I'm not one to filter my life for children. Adults only.
OOC: Hand of God is a horror AU about power, fame, and domestic abuse. It includes themes of addiction, SA, manipulation, gaslighting, and mental illness.
Below the cut is a list of all stories canon to HoG. Each one has a list of content warnings, and graphic scenes are marked with icons. HoG is an 18+ AU with themes of SA, Addiction, Intense Violence, and Domestic Abuse.
⸸ = graphic violence
♡ = sexual or fetishistic content
Introduction
Showmanship ⸸
Early Days
Showmanship ⸸ Nanemooaka The Muse High Maintenance ⸸♡ Myoclonic Jerk ♡ Aspirin Bubblegum Ice-Cream Nobody But You Working Partners
Loving Devotional ♡ When You're Alone Geodites and Geniuses Plaidypi and Puppydog Eyes A Human's Touch ⸸♡ The Devil's Touch Don't Be Alarmed Greatest Fear
Intrepid field researcher Stanford Pines has begun what's sure to be a very promising career in the study of anomalies. Lesser minds may have overlooked the sleepy little town of Gravity Falls, but this young upstart plans to unravel its mysteries and leave his mark on history in the process. As fate would have it, wiser minds can be found lurking in the Oregon woods, wiser minds than mere mortal comprehension. With divine inspiration by his side, Dr. Pines can only dream of the future that lies ahead.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · A Rose with Too Many Thorns · contains violence, contains blood, contains non-consensual foot fetishism
To skip graphic se
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 2 · Crooked Birch · contains harm to animals, contains blood, contains injury
To skip graphic sexual or violent sections, keep
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 1 · The Muse · contains no graphic content
Link to the chapter on A03.
The Right Hand of God. - Chapter 4 - alexBDcollie - Gr
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 2 · High Maintenance · Contains references to domestic abuse, contains references to child abuse, contains intimate violence, c
contains OCD, contains intrusive thoughts, contains references to violence, contains references to homophobia, contains slurs
˗ˏˋ▽△𓆩⌣𓆪△▽ˎˊ˗
𓊈 0824|1982 𓊉
Ten. There were ten quills, ten welts in his arm that needed to heal. Ford had decided to start by splinting his broken arm first so he could make sure the small puncture wounds were clearing up properly before placing a more permanent cast over them.
It was sensible enough.
It didn't stop Fiddleford from constantly imagining his bones splitting and shifting under his skin like tectonic plates along a fault line. The last couple of days, he'd been constantly obsessing over keeping his arm straight at all costs. Yes, he did have a splint which was meant to do exactly that for him, but what if it failed? What if the split wasn't perfectly secure? What if it shifted, and his bones shifted with it, never healing properly?
Ford insisted confidently that it wasn't anywhere near that severe a break. "Just a hairline fracture," he said.
Him and his plastic little X-ray glasses he got out of a cereal box. He let Fiddleford try them on for himself to prove they worked. Fiddleford had a chance to see the small fracture with his own eyes. Logically, he knew it wasn't serious, and yet without the glasses, he felt so confident his bone had been split clean in two.
He wasn't sure exactly what had him so convinced. Maybe it was the pain, maybe the bruising; neither was actually that bad. He'd been injured worse before by his own construction projects. He wasn't a stranger to burns, broken bones, cuts, and scrapes. He'd even electrocuted himself once or twice.
Maybe that was why he was so paranoid. Maybe he short-circuited his brain.
"Hey."
Strong hands wrapped around Fiddleford's. They held Fiddleford's still-healing arm out across the desk. The wounds didn't look too bad up close like this, but soon they would be out of sight again, and Fiddleford's mind would be left to run wild.
Ford leaned in to coax Fiddleford's gaze to meet his eyes.
"You're going to be fine."
Ford's smile was so soft. His eyes were so warm. He squeezed Fiddleford's hand gently.
Fiddleford gave him a shaky smile back. "Yeah, yer probably right."
"I know I am," Ford asserted boisterously.
The blind confidence on that man's face forced an earnest laugh from Fiddleford's tense chest. That last only seemed to spread Ford's toothy smile wider.
Good Lord, this man was adorable.
