For allbingo
Oct. 18th, 2021 02:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofleithianTitle: see you at the bitter end
Summary: Ford and Bill’s confrontation before Ford shuts down the portal.
Prompt: Worst Case Scenario
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Well, I never thought I’d be writing officially for Gravity Falls, but let’s say that I’ve been having a bit of a rough time today. Long story. *Prays she doesn’t butcher anything a la a certain Taco Bell fic that won’t be named*
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
Fiddleford wasn’t supposed to quit, especially after the Portal — after what he’d seen had driven him mad. Left him catatonic with the sheet horror of it — and Stanford Filbrick Pines only had himself to blame.
Stanford Pines stood, alone, in the house that also served as his lab, as somewhere where he would have otherwise seen it as an opportunity to make a scientific discovery. Long ago, he would have loved the idea of becoming a scientific genius. Someone in the league of Einstein, of Tesla (it was easy for an outsider to interpret it as a Greek tragedy writer’s field day, but for Ford, it was the idea that he just liked those scientists. They were everything Stanford wanted them to be). And with Bill by his side…
His chest clenched. Did Bill know, exactly, what lay beyond that portal? He couldn’t have intentionally lied to Ford. He couldn’t have been that cruel. Cruel enough to choose between Fiddleford, a man like his brother, and Bill…
Bill was extraordinary. Stanford had never expected to worship him that much, to love and trust him that deeply. It had been a case of searching for answers…but it had been so easy for Bill to draw Ford in. He was loud, vibrant, happy, charismatic, bursting to the brim with funny things to say. It had been all too easy to make Ford, who had ordinarily been so unlucky in the few crushes he’d had, to see Bill as not only a muse, but some sort of angel.
A triangular angel. Ford grimaced at the thought. He’d been so stupid — ignoring warning after warning about Bill. Part of it had just been overconfidence, thinking I’d never be such a fool! I’d run away at the first chance I got! but part of it had been him being all but overwhelmed, clouded by a worship of Bill so deep that the warning signs were hardly noticeable, if at all.
And Fiddleford had gotten hurt, all thanks to his own…not even arrogance. He had just loved Bill too desperately to even think anything that would condemn him.
His gaze was drawn, involuntarily, to one of his hands — the extra digit there. Twelve fingers, twelve toes. Ford had been used to seeing it as a form of ugliness, as a form of broadcasting just how unwanted he was (except to Stanley, and Fiddleford, and Ford had driven them away just through his character flaws), but Bill…Bill had persuaded him, momentarily, to see it as unique and extraordinary.
“Why else do I call you Sixer? You’re special, Stanford. You’re unique — do you know how boring and uniform and flat Earth really is? Not enough features. Can’t even have the decency to have bears singing choir…”
Ford had actually laughed at that. God, Bill really had no idea how wonderful he could be, did he? With his strange, out there and yet brilliant mind. “Well, I don’t think bears are equipped for that.” Then, “It just is how Earth is, Bill. We’re drawn to conventional beauty. I suppose an evolutionary aspect is in there somewhere…”
“Yeah, but beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.” Bill ruffled Ford’s hair, which Ford wouldn’t deny made his heart skip a beat. “I think you’re beautiful, Sixer.”
In the context of what would happen next, Ford should have doubted Bill more. And yet, in the face of that simple statement that seemed to heal parts of a heart that seemed determined to be broken one way or another, Ford couldn’t help but accept it. That feeling of belonging, that feeling of being whole.
He was too easy in that regard. But Ford never wanted to let those words go.
Sleep found Ford too easy, without breathing exercises, without meditation. The thoughts in his head — were all his thoughts of Bill? — were enough to weigh him down, to all but drag him down into sleep.
Too deep a sleep.
***
He’d been there before.
He could remember being among floating representations of books and journals, the first time he’d encountered Bill. To think that his own naive trust, his own blinding love, had led to Fiddleford getting hurt.
No more.
***
He confronted Bill. Ford had to admit that he didn’t expect the taunts thrown at him, and those hurt — for a moment, he’d thought that he meant at least something to Bill. That Bill cared about him.
And anger — that was just a natural reaction to that sort of hurt, wasn’t it?
And somehow, Bill sounded angry when Ford thought of stopping him. Even the dropped taunt of how “cute” ut would be for Ford to try didn’t quite cover up what Ford saw as anger.
