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Bill had come up with a master plan. It all started shortly after Stan and Ford got back home from their autumn expedition - their second since Bill had arrived at the Shack. The first one had been lonely and difficult, to say the least - first the kids left, then not long after did their Grunkles pack up as well. Of course, if Bill could have begged and pleaded to join, he just might have - but this was strictly between the brothers.
And, well, he still couldn't actually leave the bubble of Gravity Falls. The Shack wasn't nearly as busy during the winter months, either, but it gave him a lot of time with Soos and Melody. Not to mention...
See, Ford, he'd always complained about not looking forward to the winter months. Or, "the mitten months", as he distastefully called them. Ever since he was young, he'd worn mittens, mittens, nothing but mittens - the cost of someone making a pair of custom gloves was too much to justify when he would just grow out of them by next year. Though by his teens they probably could have afforded at least one pair... He'd always wondered if, maybe, it had become an excuse to force him to hide his hands away.
Mittens, ultimately, were inconvenient, reducing his dexterity for the inevitable snowy chores. And his hands still didn't quite fit inside a lot of them, leaving his fingers cramped and squished. But even coming into adulthood, he never really kicked the winter mitten habit. His parents were right - it was easier, less expensive, and less sightly, even if it was also less convenient, so much more annoying, made him feel shameful.
Bill couldn't stand for that. He knew how to crochet - he would just make some! How hard could it be? Well, okay, he didn't know quite how he would do it. He could probably find instructions in a book somewhere... Yeah. Yeah! He could do it. It'd be fine. Step one, find a book with instructions. Step two, get yarns Ford would like, probably some maroon shade. Step three... make. Then all he had to do was hand them to Ford!
Of course, even with steps one and two secured, step three was harder than Bill would have liked. He knew Ford's hands well, true, but... What if he was sizing the fingers all wrong? He couldn't just ask him, that'd ruin the whole surprise! His own hands were way too small to test the fit... but maybe... Just maybe... He shoved his work in progress into his bag, scrambling out of his room to go find Stan.
"Stan!" he called out into the living room, earning a grunt and a wave. "You know where Ford is?"
"Uh, he's out on an errand run right now. Sorry, you need him?"
"No, that's great," Bill said. "I'm working on something for him. Top secret, you got that?" he narrowed his eye at Stan.
"Eh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "What've you got?"
"Gloves!" Bill pulled out one of the fingers he'd made, "Or, you know. The start of gloves. You got one less finger, I know, but they're about the same size as his - think you can see how this fits?"
Stan picked up the finger-shaped shell curiously, shrugging with a smile. "Alright. Guessing this is...?"
"Index."
Stan nodded, "Yep, totally knew that," and carefully slipped the shell over his finger. To Bill's dismay, it was a little short, the material riding up his finger when he curled it. It might have made a good pinky, if not for the fact that it was a little too narrow and snug for his liking. Even so, Stan smiled, "You're doing good, you know?"
"Thanks."
"I mean... shit, you think our parents ever did this for him?" he sighed, "Nah. Course they didn't. I always wished I coulda done it, you know? Just makes me think... this one year, I get these real nice winter gloves, ones Ford had eyed up 'cause they were his favourite colours. And you know what he gets? These plain black mittens."
"...Can I kill your parents?"
"Bill, they're already dead," Stan deadpanned, "And we've talked about this."
Bill huffed, as Stan snorted. "Anyway, you bet I went and bought myself a matching pair of plain black mittens. There was no way I could wear a pair of gloves that made him cry, and besides, if he was gonna suffer I was gonna suffer too. So, when I say you're doing good, I mean it."
"...You did too," Bill said. "You're a... a good brother, Stan."
Stan grinned, returning the ill-fitting finger to Bill. "Yeah? Can I hear you say that again?"
"Absolutely not."
It took a good number of attempts before Bill settled on an index finger he was happy with - though once he did, the other fingers would fall into place a lot easier. And if the yarn in its variegated shades of garnet and maroon got him a little flustered, well, no one had to know that. He just had to keep working, getting his tension right, doing, undoing, and redoing countless stitches along the way.
It was also kind of hard keeping his little project secret from Ford. He still didn't want to spoil the surprise, but he wanted to know how happy Ford would be! He just had to remind himself, it would be so much more worth it to see Ford react to a complete surprise. Plus, knowing how he could get about gifts, he'd probably stammer out some kind of, "Oh no, you don't have to do that," as if Bill was giving him a choice. And that kind of reaction would just dampen his own mood.
No. He was determined to do this. To do it right, to keep it secret right. He would work the Shack and make his food during the day, he'd join Ford on errand runs occasionally - and in the hours between, he would pick away at the gloves. Mabel was right - it was satisfying to see crochet come together, to watch as a meaningless, formless strand of yarn turned into something. Something pretty, something useful, something that would mean the world to another person. To Ford. He loved the way Ford's face lit up when he was happy, he always had. Even when he couldn't care less for what Ford was actually talking about, that dopey grin made him care.