Everything was fine. Fiddleford knew he was going to be fine. Logically, he was going to be fine.
"You'll be good as new in no time," Ford assured.
Fiddleford watched as Ford began wrapping a layer of padding around his forearm. Little pink, unintimidating welts escaped his view as they were covered strip by strip. As much as he wanted a proper cast to ease his anxiety over the bone fracture, it was hard not to dwell on the small puncture wounds the quills left behind.
Ford had treated them with some kind of medication, which seemed to work well. He had drained the welts and cleaned them thoroughly multiple times and was confident now that the ones that would be covered by the cast would heal the rest of the way just fine on their own.
What if they didn't? What if they festered under the cast? What if they got infected? What if his damaged skin grew septic and fused to the bandages? What if when the cast came off, his skin peeled off with it in disgusting, pus-bloated chunks?
Fiddleford was trying very, very hard not to think about that.
He thumped his heel rhythmically against the floor while Ford worked. He was sitting in his rolling chair with his arm outstretched across his desk. Ford's chair was pulled up alongside him.
The closeness was a comfort. There was warmth in proximity. Ford was always so warm. Even just sitting near him felt like resting by the furnace.
Fiddleford wasn't a stranger to broken bones or pricker burrs, but the natural wounds that came with running around outside with his brothers were just that, natural. He could trust those wounds to heal as they should. Being attacked by a giant monster was not natural. He couldn't rely on any of his standard conceptions of injury or his body's natural ability to heal. He'd been tainted by some abomination and could no longer trust his body.
Fiddleford watched Ford's eyes. He clung to what safety he could find in Ford's gentle, attentive expression.
"This should heal in about six weeks." Ford moved his head as he finished with the padding and turned to prepare the plaster.
"Just six weeks?"
Ford hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe eight. I don't see it taking much longer than that at the most."
"Ya ain't that kinda doctor."
Ford chuffed irritably as he wrapped wet plaster around Fiddleford's forearm. "Doctors are hacks and swindlers. I've been treating my own injuries for years, and I'm healthy as a horse."
Fiddleford laughed and looked up. He drank in the blustering hot air Ford puffed out of his chest. He was such a self-assured man, bordering on reckless stupidity. Then again, he had managed to survive all these years in Gravity Falls in one piece, however. Maybe there was something to his confidence.
Fiddleford clenched his fingers slightly and winced at the sharp pain the gesture sent through his forearm.
"Careful," Ford warned. He held Fiddleford's arm steady. His grip was firm but tender.
Fiddleford returned to those eyes. The light in this part of the lab was always a bit dim and yellow, enough for desk work but not much else. He highlighted flecks of amber in Ford's dark iris.
Ford resumed wrapping the wet plaster around Fiddleford's forearm with a smile. "Just be sure not to go slamming your arm in car doors, and we should be fine."
Fiddleford chuckled at that. "Way to rob me of one of my favorite pastimes."
Ford gave an amused snort.
Fiddleford's gaze slipped from his eyes when Ford looked away. He looked back at Fiddleford's arm. It made it hard for Fiddleford not to look at his arm. He could feel the welts rotting under his bandages. He tried to pull his eyes away, to look at anything else. He settled on his cubic's cube. It sat untouched on the edge of his desk. The colors were still scrambled. They had been for days.
R2 F2 R2 U-
Fiddleford could solve that scramble. From just the top face alone, he was already unscrambling the cube in his head. Fiddleford hated leaving it scrambled for long; it was bad luck.
That, and it was fun to solve.
Ford had scrambled it the first time they returned to the lab after the gremloblin attack. He had been scrambling it while Fiddleford went over the hyperdrive with him.
It had proven an immense struggle to focus. He'd been actively excited about the hyperdrive when they found it. He'd been practically itching to take it apart and figure out exactly what made it tick. Once he finally had the opportunity to do so he was too clouded by nightmares to think clearly to do so. He had the most advanced piece of machinery he'd ever seen in front of him and could barely manage to force himself through the motions to test if it was even operational.
Ford had to practically walk him through the process.
