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The phone calls start almost immediately after Ford moves out of Glass Shard Beach. Just a week after he begins college, the phone in his and Fiddleford's dorm rings late into the night. It doesn't wake either of them up - neither were asleep - but it still makes both jump from where they were engrossed in their respective studies.
They look at each other for a moment before Fiddleford shrugs and promptly turns back to his textbook. Ford rolls his eyes and grumbles as he pushes himself up from his seat. He shoots his roommate a glare as he leaves their bedroom and trudges over to the living room. He glances at the clock while reaching for the phone. It's almost 1 in the morning, whoever is calling better have a good excuse.
"Hello, Stanford Pines speaking."
He knows he's being snappy, but he can't bring himself to care. The bite in his voice is entirely the caller's fault, he won't check his tone with someone calling this late into the night. After a moment of listening to silence, he cocks an eyebrow.
"Hello?"
There's a huff of air before the dial tone is suddenly beeping in his ear. He pulls the phone away from his head and stares at it in confusion. It doesn't ring again, so he sets it back on the receiver. That was... Odd. Perhaps they just had the wrong number. But most people would at least say as much before hanging up.
Oh well. Might as well make more coffee while he's out here.
He promptly dismisses the entire incident and throws himself back into his schoolwork. Of course, the peace doesn't last long, and after the fifth hang-up call, he's starting to get pissed. There's no possibility that these are all accidental, and they aren't all at the same time or spaced apart equally, so he has no clue which calls to ignore. No one ever speaks, there's just the occasional sigh a second before the person hangs up. He doesn't even get the chance to tell them off for the prank calls before they've left him listening to that irritating beeping.
Even Fiddleford picks up a few of the calls throughout the year. The only difference is that the person hangs up the moment Fiddleford introduces himself, instead of sitting on the other end listening to him. Knowing that it's Ford specifically that the person is screwing with just ticks him off more.
It continues throughout the rest of his college experience, despite his number changing with each year as he changes dorms. He had attempted to report it to the college security, but they just said that they couldn't monitor who calls the dorm phones. So they were about as useful as Ford had expected of them, although he still finds himself annoyed at their lack of care. Apperantly, he just has to put up with it until he gets out of this damned place.
When he moves on to Gravity Falls, and receives a call barely 2 months after getting the phone line set up in his new house, he begins to wonder if this isn't a person on the other side. He has already witnessed and documented many anomalies of the town and it's forest, and it is entirely possible that an anomaly spawned from somewhere else in the world. He and St- he had always been a magnet for the supernatural.
So he begins to document the calls. There's no difference from when he was at BackupsMore, no time pattern or similarity, and there's still no voice. He tries to control his voice when he notices the silence, carefully trying to keep the caller on the line for longer each time to gain more information. Sometimes, it even works! His personal record is 6 minutes and 28 seconds, with no response yet, but it is still progress!
His phone is a better quality than the ones at his college, so he can now hear background sounds from the other line. Instead of silence, he can hear very quiet, almost purposefully controlled breathing, and occasionally the muffled sound of a car driving past. So, unlikely that this is an anomaly from another realm of existence, or dimension, but the breathing is a sign that there is indeed a physical caller.
But the silence begins to grate on him after a couple more years, alongside the stumbling stone in his research. He's still finding new anomalies, but he has no clue where they're coming from! And these calls aren't getting him anywhere either, he can't even get a grunt or any kind of acknowledgement when he tries to question the caller!
His frustration builds for months, little things adding up, until he finally snaps.
Ford is staring down at his open journals, gripping his hair and glaring at the disconnected research, when the blaring sound of the phone ringing bursts through the house. He slams his hands down against his desk before stomping out of his study and down to the kitchen. The phone is ringing on the counter, vibrating almost mockingly. He sneers at it before swiping it up.
"What?"
Silence. Dead silence for 3 seconds. 5. 10. He can't take it.
"Stop calling me. I'm very busy with very important research and I don't have the time or patience to deal with these blasted calls anymore, do you understand? Unless you have something useful to tell me, or anything at all, then stop calling me, you damned creature!"
More silence, he can't even hear any breathing over his own harsh breaths. When the dial tone plays in his ear, he slams the phone down on the counter and storms back to his study. He flips his journal to the entries of the calls and aggressively jots down the interaction before dropping his quill on the desk and walking off to his bedroom. Maybe some sleep will actually be helpful for his mind.
Looking back on the interaction the next morning, he can admit that he might have been a little harsh. The anomalous caller wasn't any more at fault for Ford's struggles than the rest of Gravity Falls' anomalies, and he hadn't meant to react so violently to something he was actively studying. Perhaps he'll apologize when the next call comes.
So he continues his studies, and he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
The longest he had gone between the calls was 2 months. He tries to brush off the idea that he might have scared the anomaly off for good, but 1 month becomes 2, then 3, and then nearly a full year has passed. He keeps his journal open in the kitchen, directly next to the phone, and has a pen ready each time the phone rings. It's never his silent caller.
He still doesn't make much lee-way in his research, although he had to start a third journal after filling up the first 2. He finds new anomalies, discovers how awful unicorns are, and creates more experiments. He had begun to lose hope that the caller would reach out to him again by month 6, so he doesn't even take his eyes off of his newest sketch when he answers the ringing phone at the end of the 11th month.
He simply pressed the phone between his shoulder and ear, never looking away from the half drawn sketch.
"Hello, Stanford Pines speaking."
It takes a moment to register the quiet breathing, then he nearly drops his journal and pen in his rush to find loose paper. Of course, he moved Journal 2 just days before the caller returns, and now it's in one of the piles somewhere in his study. Honestly, he never should have even considered moving it out of reach.
