeping at his desk, before finally sitting up. He quickly changes his underwear, using the dirty pair to mop up whatever cum is left on himself. Drowsiness clings to him, as does vague pleasure. He thinks of the day ahead. Might as well do the laundry that’s piled up, then get to work while the wash runs, investigating just where he can get titanium closeby cheap and on short notice. The UFO might be the best bet, despite Bill not thinking so. It’ll be slower going with Fiddleford away, but that can’t be helped.
Ford puts his glasses back on and gets ready to go back up, walking to his desk to gather the mug of tea from last night and the candle, when he spots a post-it note. His mind instantly sharpens and he tries to blink himself awake as he leans in, dragging the almost dead candle next to it to shine light on the blocky letters on the pale yellow scrap.
HAPPY DAY 273: WHAT TITANIUM CAN’T COVER WE MAKE UP FOR IN HEART + EXTRA APPENDAGES
Below the message are two drawings. One is a simple sketch of Bill with one, two,... thirteen hands coming out of him like pili from a bacterium. The other is an anatomical sketch of a heart with too many chambers to be anatomically correct, but Ford can’t think of what other organ the sketch could be. The depiction even has heavy scratches of ink in certain places to depict the dripping and pooling blood. In smaller print beside it, he reads:
I HEARD THESE ARE ROMANTIC HERE
Ford’s hand tightens, crushing the note for a second before he makes himself relax his grip, shifting his hold to hold the paper between two fingers so as to not further damage it.
It could just be a pat on the back. Bill has left notes before, things to try next on the experiment, brags when he’d beat Ford at their chess match for the night, attempts at original knock-knock jokes.
He hasn’t left one like this.
It could be more.
Ford opens his journal, waffling a second before flipping the pages all the way to the back, where the pages are blank. He sticks the note in on the top, carefully flattening the paper where the adhesive sticks to put it in, making sure it’s stuck well. He looks at it a second, rereading the note, and thinking.
He wants to respond.
Ford takes a new post-it off, and in his cursive quickly writes These are – drawing the two easy curves of a pictogram heart before continuing with – not these . He sketches a quick depiction of a human heart, this one correct to the letter in its anatomy. Ford leans back in his chair. He looks at his note, biting his lip as he contemplates doing what he’s thinking of.
He leans forward, decisive, and puts his pen to the paper. The two curves are as easy to draw as they had been seconds ago. The heart this time is tiny in the bottom right corner of the note. Still, he draws it, despite how corny he knows it is, and sits back again, looking at the two notes side by side.
Only then does he realize he’s grinning.
Ford takes the elevator up to the ground floor of his home, one hand holding his empty tea mug, the other carrying his journal. He rubs the back of the hand holding the journal against his face, still feeling bleary and unrested. However, he can’t keep his grin off his face.
It’s still sinking in. His muse is fine with his feelings. He had been fine with them. He had borderline encouraged them, even, especially with that note.
Smiling to himself and lost in his thoughts, as Ford goes from the elevator into the kitchen, he almost walks straight into Fiddleford, startling himself.
“Fiddleford!” Ford pulls back from the near-collision. “It’s… Saturday, right?” Ford does the mental calculations to try and reorient himself with the days of the week, but yeah. It’s Saturday, and yesterday Fiddleford had been clear about not being back until Monday.
Fiddleford grins back at him, and Ford takes him in. His posture is relaxed, a full mug of dark liquid in his hands as he leans on the doorframe of the kitchen. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the kitchen, the window cracked open to air out the room, the crisp fresh air helping to wake Ford up, along with the morning sun.
And then there’s Fiddleford. He’s looking at Ford, gaze soft, the way Ford likes.
“Mornin’, Ford,” he greets as he looks Ford over, taking a sip and smacking his lips afterwards before he adjusts in his chair. “Well, with all your talk yesterday, your enthusiasm was downright infectious. It’ll be good to finish them safety plans. Get one good chunk of work done for this never-ending list of chores.”
Ford hesitates. The pot of coffee is bubbling on the stove, probably getting burnt as they speak. “That’s… great to hear.” And not what Ford is going to work on any time soon.
Fiddleford smiles, a bit strained, and says nothing, still looking away. Ford has to break it to him.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Ford starts, deciding to just be honest, “but I decided that we’re going to work more on the core experiment. The safety-planning at this stage is just going to go nowhere. It’s something to do as one of the end touches.”