The machine worked, but barely had enough charge left in it for their test run. Fiddleford was deeply concerned about the radioactive fuel it required to function. At the very least, after they burned off what little fuel residue remained in the device, the Geiger counter showed no evidence of lingering radioactivity. It burned clean somehow, but exactly what it was doing with the fuel was unclear. Then again, alien technology, perhaps it was unfair to expect less of a race capable of inventing a Temporal Displacement Hyperdrive in the first place.
Ford thought they deserved their flowers for being the ones clever enough to cheat and skip the thousands of years of technological advancement.
Fiddleford wasn't sold on that logic, but he'd seen the nightmare wire spaghetti inside Ford's inventions before. He would expect nothing less from the man. Ford was a proper genius, but he was notoriously cutting corners.
Fiddleford had spun his wheels that night, struggling to wrap his mind around how the machine had done what it did. Ford may not have been overly worried on sussing out all the details right away, but Fiddleford couldn't make use of a part he barely understood. He had more pride in his work than that. Unfortunately, he also hadn't been in the right headspace for reverse engineering. Ford posed theories as to how the machine worked to try to ease Fiddleford's frustration, but Fiddleford had been too paranoid about radiation to keep up with the conversation.
Ford had to pull him out of the lab last night to get him to stop layering the damn thing in lead.
"Fidds?"
Fiddleford looked up from the scramble of colors on his desk and couldn't help feeling a bit guilty seeing the concern on Ford's face.
He needed to solve that cube. It was bad luck to leave it unsolved.
Something bad would happen if he didn't solve it.
Something worse would happen if he solved it wrong.
That wasn't mathematically possible. Fiddleford could solve any scramble. It was a simple formula. He knew how to solve any scramble Ford could possibly give him. There was no way for him to get it wrong.
But what if he did?
What if he made one wrong turn and the ritual was violated?
"Are you okay?"
Fiddleford wasn't ok.
He knew he wasn't. Not right now. He refused to admit it out loud, but he was very not ok.
"I'm alright," Fiddleford lied. "Just havin' trouble sleepin' is all."
He'd been very not ok before. He knew this feeling would pass eventually. He'd been prone to bouts of skittishness since he was a child. It was always silly and irrational, and he'd learn to do his best not to make it anyone else's problem.
Fiddleford flexed his fingers again and examined the now hardened plaster on his arm. Ford had completed the cast without his notice.
He felt Ford's hand around his throat. Six fingers, each pressed into the flesh, choking the blood flow to his brain-
Fiddleford dismissed the vision with a shudder and looked back up at the real flesh and blood man, not the monster from his nightmare.
Ford looked so soft in the waking world. Face to face, like this, he seemed so harmless. Fiddleford knew Ford would never hurt him. At least, he wanted to believe that.
He wanted so desperately to believe that.
Ford had been a safe place for Fiddleford in college, just like Emma had been throughout his childhood. They were bold, larger-than-life personalities who had a way of making Fiddleford's fears seem small. The little witch Emma-May Dixon and the next great genius Stanford Pines. As long as Fiddleford kept such powerful company, nothing could hurt him.
Ford scratched shyly at his jaw. He wasn't breaking eye contact. He often looked away when he was anxious, but right now he was fixed on Fiddleford's face.
Fiddleford wished Ford would go back to bragging about being better than doctors.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Hm?"
"With the insomnia," Ford clarified.
"Oh," You could sleep with me.
Fiddleford tried to banish the thought from his mind.
It would help, though, wouldn't it? Fiddleford was plagued with nightmares in which his best friend tried to murder him and bury his body in the woods. He knew those nightmares were absurd. As long as he had Ford in front of him, he knew better. It was only when Fiddleford looked away that the monster felt real.
He needed Ford, this Ford, to stay a permanent fixture of his reality.
Fiddleford chuckled. "Eh, don't worry about it. I just got spooked, is all, it'll pass."
"If you're sure. I haven't seen you this anxious since you deconverted."
Fiddleford couldn't help the wheezy, anxious giggles that bubbled up. Oh, good god leaving Mormonism had been a nightmare. He sure as shit hopped this spiral wouldn't last that long.
Fiddleford picked at the little gold cross he wore under his shirt.
"I'll be fine."