"Hello? T-Terribly sorry, who is this?"
He grabs a pad of sticky notes and starts writing down notes. Date, time, and new observations. The caller's breathing is harsher than he remembers, clipped, like they've been running. Ford clears his throat.
"If, ah, if this is the same, um, person as the one I yelled at, I deeply apologize. I've hit a block in my research, and I hadn't meant to take it out on you."
The breathing catches, and he can barely hear a rough swallow from the other side of the phone before it returns. These note pads won't be large enough to fit his observations, he needs to go find his Journal.
"Ah, right, well, I need to go retrieve something of mine, so if you'll just-"
"Wait!!"
Ford freezes, phone hovering above the counter. He wasn't going to hang up, simply set the phone down so he could go find his Journal, but this... This is unprecedented. This is new.
"Wait- just... P-Please."
The voice is rough, cracking with what sounds like desperation, and it twinges in his mind as vaguely familiar. Deep and gravely, clearly male, loud despite the distance between the receiver and Ford's head. Slowly, Ford brings the phone back up to his ear.
"...Hello?"
"D-Don't go-"
The breathing has sped up, the caller sounds like he's practically gasping for breath, and Ford is entirely lost on what to do. He stands there with his jaw hanging like a numbskull, words lodging in his throat.
"S-Sorry, uh, just... N-Need... Could... Ah, shit, just... Could ya... Just talk?... Just talk ta me for a bit..."
"Uh..."
Ford shakes his head, straightens his posture and quickly tries to kick his brain back into working.
"Yes, okay, I- yes, I can do that. Is there... Anything specific you wish for me to-"
"Anythin', just- just don't hang up. Don't go."
There's panic in the voice now; fear. Ford glances around for a topic to talk about when his eyes land on Journal 3 sitting on the counter, now closed. He quickly flips it open to a random page, already talking.
"Have you ever heard of- of a Hide Behind? Now, I am yet to witness it personally, but I've seen evidence of it's existence, and-"
He lets himself fall into old habits, narrating his findings on the anomaly and several others. He stops listening to the caller, once again wedging the phone against his shoulder as he flips through his journal and talks aimlessly. He only pauses for breath when he reaches his most recent finding, still left unfinished by the interruption. Only then does he realize that the breathing has returned to it's normal pace, deep and even. He clears his throat and goes to speak before the caller talks first.
"Thank you..."
Ford blinks, and a tension he hadn't realized he held releases, his chest and shoulders relax and he nearly smiles. The voice sounds as calm as his breathing, although heavy with exhaustion. He glances at the clock and nearly drops his journal when he sees that nearly 50 minutes have passed since the start of the call. He flushes, embarrassed at the loss of time, and goes to speak before he's once again interrupted.
"Sorry 'bout that..."
Then the other ends the call, leaving Ford to stand stunned in his kitchen, phone still held to his ear.
They come back at a decent pace after that call, and the caller has returned to his silence. Ford doesn't mind as much as before, though. Every time he answers the phone to silence, he simply flips open whichever journal is closest and begins to rattle on about his discoveries.
The calls become part of his routine, actually. Never less than once a month, and never more than once a week, and Ford discovers that he often feels lighter after them. His frustration is still there, obviously, but it doesn't feel as pressing as it did before.
And despite his caller not speaking again, he responds in other ways. Occasionally, he'll give soft noises of curiousity or interest when Ford mentions something new, and grunts of confusion when he finds himself slipping into complicated scientific terms. One time, Ford even gets a laugh out of him when he voices his distaste for the damned hawktopus. It was a genuine, hardy laugh that made something in Ford swell with pride and warmth. He spent a week after that call searching for and cataloging the more ridiculous anomalies of the forest.
Unfortunately, not all of the calls are as delightful as others. He tends to get the more distressing calls late into the night, where he's met with harsh wheezing breaths when he answers. He's learned not to question it, instead turning to the journals to comfort them both. He's never been good with people, especially not when it comes to emotions, but something about his caller's fright sits wrong with him. It doesn't just make him uncomfortable, it makes him angry. Which, honestly, is illogical. He does not know if his caller is even human yet, and certainly has no reason to feel so protective over a disconnected voice.
Even still, he talks and talks until he hears the fright drain from his breathing, and waits until the other hums a positive reaction before he stops. He never gets more than an non-committal grunt and dial tone when asking if the other is okay.
Ford finds himself staying around the house more often, stationing himself within hearing distance as the calls get more frequent. The thought of missing one sets him on edge, an unpleasant taste left in his mouth when he thinks of leaving his caller to his impersonal voicemail. He faintly wonders if he's becoming too attached to the phone calls.
One day, he can't even bring himself to leave the house. He needs to, he's nearly out of food and coffee, but even approaching the front door sends such a violent bolt of dread down his spine that it makes him nauseous. Something feels terribly wrong in a way he hasn't felt in years, and he can't figure out why. All of his experiments are accounted for, no gnomes are in the house or even in his yard, and all 3 journals are tucked into his trench coat. Nothing seems out of place or actively wrong, so what could possibly be setting off his fight or flight so desperately?
He stays indoors. He grabs all of his research and drops himself at the kitchen table, feeling twitchy when he can't see the phone. In hindsight, that should have been a clue as to what was wrong, but he was too distracted trying to distract himself. He throws himself into revising and editing all of his journals, picking through and touching up on older sketches, adding information, anything to keep him from pacing.