The silence hangs in the room, and Fiddleford’s lips sink into a frown.
“Well, that’s a switch-up.”
Ford shrugs. “It’s what I told you when you first brought it up. Doing the work last night, I realized how we’d have to redo the work if we do the tasks in this order. And we will do it! Just once we get the core experiment finished.”
Fiddleford’s frown deepens. “I thought you went mothing last night. You moth Fridays, when you don’t forget.”
Ford doesn’t know why he feels cornered. “I mothed! I just worked, too.”
Fiddleford’s frown stays in place, clearly not buying what Ford’s selling. Ford tries, “I had been thinking about Lobe’s law and possible adaptations to it to make it feasible to–”
“Just– stop, Ford,” Fiddleford interrupts, tone soft, expression softening. He takes a shaky breath before letting it out in a sigh. “It’s alright. I get it. I mean, I’m here, aren’t I? What kind of assistant would I be if I weren’t here in the end to see this thing running?”
The tension leaves Ford. Here in the end . He sighs in relief, stepping forward to clap Fiddleford’s arm. “I knew you’d come around, Fids!”
Fiddleford looks away, bashful, bringing his free hand to scratch at his head. He nods over at the pot of coffee. “Grab yourself a cup. We’ve got work to do, now, don’t we?”
Ford grins, squeezing Fiddleford’s shoulder before letting go and turning to the drying rack in the corner to grab a clean mug. That had been surprisingly easy, but then again, was it really surprising? Fiddleford has always been smart, as smart as Ford if not smarter in certain domains (although Ford would be loath to admit it). His friend just needs time to come around. To process and understand. Hell, maybe Ford can finally tell Fiddleford about his muse one of these days. If Fiddleford is so concerned about things like Ford’s working habits, the easiest way to quell those worries would be to explain them. Easy. Even a being like Bill can be wrong sometimes: sometimes the emphasis in near-omniscient is on near.
Ford pours himself a full mug, tossing in a spoonful of sugar to stir in as he turns back to face Fiddleford, leaning back on the counter, grinning. He takes a sip, and while the coffee is burnt, the sugar balances it out, as Ford had figured out during a similar cup in the third year of their friendship. Despite the open window, the kitchen is cozy, and Ford wonders maybe if this is what bliss is like: waking up on the brink of scientific revolution, with someone who actually supports him rather than sabotages him.
Fiddleford doesn’t look back at Ford, his gaze trained on something out of the window. He wets his lips, and says, “I just wonder…”
“Yeah?” Ford takes another sip of the coffee, finally feeling like he’s waking up.
“When’s the last time you spoke with your folks?”
Ford blinks, and pulls the mug away from his lips. Now that’s a question from left field. “My parents? I don’t know, it’s been some time.” His mother had called in September during the high holidays. The conversation hadn’t been long. “ What’s got you curious?”
Fiddleford bites his lip, weighing something in his mind. Ford furrows his brow as the silence stretches. Finally, he prompts, “What’s this about, Fiddleford?”
Fiddleford turns to him, gaze sharp as if looking to the core of him. “When was the last time you spoke to Stanley, Ford?”
Ford freezes. He tries to replay the words, not believing his ears. He feels as if his heart had stopped. As if a door has just slammed shut in his face.
“What?”
“I know these days it’s only been you and me facing the problems that come your way, but it ain’t always been this way,” Fiddleford starts as if launching into a pre-hereased speech. Ford realizes he probably is. “I know your dad has always pushed you for the wrong kinda things. I know your mom always just nodded along without a peep. I know you had a spat with Stanley, but, you know, you don’t say much about him, but it seems like he got ya in a way no one else could, right? I dunno. I just… worry, Ford.”
Ford stares at Fiddleford, dumbfounded. His smile is long gone.
“I… told you what Stanley did, Fiddleford,” he says slowly, trying to hold himself back to jumping to any conclusions. “How he sabotaged my project? How he’s the reason I didn’t get into West Coast Tech? How he ruined the chance I had worked for my whole life because he couldn’t get over his pipedream? Any of that ring a bell?” Despite his efforts to keep calm, his tone is tight by the end.
“Ten years ago, Ford. Longer even!” Fiddleford exasperates. “He’s your brother. He’s your blood. He gets you in a way other people can’t.”