He looked down and rubbed at his cast. There were welts under the cast. The skin was boiling, festering, Fiddleford could feel it. He scratched the plaster lightly to claw at an inch he wouldn't be able to touch for weeks.
"If you're sure. I would hate for one bad expedition to ruin Gravity Falls for you."
Fiddleford shook his head. "No, no, it's fine. You're right, it was just an accident. Just..." He looked back up at Ford's face.
Warm brown eyes, soft curls, full cheeks...
"Just promise me next time you'll listen when I try to warn ya?"
Ford seemed to wilt a little. He didn't trust Fiddleford's ability to assess risk accurately. Fiddleford knew he didn't. On the other hand, Ford felt guilty and didn't want to argue. That much was written plain as day on his face.
"I'll try to take your instincts into greater consideration next time," Ford conceded.
Fiddleford sighed. "Good enough."
He looked back down at his cast and clawed at the plaster again.
"Although..."
"Yes?"
"I been thinkin'..."
Ford leaned in slightly to give Fiddleford's words special attention.
Fiddleford hadn't slept in four days. His mind was a blur of intrusive thoughts and incoherent terror. The only thing that offered any sense of safety right now was Ford's presence, and that was only when Ford was capable of proving to Fiddleford that he wasn't an axe-wielding psychopath.
"I think I might need to take a bit of time off the project," Fiddleford confessed. He raked his nails along the plaster. The scratching sound prickled his skull. "Just while my arm is healin'. It's not like I'd be as effective with the cast on anyway an we're ahead of schedule anyhow."
They had Ford to thank for that, of course. This project had him intensely fixated. Fiddleford had to force him to sleep on multiple occasions. That wasn't new, of course. Ford would get like this over college projects all the time.
The expedition to Crash Site Omega had been wonderful in this regard. It had gotten Ford out of the house and excitedly bouncing from one anomaly to the next. Fiddleford loved seeing him so enthusiastic, and it was nice having some variety in their conversations once Ford had been pulled out of his tunnel vision.
Fiddleford almost died in those woods.
He might still die in these woods.
If he were buried out here, would anyone ever find the body?
Fiddleford hated that monster with a burning passion. It took something from him, ruined something beautiful, someone-
Ford was resting his cheek in his hand, still looking deeply concerned. "Oh?" He sat up and looked away. "I mean, yes, I was considering the same thing."
No, he wasn't. The thought of time off hadn't even crossed his mind. Breaks were practically a foreign concept to Ford. He was pretending to be on the same page in a flimsy attempt to save face.
Fiddleford didn't call him out on it. The response was well-intended. He was trying to show that he cared about Fiddleford's well-being.
Fiddleford knew Ford cared. He just had his own way of showing it.
Ford glanced back at Fiddleford and drummed his fingers sheepishly.
"I suppose you'll want to go back home to California then?" He nodded to Fiddleford's arm. "Just until your cast is ready to come off.
Fiddleford froze up at the suggestion.
Home, right, that would make sense.
It would make sense to go home on his time off. That's what any good husband and father would do. He knew Tate was missing him. God, Tate... Fiddleford hadn't called home since they got back.
Em was probably worried sick by now. Worried or angry, same difference really.
Fiddleford needed to call home and let them know everything was okay.
But... Everything wasn't ok, was it? Nothing was ok. Fiddleford almost died. He might still die. If a single thing went wrong, he might-
"Fiddleford?"
A warm hand perched on Fiddleford's shoulder. Broad and heavy and deeply distinct.
Fiddleford looked at Ford's hand on his shoulder. He counted the fingers.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
One, two, three, four, five, six.
"It's ok if you want to go home."
"NO!"
Ford jumped slightly and pulled his hand away.
Fiddleford scanned his friend's confused face and realized he'd raised his voice. He forced a smile and tried to hide the pounding in his chest.
His foot thumped loudly against the floor.
Traitorous leg.
"Nah, I-it's fine. I'll be just fine hangin' out here. No need to go home and give the missus a scare over nothing." Fiddleford waved his cast for emphasis.
"Oh?" Ford lit up a little before clearing his throat in an effort to hide his relief. "If you're sure."