The phone rings just past midnight. Ford jolts, wincing as his back protests from hunching over all day. He quickly pushes himself up and answers the phone, the dread building in his stomach. He can tell immediately that something is wrong. The voice is panicked in a way he doesn't recognize, something new and urgent and awful. It's wet, struggling, it almost sounds like gurgling.
"Hello? What's wrong?"
The sound catches, then wet coughing punches through the line, and a wheezing breath. Rough skin scraping against skin quickly, frantically. Something is wrong.
"Hello? What's going on? What is it?"
"N-Neck- m-my throat-"
"What? What happened, are you hurt?"
"Please- I-I dunno what ta do-"
Ford curses, wishing he picked up a medical class in college. What use are his PhD's if he can't even help one person when they need it?
"You- your neck? Is your neck hurt?"
"Cut-"
Shit.
"O-Okay, it's going to be okay. Ah- how- how deep is it?"
"D-Don't think it- ah!- cut my windpipe. M-Might've-"
Another cough, something splattering against a flat surface.
"Definitely busted a rib, though."
"Okay. You're still breathing, you're still talking, so it can't be that bad. Did the assailant hit any major arteries?"
"Nah, not too deep. Not bleedin' too bad, wouldn't'a made it to the phone if- if it was bad."
Ford wishes the phone cord was longer so he could pace. There has to be something, anything he could do. He severely doubts the man has access to a suture kit, or maybe he's near a hospital. Although, if he isn't a human, he definitely can't just waltz in and ask for help. It's just a cut, he knows how to treat cuts. Surely it's not too bad if he was able to call Ford.
"Alright. Okay, I need you to listen to me."
"Mkay."
"You need to stop the bleeding. Anything to staunch the blood flow, just pack something clean onto it and apply pressure."
There's something moving on the other end of the phone, then the sound of fabric ripping. More shuffling, a grunt of pain, and a shaky breath.
"Alright. Not too bad, don't think. Lungs hurt like a bitch, but my throat don't feel any different."
"Good, good. That means your windpipe is intact. Superficial wound, hopefully. Do you think it would need stitches?"
"No, I can see it in the glass- fuck that stings- b-but don't think I gotta worry too bad about it. Ah. S-Sorry about that. Didn't mean ta scare ya."
Ford takes a deep breath and slumps against the counter. He shudders when the wet cough makes a comeback, knuckles turning white where he grips the phone.
"What is that from?"
"Might, uh... Might have fucked up my ribs a bit worse than I thought. Bastard..."
"Your ribs- are your lungs okay? Why does it sound like you're spitting up something."
"Broke open my cheek, got a gu- uh, hit to the face. Hurt like a sonova bitch, but nothin' I ain't had before."
"Is there a hospital near you?"
"Uh, dunno? Never been to this city before today. 'm lucky I found this booth, really. Or the street at all."
"Right. You should look, ask around. You need to get your ribs checked if they're hurting enough to make you cough like that."
"Yeah, yeah, I'll get 'em checked out. And uh. Sorry, again, if I haven't said it yet. Didn't mean ta scare ya with all this."
"It's okay. Why... Why did you call me? Why wouldn't you call for help?"
"Uh... Dunno. You're just the first one that came to mind."
With the dread draining away from him, replaced with relief, he is able to feel stunned at that statement. He can't remember the last time someone turned to him for help.
(Yes he can, but he's decidedly not thinking about that right now. Or ever.)
"Besides, it worked, didn't it? Not bleedin' out, not freakin' out. Ya helped more than some boring operator would."
"Ah... I-I suppose I did. Good. Thank you."
"What? What for?"
"Um... I'm not sure. Surviving? Calling me?"
"Well, you're welcome, I guess. Thank you for helpin' me. You really shouldn't have ta put up with my bullshit."
"Oh, it's nothing, honestly. Um. Would- would you like me to talk to you again?"
"Eh, not tonight. Like you said, should probably get this stuff checked out."
"Right, right! Apologies, I don't know how I forgot about that-"
"It's fine-"
"You really should go to a doctor. So. I suppose I'll let you go do that now."
"Right. Yeah."
There's a long pause before the other speaks again.
"You want me to call you back soon so ya don't worry yourself into an early grave?"
He releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
"Yes, yes please, that'd be great."
"Alright, I'll try ta call ya by the end of the week. That good with you?"
"Yes, that works perfectly. I'll be here to answer."
"I sure hope so. G'night, Si- sir."
"Goodnight to you too. Make sure to rest well!"
"Yeah, yeah, I will. See ya later."
With that, Ford was left to collapse back into his chair, staring down at his journals as his heart got accustomed to a normal pace again. His fear and dread successfully passed, he also promptly passes out against the kitchen table.
He'd managed to go shopping the next day, still concerned for his caller, but lacking that knawing terror that was prominent the day before. And just 4 days after, his caller fulfilled his promise and called during the day, informing him of his cracked ribs and bruised lung. His neck had been treated quickly and was already healing, along with the injured cheek and large bruise apparent on his jaw. Despite Ford's worries, his caller had promised that it was nothing bad, he hadn't even lost a tooth, and it would all heal within a month.
He tried not to worry about it, but he couldn't help but pick through every call once again, trying to piece together the tidbits of information he's gotten from his caller's lifestyle. Something simply doesn't sit right in his mind, like a vital piece of information is scratching against the glass, begging to be seen. He just doesn't have enough connections to uncover what it is he's missing.
Then he meets Bill.
His Muse is incredible, helping him discover even more anomalies and teaching him how to learn, how to grow. He promises Ford wonder and power and recognition, more knowledge than he could ever dream of. Plus, with the introduction of a fantastic new project, Ford is able to reach out to Fiddleford and convince him to drive up and help him. They had become quite close throughout college, and he can't help but find himself missing his friend.