He tugged on his hook, trying to pull through - but it wouldn't budge. He grumbled as he looked for the source of the problem, realising he'd accidentally plunged it between the plied strands. Carefully, he pulled everything back into place, smoothing over the strand and checking over his work just to make sure he hadn't pulled on the ply in prior stitches without realising.
Of course, he had.
Yet with a lot of hard work, and as with all his projects before, he eventually came up on the final stitches. All six fingers attached, the palm wide enough, his ends woven in and secured about a duovigintillion times. The varying shades of yarn gave the gloves something of a shine in the light, and... and...
Why was he hesitating now, worrying Ford wouldn't actually like them? If... If Ford didn't like them, what could he even do with them? All his hard work would be for nothing, ugh, now he understood the "sweater curse" Mabel had said something about. Spending so much time and material on a gift for someone that you weren't even sure would accept it... Maybe this had been a terrible idea-
No. He had to remember what Stan said, the plain black mittens - how much Ford had said for himself that he wished he didn't have to deal with the mitten months. Ford would like them, would be happy to get them. Bill didn't need to plan for what to do with a pair of maroon six-fingered crocheted gloves, because Ford would cherish them. Or at least appreciate them. Or if nothing else, keep them for the new convenience they provided.
...He hadn't planned it out, but tonight would be the first night of Chanukah, wouldn't it? Running his fingers over the gloves, imagining Ford putting them on, loving them... His eye welled up with tears. He had just a few hours - but that was more than enough time to look for a nice fabric he could bundle them in, and to reflect on the... "lessons" he had learned from last year's Chanukah. (He only set things on fire a little bit... and he put it out, anyway - it wasn't like he meant to start it! Even if he did stare at it, captivated, for a moment too long.)
He filled the rest of his time with pacing between rooms, peering out the windows, asking again and again like an impatient child, "Is it time yet?" and "Where's the sun at?" Sure, it didn't actually make the time go faster, but he could pretend it did.
Sunset seemed to take its sweet time, but it did eventually come, Bill's nerves all on edge. He held the wrapped gift bundle close to himself as he joined Stan and Ford by the front door. Stan smirked knowingly and nodded as Ford greeted him with a chuckle, "Bill, glad you're here!"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he answered. "This is... for you, Ford. Y-you know, when the menorah's lit. So don't even think about peeking."
"Oh!" Ford smiled, "Well... Alright. Let's keep it out of the way for now, then." Bill agreed, setting his bundled gift on the stairs.
"I mean. I know it's not, technically tradition, or at least it's a new one, and I don't expect anything back, or whatever, I just-"
"Bill," Ford chuckled, shaking his head. "I promise you, you don't have to worry. You'd have a hard time doing any worse than last year," he punctuated with a wink.
"Okay, well-!" he huffed, then scoffed. "Fine, okay, I get it."
"Good, good."
"You wanna join in on the blessings?" Stan asked, then.
"Oh," Bill blinked. "I... still wouldn't know how."
"You could just hum if you want," he smiled. "You've got seven more nights ahead to learn, anyway!"
"...Alright."
As the shamash flared to life, Stan and Ford began to sing, Bill closing his eye and humming along. Even if neither of them held faith in God the way they used to, and he was from a different dimension entirely, he could feel a spark - something warm and beautiful and holy all its own. No matter how much of a chill there might be outside, this room, this whole house, was full of love warm enough to drive it away. He could get lost in this - and fortunately, Stan had a point: he had seven more nights of this ahead.
If either of them noticed the tears falling from his eye as he opened it, they were kind enough not to say anything, to give him a moment of silence as he basked in the flickering of the two candles. Then, quietly he asked, "Can I... now?"
"Of course."
Slightly trembling, with both awe and nerves, he carefully retrieved the bundle, setting it into Ford's lap as he sat down.
"May I?" Ford asked.
"Please do or I'm going to die."
Ford chuckled, "Alright, alright. Wouldn't want that, now would we?"
Bill stared intently as Ford's fingers worked the wrap open - and then as he looked at the contents with shock. He picked up one of the gloves like he expected it might break if he looked at it wrong, the yarn fragile and delicate as glass. He slipped it over his hand, gently wiggling and bending his fingers, already starting to sniffle. "Wh-where did you..."
"I made them," he answered, hushed.
"You... you made them?" he asked, starting to cry. Bill was caught off-guard, about to reach forward and offer reassurance, that he could take them back if he hated them! Yet Ford sobbed, "Bill, I- I love them. Absolutely-" he choked out, gasping between tears, "You... All of this work, for me... And they're s-so beautiful!"
"I-it's, it's the least I could do..." Bill answered, Ford wetly scoffing.
"Oh, sh-shut up," he hiccupped, "You really didn't h-have to... Thank you, so, so much..."
"I'm just... happy to make you happy," Bill said honestly.
And, well, if the two of them then went for errands the next day, and Bill caught Ford smiling down at his proudly-gloved hands... He figured, that could stay his own little secret.