"Sure as shootin'. Besides, I figure I can still help out a little here and there when I'm up fer it. No need to go completely cold turkey."
Fiddleford couldn't go home like this. He couldn't let Emma see him like this. She knew how bad his nerves could get. She'd dragged him out of his family's storm cellar when they were kids, and a particularly nasty tornado left him spiralling for months. She'd seen him shut down and obsess over good luck charms when he started middle school. Then there was that period where he could only walk on grass and the dark floor tiles in their high school's checker pattern hall after the class faggot was put in the hospital.
Ford knew he was jumpy too, but never seemed to fully register the severity the way Emma-May did. It was easy enough in college for Fiddleford to hide his worst spirals from his dense roommate. Honestly, it was kind of soothing having such an oblivious friend. Ford's naive underestimations had a way of alleviating some of the guilt that came with being such a compulsive coward. Ford's tendency to downplay problems was frustrating, but Fiddleford knew there were times he needed it.
Moreover, Ford didn't make Fiddleford feel babied like Em often did.
If Fiddleford went home now, Emma would catch the signs of a bad spiral and demand Fiddleford quit the project.
Ford was grinning just a little too wide. He slapped Fiddleford merrily on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"
Fiddleford winced and gripped at his cast again. He was fairly convinced for a moment that Ford was rattling his bones around in the plaster like a tin can full of sticks.
"C-careful now, hun."
"Oh, right, sorry." Ford pulled back apologetically and wrung his hands. "I am really sorry about what happened. I promise everything should be smooth sailing from here."
Fiddleford chuckled at that. "Smooth sailing with Stanford Pines? Now that'd be the real anomaly. I ain't ever known a more crooked sailor."
"I haven't steered you wrong yet, have I?"
God, that goofy little grin of his. Ford always had the silliest toothiest smile. He could light up a room with it, so much unbridled confidence.
Fiddleford supposed that for all the heart palpitations this man had given him over the years, things always managed to work out. Ford had an uncanny talent for landing on his feet.
Fiddleford wasn't ready to say goodbye to that smile just yet.
His heel kept thumping rapidly against the floor.
He'd just have to hide the accident from Emma. That would be easy enough. He could ride out this new fear on his own just fine. The anxiety only got bad when Ford was out of sight. As long as Fiddleford stuck close to him, it was hard to see him as anything other than his well-meaning, if perpetually reckless, best friend.
Everything was going to be fine.
He just had to stick close to Ford, and everything would be fine.
˗ˏˋ▽△𓆩𖦹𓆪△▽ˎˊ˗
𓊈 0825|1982 𓊉
Fiddleford was going to die. He didn't know why he ever thought otherwise. He didn't know what stupid impulse possessed him to stay when offered an escape route. He lay curled up in bed for hours, clawing at the cast on his arms, hiding under the covers from a man he was hopelessly infatuated with, to his own detriment.
Why was he so pathetically attached to the monster that was going to kill him and bury his body in the woods?
He knew Stanford was capable of violence. He put one of their teachers in the hospital back in college. Stanford almost killed a woman, and Fiddleford helped him cover it up.
All for what? A man who would never reward Fiddleford's devotion? A man who had never been subtle about his frustration with the perceived perversions of those around him?
If Stanford knew half of what Fiddleford got up to in their dorm when he wasn't around, he would have wrung his neck years ago. Fiddleford invited so many boys to their dorm and relied on Stanford's utter obliviousness to protect him. It was a dangerous gamble, and even after he learned just how dangerous he still kept doing it.
Some part of him back then hoped that Stanford would notice. He hoped that one day his closest friend would see him for what he was without Fiddleford ever having to take the terrifying risk that came with coming out to someone he desperately didn't want to lose.
This was Fiddleford's fifth night with no sleep, and those tender feelings felt a million miles away.
Ford helped Fiddleford to bed last night. He sat on the edge of his bed and rambled aimlessly for Lord knew how long about his many adventures. Fiddleford couldn't remember a word of what was said, just that shine it Ford's eyes when he spoke. He remembered how warm and safe he felt when he fell asleep with Ford by his side.