He happily helps move his friend into the spare bedroom (after a bit of cleaning, most of the rooms in the house had been used as storage until now) and discusses his findings with Fiddleford as he does so. He neglects informing him of where he's gotten the idea and blueprints for the portal from, at Bill's request. He'd said that not every mind is strong enough to withstand the knowledge of his existence yet.
As soon as they knew how large the structure would be, they had began construction on a sublevel, a giant empty room connected to a smaller, where the controls would be. It takes a long time, and they have to hire a few extra hands to get it done at a reasonable time while they wait for the first parts for the portal to arrive.
He can't help but bask in the praise and excitement, knowing with certainty that this project and Bill are by far the best things to come into his life in years.
And when he tells his caller about all of this, he... Does not agree.
The call had started as usual, although admittedly he should have warned Fiddleford about the calls before he abruptly dropped their calculations to answer the phone. 3:30 in the afternoon, his caller had happily hummed when Ford joyfully answered the phone and began to ramble. His explanation of the portal and the possibilities it held had obviously impressed his caller, and Ford had swelled with pride when he heard a low whistle followed by a soft 'damn'. He always felt especially thrilled by the other's intrigue, and this was no different.
Despite his Muse's warnings, Ford couldn't help but tilt the subject towards Bill. He had been refraining from telling Fiddleford and anyone else about his Muse, so his adoration had continued to build with no outlet. But after ranting about Bill and their conversations and plans for nearly 10 minutes, Ford realizes that his caller doesn't sound the same. His encouraging hums had turned sour, clipped and low. Ford blinks and presses the phone more firmly against his ear, listening for any possible threat on the other side.
"Is something wrong?"
"... You sure you can trust this guy?"
Ford flinches back like he'd been physically hit. He stares at the phone before indignation climbs in his throat.
"Excuse me?"
"I-I don't mean- just- he reminds me of some'a the guys I've met out here. Act all sweet to get what they want."
"Bill is my Muse! How dare you-!"
"I know, I know, I just..."
He glares at the wall while he waits for the other to finish talking. A quiet sigh catches on the line, sounding defeated.
"Just, be careful, alright? I can't make the call, I don't know the guy. But I just don't want ya gettin' hurt."
Slowly, he lets his hackles lower. Right. Of course, he supposes he can understand how this could seem from an outside perspective. If his caller had answered the phone suddenly gushing about a person that seems too good to be true, Ford would be suspicious as well. He sighs, letting his fist relax at his side.
"I assure you, I can trust him. But thank you for looking out for me."
"Course. Just wanna keep you safe."
The call ends quickly after that, but something settles heavy in his stomach when the dial tone echos through the call. He can trust Bill, and he can trust his caller. He just doesn't know enough to trust Bill like Ford can.
Ford goes back to work, waving off Fiddleford's curiousity.
As always, he throws himself into his work. Construction on the portal takes time, especially with just the 2 of them. Bill insisted that no one else be brought in to help build the machine, claiming that they couldn't be sure someone would respect the delicate creation the same way Ford does.
He starts to neglect everything else. He rarely leaves the house, often leaving Fiddleford to do grocery runs and ignoring field work. Clutter begins to build even more between them both, more and more piles filling up the rooms throughout the house. Fiddleford often has to drag him out of his study and the basement just to remind him to eat.
He doesn't even notice when the calls change.
He doesn't notice when his caller stops responding, or when he stops talking to him instead of muttering to himself. He doesn't notice as the calls become shorter and farther between. He doesn't even process when one day, he answers only to be immediately met with the dial tone. He'd just put the phone back without looking away from his notes.
Then Fiddleford walks into the basement one day with a pair of coffee mugs, looking perplexed as he sets one at Ford's elbow.
"I can't believe ya still get those prank calls."
Ford's heart seizes in his chest with the mug halfway to his mouth. His hands start shaking as he looks up at his assistant.
"I- what?"
"Those hang up calls that ya got all the time in college? Just picked one up a minute ago. Can't believe someone would bother with keepin' it up all these years."
The mug drops from his hand. He doesn't register Fiddleford's yelp of surprise or frantic scrambling to move their work out of the way of the spill.
He missed a call.
He missed a call.
He's never missed a call before. Not from his caller. What if it was important? What if it was one of the bad ones? What if he's hurt again? Oh Moses, he can't breathe.
He's on the ground. He doesn't remember getting off of his chair, but now he's kneeling on the floor with his hands in his hair. Someone is talking to him but it doesn't matter. It's not him. What if he doesn't call again? What if he was in danger, and Ford wasn't there to answer? He doesn't even know his name. Why did he ever stop asking him questions, when did he stop thinking he needed to know? He'll never know if his caller is okay if he doesn't even know his name.
Hands pry his own from where he was yanking at his hair, squeezing to drag his attention away from the stone floor. Fiddleford. Fiddleford answered the phone. He has to know something. Ford reaches out and grabs his assistant by the biceps, nearly shaking him.
"Did you hear him? How did he sound? Did he say anything? Did he sound hurt? What happened?!"
"Ford- Stanferd, calm down!! I-I didn't hear nothin'!"
"That's not possible!! There's always something! You had to have heard his breathing, did he sound hurt!?"
"I don't know! I wasn't exactly listenin' fer it!"
"Why not?!!?"
"Stanford!!"
He flinches away, wrenching his hands back to grip onto his trench coat instead. Fiddleford holds his hands up placatingly, settling on his knees in front of him.