“He ruined my life!” Ford snaps, unable to hold himself back any longer.
“Did he, though?” Fiddleford asks, laughing a little and shaking his head, tone soft, in a whole different emotional zone than Ford. Ford recoils as if slapped. “Was going to Backupsmore really the end of days? I mean, if you’d gone to West Coast Tech, you wouldn’t be sitting here, exploring oddities in Gravity Falls. You wouldn’t be building this here portal to the unknown!” Fiddleford clenches the mug, and looks away, face flushing. “And you surely wouldn’t have met me.”
Ford gapes.
Fiddleford presses on. “I’m just– I’m right here with you on this, Ford, but the way you’re carrying on has got me worked up. You worry people! The townsfolk don’t even know who you are, beyond some shadow! To them, you’re just as much of a mystery as them critters you’re chasing, and it ain’t because of that finger of yours! Why not step outside, interact with folk, do something normal people do. Give it a go! Try and try it – just one day – and I reckon you’ll see the difference.”
So, this is why Fiddleford came today. Not just to go back to work, but to confront him on his worries. Ford sees it now.
“I thought you had come here to work,” he still says.
Fiddleford’s shoulders slouch, crestfallen. Ford swallows, doing all he can to not let his temper get the better of him. To snap and ask Fiddleford what he’s really getting at. Ford takes a long sip of coffee, the liquid cold from how long they’ve been arguing.
Fiddleford sighs, the wind out from his sails. “Yeah. Yeah, Ford, I came here for the experiment.”
Ford quickly drinks the rest of the coffee down, putting the empty mug by the sink. “Okay. Let’s work.”
He turns and walks to the door, but Fiddleford stays in place. Ford looks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow.
Fiddleford clutches the mug tight between his hands, brows furrowed, and finally bursts out with, “Just tell me. Tell me one thing. How’d you get that bruise?”
Ford stares at him. His anger is blinding, and he bites his tongue from snapping the way he wants to. He knows all the bullshit that Fiddleford is spewing is coming from a good place. Coming from his friend wanting him to be happy.
“I don’t know,” Ford finally manages. “I just woke up with it one day.”
It’s technically the truth, but Fiddleford looks at him with desperation deep in his eyes. He looks as if he’s at the end of his rope. As if Ford’s lack of response is the final straw to break the camel’s back, so to speak. Fiddleford shakes his head to himself slightly, probably unconsciously, and Ford feels… scared. Ford stares at him, and is struck with the desperation for him not to leave. Not to go.
“I’ve…” he starts, and Fiddleford looks at him, waiting for what he’ll say next. Ford swallows. “I’ll admit it, I’ve been sleeping on the floor of my study. I get too wrapped up in my work, and well, it’s just easier to sleep there.” Ford coughs out a fake laugh, and gestures toward the discoloring on his jaw. “Guess it’s not the best for fragile packaging.”
Now that? A lie. Plain and simple.
Fiddleford, however, smiles, albeit small, and soon, that smile breaks into a grin, a little laugh coming out of him. He shakes his head to himself, his expression fond. Guilt gnaws at Ford.
He’s bought it. He believes him. But it’s a lie, a lie to his friend, and–
“For a smart guy, Ford, sometimes, you sure can be stupid.”
Indignation flushes Ford, replacing his guilt. “It’s more efficient this way.”
Fiddleford laughs harder at that, shaking his head, and finally walking to join Ford at the door. “Sleeping on a concrete floor efficient. Uh-huh.”
Ford smiles, false, but again, Fiddleford buys it, bashfully looking away from Ford.
Ford doesn’t know why he had doubted Bill’s judgment. Fiddleford is human. He has a wife, and a son, and goes to church when the mood strikes him, and lives his life to be a member in society. How could worrying him with details that don’t concern him about the experiment help? He wouldn’t be able to understand. A little bad hygiene and a mediocre bruise had been enough to scare him, to get him to almost leave F– the experiment. How could Ford ever expect him to understand any of the stranger things in his life? Bill is right, as he always is. Fiddleford just isn’t like Ford at the end of the day. He doesn’t know how Ford feels, limited by humanity’s judgments and preconceptions, because rather than be the target of the mob, he is part of it. He hasn’t been on the wrong side of judgment. He’s normal.
Ford nods to the elevator, cereal bar in hand, work for the day laid ahead of him. “Shall we?”