“I have to, Bill," Ford said. Right now, he wasn’t angry. Well, he was, but even that seemed to be taken over by a pain he hadn’t thought was possible. He was good at taking pain — he could take his and Stan’s exclusion, ranging from beatings to simple disgusted looks (like the two of them were lower than worms), but this? This was different. This felt like he would actually be brought to his knees.
“You can’t possibly care about McGucket that much,” Bill said. “At all. I mean, he’s doubted you, Stanford. Doubted every idea we came up with. He’s afraid of you. Are you going to abandon all this for some hillbilly who never took you seriously?”
“He was afraid of you.” For good reason, Ford thought. Ford continued. “Besides, you destroying the world…”
“Liberating, IQ. There’s a difference.” Then, “I guess I wasn’t…entirely lying. We would have made a good team, you and me."
Ford could already feel Bill’s eyes — black eyes, beady dead things — on him. “You can stop this,” he said. “You don’t have to do this. Just…shut it down.”
The horrid, sickening laughter beyond the rip — that dark, gaping hole that seemed to shimmer like an oil slick, like something tainted — would haunt Ford in his memories and waking hours, he knew that much.
“Why would I do that?” Bill said. “I have a goal, you had one too before you let your morality get in the way. We’re — well, we’ve got certain similarities. Is that why you looked up to me? It’s easy to love someone who’s just like you.”
“I’m not.” Ford’s mouth felt dry, even in the dream. “I’m not evil.”
“ ‘Evil’ is a bit simple, isn’t it, Brainiac?”
“You can’t rip the world apart!”
“When did you get all self-righteous, IQ? Last I checked, you didn’t even like Gravity Falls. You saw yourself as better than them — granted, you’re right, but still. Why would you care about this dimension…learning how to party, so to speak?"
Ford found that even waking up in a cold sweat, realizing the Portal needed to be shut down, he didn’t have an answer to that.
It didn’t matter, in the end.
Sometimes “because I just care” was enough of an answer.
He shut down the portal. Of course he did. It was like thinking of Fiddleford, and the simple matter of principles, and the fact you didn’t have to like the residents while still not thinking they deserved what they’d get…it was enough to give Ford the strength to close the portal.
Even though it hurt.
Even though, as the portal powered down, it felt like Ford’s heart had shattered all over again.
Summary: Ford and Bill’s confrontation before Ford shuts down the portal.
Prompt: Worst Case Scenario
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Well, I never thought I’d be writing officially for Gravity Falls, but let’s say that I’ve been having a bit of a rough time today. Long story. *Prays she doesn’t butcher anything a la a certain Taco Bell fic that won’t be named*
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.
Fiddleford wasn’t supposed to quit, especially after the Portal — after what he’d seen had driven him mad. Left him catatonic with the sheet horror of it — and Stanford Filbrick Pines only had himself to blame.
Stanford Pines stood, alone, in the house that also served as his lab, as somewhere where he would have otherwise seen it as an opportunity to make a scientific discovery. Long ago, he would have loved the idea of becoming a scientific genius. Someone in the league of Einstein, of Tesla (it was easy for an outsider to interpret it as a Greek tragedy writer’s field day, but for Ford, it was the idea that he just liked those scientists. They were everything Stanford wanted them to be). And with Bill by his side…
His chest clenched. Did Bill know, exactly, what lay beyond that portal? He couldn’t have intentionally lied to Ford. He couldn’t have been that cruel. Cruel enough to choose between Fiddleford, a man like his brother, and Bill…
Bill was extraordinary. Stanford had never expected to worship him that much, to love and trust him that deeply. It had been a case of searching for answers…but it had been so easy for Bill to draw Ford in. He was loud, vibrant, happy, charismatic, bursting to the brim with funny things to say. It had been all too easy to make Ford, who had ordinarily been so unlucky in the few crushes he’d had, to see Bill as not only a muse, but some sort of angel.
A triangular angel. Ford grimaced at the thought. He’d been so stupid — ignoring warning after warning about Bill. Part of it had just been overconfidence, thinking I’d never be such a fool! I’d run away at the first chance I got! but part of it had been him being all but overwhelmed, clouded by a worship of Bill so deep that the warning signs were hardly noticeable, if at all.
And Fiddleford had gotten hurt, all thanks to his own…not even arrogance. He had just loved Bill too desperately to even think anything that would condemn him.