"Look, ya can't have expected me ta look fer somethin' ya didn't tell me 'bout. I didn't know ya actually talk to 'em now, and I didn't know ta listen fer breathin'. I didn't hear nothin'. I'm sorry, but I don't got anythin' else for ya."
"Right. Right. Okay. If it was quiet, he was probably okay. Of course."
Ford clears his throat and clasps his hands together to try and stop the shaking.
"A-Apologies. I didn't mean to..."
"I know ya didn't. Ya talk ta this fella a lot? Seems like ya got close if yer that worried about 'im."
"I-I suppose so. He began to answer about a year ago. I... Think it's been a year... I'm afraid I've lost my hold on time..."
Fiddleford hums and moves to sit next to him, listening patiently.
"I-I've never missed a call since then. He was... Distressed, the first time he spoke. I'm not quite sure why, he never did tell me what frightened him so badly, but he practically begged me to stay on the line."
"And ya did?"
"Wh- of course I did! I may be socially inept, but I'm not cruel! He sounded-"
'Anythin', just- just don't hang up. Don't go.'
"... Leaving him hadn't even crossed my mind. He started calling more often after that, and although he rarely spoke, he was much more vocal. He'd make sounds in response to me telling him about my discoveries."
"Sounds like a nice fella."
"He is! It's very rare for me to find someone else as interested in the supernatural as myself! Even you have your reservations about it."
Fiddleford chuckles and shrugs before gesturing to continue. Stanford swallows and leans forward to place his chin on his clasped hands, elbows propped up on his knees.
"As nice as our calls are, there have been... Less pleasant instances."
"Like what?"
Wet coughing, the raw fear in his voice, hopelessly wishing he could be there, do something aside from just talk at him-
"Stanferd?"
'Please- I-I dunno what ta do-'
His breath is shuddering again as he thinks about that call, and about the one he just missed. What if he was hurt, and he just didn't feel safe talking to Fiddleford? He doesn't know Fiddleford, of course he wouldn't trust him with such a sensitive subject, especially with how often he gets injured-
"Stanferd!"
Ford flinches from Fiddleford's hand on his arm, but allows the grounding touch. He stares hard at the texture of the stone floor and tries to distance his emotions, think analytically.
"He had a laceration on his neck."
Fiddleford gasps and lifts his free hand to cover his mouth.
"Nothing vital was damaged! His windpipe and arteries were intact. But- but he informed me afterwards that his ribs had been cracked, one of his lungs was bruised, and his cheek had been split open, alongside the wound on his neck. And it wasn't the last time he'd called me injured. None as dire as I thought that one way, but..."
"... But, ya still worry about 'im?"
"I... Y-Yes, I suppose I do..."
Ford digs his nails into the backs of his hands hard enough for his knuckles to turn white. Stay grounded, he can get though a simple explanation without falling into another panic attack.
"I suppose, I fear if I miss a call it could be the last time he reached out to me. Whether due to possible injuries or because he lost his trust in me."
"Ya can't call 'im back?"
"No, every time I check the number after our calls, it's a different one. The few I have successfully located are payphones and are rarely in the same state, let alone follow a pattern."
Fiddleford hums, looking contemplative. Knowing him, he's thinking up a way to trace the calls in real time just to ease Stanford's mind. It's comforting to know he has such a genius for his friend.
"It's... Odd, to me. I've speculated that he is an anomaly, although I am yet to connect him to a known one."
"Really? Ya sure it ain't just someone wantin' ta be yer penpal?"
"That term doesn't work here, we don't write to each other- although perhaps I could try to get a name so I could send him a message with the mailbox... Anyway- yes, really, there's been occurrences that I cannot mark off as 'normal'."
"Yeah? Like what?"
Ford releases his grip on his hands and stands up to get his second journal. Fiddleford stands with him, following him out of the basement and through the house as he tracks down where he left it.
"Well, with the confirmation that he is the one who was calling from BackupsMore, he somehow gained my personal number time and time again despite leaving it out of the phone books- ah, here it is."
He tugs his journal out from the pile of books in his bedroom, flipping easily to the entry on the calls.
"Alongside that, whenever he speaks, I feel a sense of familiarity. Similar to nostalgic, but current. Longing? It makes me feel inclined to talk to him in a way I haven't felt since..."
He pauses, trying to pull himself away from the memories of his childhood. It's a pointless comparison, he knows better than to believe any of that trust was true. Perhaps it was when they were young, but he doubts it stayed that way once they reached high school.
"... Since?"
"Since- since I was young. And I often feel anxious on the days that he calls in bad conditions. I wonder if the calls have somehow allowed him to connect himself to me, emotionally or otherwise."
"Hm... Suppose that does sound a bit outta the ordinary. And he moves around a bunch?"
"Never in the same place twice. He seems to cross incredible distances between calls, I've even received a call from the far end of Mexico once. So he isn't restrained to the states, and he possibly has the ability to teleport."
"You want me to track 'im down for ya?"
Ford hesitates, weighing his options. While it would be nice to know more about his caller and possibly even gain the chance to meet him, his Muse will be upset if they slow progress on the portal for this. They're nearing completion anyway, perhaps he can have Fiddleford track him this project.
"No, that's alright. But if you do answer one of his calls again, could you try to keep him on the line long enough to get me? Ah- please?"
"Course! If this fella means that much to ya, I'll tell 'im I'll get ya."
"Thank you, my friend."
Everything went wrong. Bill was a liar. The portal was a trap. And now Fiddleford has left after being punished for Stanford's actions. He can't sleep, he can't let him win, not now.