He wanted that feeling back. Go,d he wanted it back more than anything.
Now all he felt was cold and scared.
As soon as he'd surrendered to sleep, the nightmares were back. Stanford was a monster again. Fiddleford woke in a pool of his own sweat. He tried desperately to go back to sleep.
He even snuck into Ford's room to try and settle his fears. Ford looked harmless in his sleep, soft and sweet.
As soon as Fiddleford worked up the courage to leave, he couldn't convince himself he was safe. Every creak in the night was Stanford moving about the house, plotting. He was preparing the best way to dispose of the degenerate under his roof, and Fiddleford knew it. He knew.
Why was he still here?
Why couldn't he just do the smart thing and leave?
This was a mistake, and Fiddleford was a fool.
A stupid, lovestruck idiot.
He was a deviant faggot who snuck into Stanford's house to spy on him. He was a peeping Tom every time he snuck over to Ford's room to check to make sure he was still asleep, every time he strained his ears listen for his breathing, for possible footsteps, every time he felt briefly safe again and wanted to curl up under Ford's arm like a freshly hatched chick.
The strain of yo-yoing back and forth between his irrational affection for the man and the very reasonable fear of being murdered in his sleep and fed to Stanford's fungal collection was causing Fiddleford physical pain.
Night came and went without sleep. Stanford left the house for his morning jog. He left, he came back, he left again.
He came by earlier to check on Fiddleford.
Fiddleford told him he was tired and wanted to sleep in. Stanford sounded disappointed, but he did leave. He sounded concerned. Fiddleford wanted to believe Stanford was concerned for his well-being and not disappointed to have his murder plot thwarted by a locked door.
A locked door wouldn't stop Stanford. Fiddleford knew that. If Stanford wanted to hurt him, he would have done so already. He wouldn't be treating Fiddleford's wounds and letting him sleep in and offering to bring him breakfast. Logically, Fiddleford knew that.
He could still feel six fingers wrapped around his throat.
What time was it?
Midday, round about. Fiddleford hadn't done anything all day besides hide under the covers and occasionally check and recheck the lock on his bedroom door.
A lock wouldn't stop Stanford.
He needed to call Emma. He told her he would call once they got back from their expedition. It had been days, and he'd yet to call her. Stanford said she left a message on their answering machine, though he hadn't checked it.
Fiddleford needed to call home before Emma got suspicious. He needed to think of something to tell her. He couldn't tell her he'd nearly been mauled to death by a monster. He didn't want to go home yet.
Why didn't he want to go home?
Ford was probably going to kill him anyway. Home was safer, wasn't it?
Fiddleford needed to call home.
It was some time in the late afternoon when he finally managed to drag himself out of bed and work up the courage to poke his head out of his room.
Stanford was still gone. The house was dead silent. The quiet was almost more unnerving than the creak of Stanford's footsteps. What if he were home? What if he managed to slip back in without Fiddleford's notice?
What if he was waiting for Fiddleford to leave his room?
Waiting for what, exactly? Stanford was his friend. He wouldn't hurt him. Fiddleford was being absurd. He was jumping at shadows. He just needed to make it downstairs to let Emma know that everything was alright.
Fiddleford took a deep breath and tried to will himself past the doorway into the hall.
Just move.
All he had to do was move.
Just one step, and then he could tell Emma he was alright. He could make everything alright. All he had to do was leave his room, and then everything would go back to normal.
He just needed one step.
Chattering, metallic, rhythmic-
Ringing.
The phone was ringing. Stanford wasn't home. No one ever called Stanford. Emma left a voicemail...
"Shit!" Fiddleford scrambled out of his room and down the hall, still wearing nothing but his underwear and a bedsheet. He nearly skated on the smooth hardwood and almost tumbled down the stairs and broke his neck.
Oddly enough, that didn't particularly scare him. The thought of angering his wife felt like more of an active threat to Fiddleford's life at the moment than broken bones. He slammed shoulder-first into the wall after tripping down the final step and rushed to the phone.
She's going to leave you.
Don't Think!
Don't Think!
Answer The Phone!
Don't Think!
"Heyyyyy Em! How's it goin'?" Fiddleford answered a bit too loudly and noticeably winded.