His gaze was drawn, involuntarily, to one of his hands — the extra digit there. Twelve fingers, twelve toes. Ford had been used to seeing it as a form of ugliness, as a form of broadcasting just how unwanted he was (except to Stanley, and Fiddleford, and Ford had driven them away just through his character flaws), but Bill…Bill had persuaded him, momentarily, to see it as unique and extraordinary.
“Why else do I call you Sixer? You’re special, Stanford. You’re unique — do you know how boring and uniform and flat Earth really is? Not enough features. Can’t even have the decency to have bears singing choir…”
Ford had actually laughed at that. God, Bill really had no idea how wonderful he could be, did he? With his strange, out there and yet brilliant mind. “Well, I don’t think bears are equipped for that.” Then, “It just is how Earth is, Bill. We’re drawn to conventional beauty. I suppose an evolutionary aspect is in there somewhere…”
“Yeah, but beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.” Bill ruffled Ford’s hair, which Ford wouldn’t deny made his heart skip a beat. “I think you’re beautiful, Sixer.”
In the context of what would happen next, Ford should have doubted Bill more. And yet, in the face of that simple statement that seemed to heal parts of a heart that seemed determined to be broken one way or another, Ford couldn’t help but accept it. That feeling of belonging, that feeling of being whole.
He was too easy in that regard. But Ford never wanted to let those words go.
Sleep found Ford too easy, without breathing exercises, without meditation. The thoughts in his head — were all his thoughts of Bill? — were enough to weigh him down, to all but drag him down into sleep.
Too deep a sleep.
***
He’d been there before.
He could remember being among floating representations of books and journals, the first time he’d encountered Bill. To think that his own naive trust, his own blinding love, had led to Fiddleford getting hurt.
No more.
***
He confronted Bill. Ford had to admit that he didn’t expect the taunts thrown at him, and those hurt — for a moment, he’d thought that he meant at least something to Bill. That Bill cared about him.
And anger — that was just a natural reaction to that sort of hurt, wasn’t it?
And somehow, Bill sounded angry when Ford thought of stopping him. Even the dropped taunt of how “cute” ut would be for Ford to try didn’t quite cover up what Ford saw as anger.
“I have to, Bill," Ford said. Right now, he wasn’t angry. Well, he was, but even that seemed to be taken over by a pain he hadn’t thought was possible. He was good at taking pain — he could take his and Stan’s exclusion, ranging from beatings to simple disgusted looks (like the two of them were lower than worms), but this? This was different. This felt like he would actually be brought to his knees.
“You can’t possibly care about McGucket that much,” Bill said. “At all. I mean, he’s doubted you, Stanford. Doubted every idea we came up with. He’s afraid of you. Are you going to abandon all this for some hillbilly who never took you seriously?”
“He was afraid of you.” For good reason, Ford thought. Ford continued. “Besides, you destroying the world…”
“Liberating, IQ. There’s a difference.” Then, “I guess I wasn’t…entirely lying. We would have made a good team, you and me."
Ford could already feel Bill’s eyes — black eyes, beady dead things — on him. “You can stop this,” he said. “You don’t have to do this. Just…shut it down.”
The horrid, sickening laughter beyond the rip — that dark, gaping hole that seemed to shimmer like an oil slick, like something tainted — would haunt Ford in his memories and waking hours, he knew that much.
“Why would I do that?” Bill said. “I have a goal, you had one too before you let your morality get in the way. We’re — well, we’ve got certain similarities. Is that why you looked up to me? It’s easy to love someone who’s just like you.”
“I’m not.” Ford’s mouth felt dry, even in the dream. “I’m not evil.”
“ ‘Evil’ is a bit simple, isn’t it, Brainiac?”
“You can’t rip the world apart!”
“When did you get all self-righteous, IQ? Last I checked, you didn’t even like Gravity Falls. You saw yourself as better than them — granted, you’re right, but still. Why would you care about this dimension…learning how to party, so to speak?"
Ford found that even waking up in a cold sweat, realizing the Portal needed to be shut down, he didn’t have an answer to that.
It didn’t matter, in the end.
Sometimes “because I just care” was enough of an answer.
He shut down the portal. Of course he did. It was like thinking of Fiddleford, and the simple matter of principles, and the fact you didn’t have to like the residents while still not thinking they deserved what they’d get…it was enough to give Ford the strength to close the portal.
Even though it hurt.
Even though, as the portal powered down, it felt like Ford’s heart had shattered all over again.