Two of the journals have been hidden, and he just finished adding a retinal scanner to the lab door so Bill can't access the portal on his own anymore. He knows he'll pay for it the next time he blacks out, but he'll do what needs to be done to keep that monster from entering this dimension.
His hands shake from the pain, the amount of coffee running through his body, and the lingering anger of that video. The spiders were awful, he doesn't think he'll want to eat anything solid ever again, but it was that fucking call that makes him want to pummel the demon.
How- how dare he? Out of everyone Bill could have attempted to contact, why him? And the things he said! Of course, Ford knows that Bill won't let him die, he's the only one able to reach and activate the portal- but telling him that Ford never loved him? Blaming his supposed suicide on hating Stanley? That's too far.
Even though the payphone was out of order, it sprouted a new anxiety that Bill somehow told Stanley anyway. The idea of Cipher going near his brother...
The phone rings before he can work himself further into that thought, making him jump a foot in the air and scowl at it. It wouldn't be the first time Bill tried to mess with his head by making him hope that someone useful would be the one calling him. It never is.
Still, he stomps over and yanks the phone up to his ear.
"What?!"
Silence. He huffs into the receiver for a long minute, anger building more and more, and he opens his mouth to scream at Cipher again when he's cut off by a tentative voice.
"Uh... Are you... Okay?"
His entire body collapses against the counter, gasping for breath at the relief that pulses through him.
"Oh- oh Moses, it's you-"
"Hey- hey, uh, take a breath, alright? C'mon, breathe for me."
He complies, sucking in a deep lungful of air before coughing it out. He didn't realize how dry his throat is until now. He listens to the familiar voice of his caller until his head stops spinning and his lungs stop betraying him.
"There we go, 's that better?"
"Y-Yes. Ahem- yes, it is. Um- thank you."
"No problem. Ya do it for me all the time, yeah? So what's got you so freaked out?"
Stanford shudders and leans forward over the counter, knuckles white from gripping the phone. He chokes on a sob as he hangs his head in shame, nearly slipping from how weak he feels.
"You were right. You were both right, I couldn't trust him, I never should have trusted him, I was such a damn fool-"
"Hey, hey, none'a that now, alright? Keep breathing, tell me what happened."
The familiar voice is soothing to his nerves, despite now being a horrible time to relax. The gruff voice is oddly soft as he talks Ford down from another panic, tugging at that missing piece again.
"Is it that Bill guy you've talked about?"
Ford swallows and nods before remembering that he can't see through the phone.
"Y-Yes. He tricked me. He tricked me into creating a superweapon, and now- if I had just listened to you, none of this would have happened-"
"Quit it. Facts, bud, gimme the facts."
"Right. Okay. T-There was an incident during testing. F, my lab partner, got pulled past the caution line and saw something that made him quit. I-I can't blame him, I treated him horribly. I confronted Bill shortly after and he revealed his true nature to me. I can't stop him."
"Shit... What's this guy doing to you? Is he there now?"
"Not- I don't - I don't think so but- but he's always watching. I've covered everything I could find, but I just- I know he's still there, I can't sleep because it just lets him in- it lets him in and I can't let him downstairs-"
"Hey."
Stanford takes a shaking breath, forcefully unclenching his fingers where they were digging into the porcelain.
"What's this guy doin' to you?"
There's anger in the voice now. It makes it sound even more familiar, he swears it's right on the edge of his mind. He shakes his head, it doesn't matter right now. It doesn't matter.
"Like hell it doesn't matter! The fuck is this guy doin'?!"
Oh, did he say that out loud? Maybe the sleep deprivation is slowly kicking in. It doesn't matter, though, because Bill is unstoppable.
"Is this guy hurtin' you?"
He slides down to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chest. His hand twitches in pain when he's reminded of the split knuckles and hole through his palm. His body aches with lingering cuts and bruises, his head pounds fiercely, and he swears he can feel the demon's eyes on him still.
"Yes."
His caller curses in another language- Spanish?- and something bangs and rattles on the other end. The sound makes him jump and his eyes flick to the window, expecting someone to be on the other side. There's no one there.
"Fuck. Okay. Can you call someone for help? Friends, family, hell- the cops? Why haven't you called the cops?"
"I-I can't. I don't have anyone else."
"No one? No one at all?"
"I..."
He can't drag Shermie into this, he has a family, and his parents wouldn't believe him. Fiddleford was the only friend he has and he's certainly not coming back. And Stanley...
Stanley...
He thinks of the failed phone call, of a desperate teenager looking up to him for help, of the years of silence between them. He doesn't even know if his twin is alive.
He thinks of when they were younger, when they were still a dynamic pair. He thinks about how Stanley would always came to his aid when he called, even when they were fighting. How Stanley would listen blindly to anything he asked for.
Maybe...
"P-Perhaps... There might be one person..."
"Yeah?"
His voice is shaking. Ford is too.
"I can try. He might be my last hope."
"Alright. Yeah. Ask 'im for help, quickly. I've dealt with my fair share of shitty people and the sooner you get away from this guy, the better."
He takes a deep breath. It catches in his throat when he tries to breathe out.
"Hey, listen to me. You listenin'?"
"Y-Yes."
"It'll be okay. I know it ain't okay now, but it will be alright in the end, yeah? And if it takes too long, fuckin' fight for it."
"Isn't."
"What?"
"Isn't okay, not ain't."
"Oh for fucks-"
Muffled laughing echos down the line and he finds his shoulders relaxing slightly, mouth quirking up on its own accord.
"Screw you. You heard me, yeah? Do not give up, Stanford. People'll walk all over you if you let them. Keep fighting, alright?"
"Alright. Okay. Th-Thank you."
"Of course. Ya need me to stay on the line?"
"I- yes, um. I-If you wouldn't mind. I'd like to talk to you for a little while longer."
"Alright. I got enough for about 20 minutes."
"Okay."
The card feels heavy in his pocket as he treks through the snow, crossbow held in front of him. He keeps scanning the trees as he makes his way to the mailbox, hating every second that he's out of his house. Every moment away is another moment that he's open for attack. The sooner he sends this postcard the better.
The card has no sender address, only his own in the top corner, along with his rushed message begging his twin for help. Admittedly, he spent more time trying to make this card than necessary, especially since the end result was just two words. He looks over his shoulder again before moving the crossbow to one hand and quickly shoving the card into the mailbox with his free hand. His hand shakes when he drops the card into the empty space, almost reaching out to snatch it back. The clang that it makes as he slams the cover shut feels like a gavel marking his doom.
There. The card should be sent right to Stanley, in one way or another. Now he just has to wait for him to arrive. And if he doesn't...
Ford shakes his head and starts the walk back, feeling eyes crawl under his skin the whole way.
Check the doors, check the windows, check the locks, check the basement, drink more coffee, check his eyes, do not fall asleep. He paces his house endlessly, repeating the process over and over and over until his legs grow sore and his stomach aches from chugging pots of bitter coffee. He doesn't stop. He can't give up. He can't let Bill win. He won't give up.
Check the doors, check the windows, check the locks, check the basement. The front and back doors are locked ten times over, the windows are boarded, cameras installed all over the property in place of seeing through the glass. Every room is left open, so he can hear if someone breaks in. The basement is locked with a retinal scanner, Bill can't get through. Not with his disgusting yellow eyes.
Check the doors, check the windows, check the locks, check the basement. His caller hasn't rung since that last call. He wonders if he's okay. He wonders if he'll hear from him again. He wonders if he left. He hopes he hasn't.
Check the doors, check the windows, check the locks, check the-
Knock Knock
His pacing is interrupted. Someone is here. No. No, Bill is here. Or whoever he sent in his place. He said he was sending someone to take Ford's eyes. He's not going down without a fight.
Already grabbing the loaded crossbow, he rips the front door open without a moment's hesitation, locking onto the figure in front of him with dangerous accuracy.
"Who is it?! Have you come to steal my eyes!?!"
The crossbow clicks as he lifts it towards the intruder's face, holding steady as he waits for them to slip, to look him in the eyes and show that blinding yellow, to talk in that stupid high pitched-
"Well I can always count on you for a warm welcome."
What?
What?
He knows that snark. He knows that face. Ford quickly points the crossbow at the ground, away from his brother.
"Stanley. Did anyone follow you, anyone at all?"
"Eh, hello to you too, pal."
Ford doesn't waste a second, grabbing Stanley by the collar and yanking him into the house. He pulls a flashlight from his pocket and shines them into his eyes, squinting to make his vision focus so he can see the round pupils dilate. Round. They're round. It's not Bill.
"Ah! Hey! What is this?"
He's shoved back, and puts the flashlight away. He takes a few steps back anyway and raises his hands placatingly to keep Stanley from picking a fight.
"Sorry, I just had to make sure you weren't-"
He glances around, feeling the demon's eyes on him. He can't let Stanley know, it'll put him in danger.
"Ah- it's nothing. Come in, come in."
He hears Stanley close the door as he grips his trenchcoat closed and stalks through the living room. Reaching the desk, he shuffles loose papers around so he can grab his Journal.
"Look, you gonna explain what's going on here? You're acting like mom after her 10th cup of coffee."
He pauses. For some reason, Stanley's voice tugs at a part of his mind. It makes Ford feel that odd nostalgic feeling that he always got from his caller. He brushes it off. It's been 10 years since he's heard from his twin, obviously it would bring at least a bit of nostalgia back to the surface, even if it is at the worst possible time.
Ford grips the Journal to his chest and turns around, walking back towards his brother.
"Listen. There isn't much time. I've made huge mistakes, and I don't know who I can trust anymore."
He turns the prop skeleton's head away from him. His brief experience will Bill possessing an undead a few weeks ago makes him anxious to be around anything resembling a human. If he can keep deals even after the body decomposes to that state, even after the soul has left, who knows what else he can possess.
Oh Moses, does that mean he'll be able to possess Ford's dead body? Being dead could be technically considered an eternal sleep. He definitely can't give in now, if all the restraint would be for nothing in the end.
A hand rests on his back, fingers barely grazing his neck, and he realizes Stan is talking again.
"Let's talk this through, okay?"
Ford stops.
It's like having the physical connection, while hearing the voice without the face, finally slips the pieces together. His breath thins as the realization comes crashing down on him and suddenly he desperately needs to know.
He rushes to shove the Journal into his coat before whipping around fast enough to make his head spin and his brother flinch back. He grabs the sides of Stanley's face and tilts his head back as far as it can go, bringing one hand down to shove his collar aside.
He thinks Stan yelps in shock, but he can't hear it past the ringing in his ears. On Stan's neck, from the edge of his collarbone, up and across his throat, in a thin, pale scar, jagged like a swift slice with a knife.
Wet gurgling, a wheezing cough, that horribly familiar gravel that always made him long for something he didn't let himself miss.
'D-Don't go-'
Those calls started less than a year after Pa kicked Stanley out. He knew Ford was mad at him (he never thought Stan would actually leave, he never thought closing the curtains would destroy the last threads of their relationship so thoroughly, he never wanted to lose his twin) and yet he still called. For a decade, Ford had thought his brother wanted nothing to do with him, and yet, he had never left. In any other circumstances, he might have considered it suffocating, in the same way Stanley's presence used to feel like.
Now it just makes him want to cry.
Careful hands pull his own from where he still had them holding Stan's head back, allowing him to look Ford in the eyes again. Stanley looks nervous, eyeing Ford like he might run as he lifts his hands in a display of peace.
"I-I can explain."
His eyes travel to the scar on his brother's neck again. Someone had cut Stan's throat. People had hurt his twin. His little brother.
'I've dealt with my fair share of shitty people-'
Rage burns in his gut again as he glares at the scar, suddenly wondering how many more are hidden underneath Stan's clothes. Stanley only started talking a year ago. That's still 9 years of possible injuries that Stanford doesn't know about.
"It was you."
Stan flinches, looking to the side awkwardly.
"Uh. Y-Yeah. Look, I'm sorry, I really never meant to-"
His brother had been watching his back even when Stanford was unaware of it. He always was an excellent protector. Filling the role when Ford had failed to.
"You know about Bill."
"Well. Nothing that you haven't told me, but yeah. Where is he, by the way? Is he here? I got a few 'words' I'd like to give him."
Stan's hands clench at his sides as he glances around, and the weight of it all comes crashing down. His brother rushed to his aid, as he always did. He doesn't even understand just how dangerous Cipher truly is, and yet he still came when called. Maybe he left before Ford even sent the postcard.
It's too much.
In an uncharacteristic move, Ford leans forward and hides his face into the fur of Stan's jacket, arms limp at his sides. His twin tenses long enough for Ford to actually think about it for a second, before large arms wind around him.
"Hey, hey... 's gonna be okay... I'll get ya away from this prick. Then it's all gonna be alright."
The pressure of Stan's rhythmic squeezing, the hand rubbing along his spine, and the soothing voice is enough to shatter the last of Ford's walls. His hands fly up to grasp at any available surface of his twin and he starts to bawl.
Stan squeezes him again, and turns his head into Ford's hair. Feeling Stan's nose scrunch the second he picks up Ford's neglect of the shower almost makes him laugh. Almost.
"C'mon, Ford, ya gotta work with me here... I need ta know who I gotta punch."
Ford hums weakly and blinks lazily before shaking himself and straightening up.
"Coffee."
He steps away again before doubling back and grabbing Stanley's sleeve, dragging him along into the kitchen. He starts the pot again and checks the locks while Stan stands awkwardly by the table. Ford gestures to the chairs enough times for Stan to take the hint and carefully sit down, hands sitting on the surface as his leg bounced anxiously against the ground. Ford comes over with his mug of coffee and takes a long drink, not even waiting for it to cool, before he tells Stanley everything.
Everything.
The truth is harder than he expected it to be. Of course, he always hated admitting his faults, but seeing the despair and anger take over Stan's face as he tells the story from beginning to end makes him want to sink into his seat.
By the end, Stan is standing again and staring angrily at a corner, arms crossed over his chest. Neither speak as Ford hesitantly finishes his coffee, watching his twin carefully. Maybe he can convince him to take the Journal before he storms out of Ford's life forever.
"This bastard's been torturin' you?"
His voice is practically dripping with hatred, and Ford blinks. He's never heard Stan that mad before, even when dealing with Crampelter. Stan has always been one for loud, chaotic rage, not this quiet poison. Ford swallows and nods, flexing his injured knuckles.
"There a way to get rid of him?"
"N-Not that I know of quite yet. But there might be a way to prevent him from entering our minds."
"Then- then why haven't you done that yet?"
"Well- it's a spell. A barrier that keeps evil spirits from passing through. I have most of the ingredients, but one is rather... Difficult to obtain."
Stan turns to him, eyebrows lifted. He waves his hand towards Ford when he doesn't say anything more.
"The last ingredient is... Unicorn hair. Unfortunately."
"... Okay? Are they rare or somethin'?"
"Well, yes, there's only one left, but I'm afraid she's a bit uptight. She'll only give her hair to those she deems pure of heart."
"What, she got some sort of magical force field around her?"
... Where is he going with this?
"Um, no. I don't believe so."
"Alright then. Let's go get some magic horse hair."
Stan's hand glints as he turns fully around again, and Ford realizes that he's equipped a set of brass knuckles at some time. Ford gapes at them before sputtering.
"Stanley, we can't just- just beat up a unicorn!"
"Why not?"
"Well- I- it's-"
"You're already on her bad side, yeah? And I sure as hell ain't 'pure of heart' or whatever bullshit that was. So?"
Well, when he puts it like that.
"...fine. Let me pack up more supplies, it's about a day's hike in this weather. We'll need more weapons, and provisions. And you need more clothes, I don't know how you were outside in just that."
"Eh, I'll be fine. And we don't need weapons, I got these bad boys!! I got these teeth with these babies, don't need any fancy techno gadgets to take down a prissy horse with a flashy horn."
Stanley lifts his arms and flexes while he talks before swinging at the air to demonstrate how familiar he is with his preferred weapons. Ford rolls his eyes, and turns away to hide the small smile on his face.
"I'm still bringing extra weapons. I've yet to try instigating a fight with the creature, so I'm not sure how strong it is."
"Eh, suit yourself. I'm good with these, though, so don't weigh yourself down with a buncha stuff."
It makes sense that Stanley's chosen weapon is still relating to punching. He truly hasn't changed since they were young. His little brother is still unapologetically himself. The thought makes his body ease with relief as he starts up the stairs. Before he makes it even halfway up, he pauses and turns around.
"Wait- what was that about your teeth?"