There was a slight delay before Emma answered. "Uh... You alright? I thought y'all were supposed to be back days ago."
Fiddleford could tell from her tone that Emma was deciding whether or not she should be mad. That was good; it meant she hadn't decided, she was still on the fence. Fiddleford could convince her not to be mad.
"Heyyyyy yeah, no, I'm fiiiine it's fine. Everythin's just peachy."
Smooth.
"Uh-huh, if everythin's so peachy then why ain't we heard from ya in more than a week?"
Fiddleford scratched at his jaw and sucked the tobacco in his cheek he'd been nursing all morning.
"I meant to call sooner, honest, just been a bit under the weather."
"That so?" Emma didn't sound convinced.
"Yeah, we got in a bit of a hiking accident on the way back an I just ain't been feelin' up to much." Fiddleford clawed softly at the plaster on his arm. His nails made a soft prickling sound as he raked them against the hard, rough surface.
"Oh shit, are y'all okay?"
"Oh yeah, I'm fine, just a bit tired and sore."
"Is Stanford alright?"
Was Stanford alright? Fiddleford chuckled at the thought. "That man is damn near indestructible, he's fine Em." Ford's head was so hard you could hammer nails with it.
"When did ya get back?"
"Oh uh, couple days ago..." Fiddleford wasn't sure if he should have lied or not. Telling the truth meant admitting how long he dragged his feet on calling home, but lying would make the accident sound worse, like it took an extra three days longer than planned to get back.
Fiddleford could practically hear his wife's furrowed brow over the phone.
"An ya ain't called in days? Ya didn't think I deserved to know what happened?"
Fiddleford sighed. "I'm fine, Em."
"Are ya hurt?"
"I said I'm fine."
"Answer the question, Fiddleford!"
Fiddleford winced irritably. Right, that's why he didn't want to go home. He knew as soon as his wife saw the state he was in, she'd take charge of things like she always did when he was scared. He appreciated that when he was a boy. Growing up, Emma had a way of making him feel safe and protected when the world was too much. That's just it, though, he wasn't a boy anymore. He was too grown now for his wife's coddling. He didn't need her telling him what to do.
Fiddleford was fine. He was going to be fine.
His fears were illogical and irrational, and he knew that. This feeling would pass eventually, like it always did, and life in the cabin would return to normal.
His life with Ford would return to normal.
Fiddleford swallowed at the thought.
Dear god, how long until Emma knew?
"I banged up my arm a bit, but nothin' too serious. No hospital visits or nothin'. Stanford got a few bruises and scrapes. Like I said, we've been tired, that's all. We were restin' and gettin' everythin' back in workin' order."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, really."
"Y'all were supposed to be home three days ago."
"What can I say, time flies,"
When you're having fun.
Fiddleford silently cursed himself. He couldn't have picked a more conspicuous turn of phrase. If Emma hadn't suspected him of cheating before, she certainly did now.
"Fiddleford, if ya can't keep up with callin' home, then maybe this trip is too much for ya."
Indignation flared up in Fiddleford's chest. "An what's that supposed to mean?"
"I know ya Fiddler. Ya always been organized and good at keepin' schedules. Ya only slip like this when ya ain't well."
"I said I'm fine," Fiddleford snapped.
So she didn't think he was a cheating faggot, just a dysfunctional coward, good to know.
"An I'm callin' bullshit!" Emma snapped back. "I ain't heard from in days, now either that accident was worse than yer lettin' on, or somethin' got lodged in that squirrel brain o' yers again that's been throwin' ya off."
"Emma, I'm tellin' you, I-"
BANG!
BANG!
Fiddleford nearly leapt out of his skin when he heard the loud slam against the back door. He dropped the phone and let out a very unflattering squeal. The door flung open to reveal a broad yellow form wheeling in a barrel drum on a dolly.
"Fiddleford, you're out of bed!" Ford's voice was muffled by the hazmat suit he was wearing, but that deep-voiced chirping was definitely him.
"Stanford, what in Jesus name, ya nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Sorry," Ford apologized half-heartedly. He looked down at the dolly he was pushing and drummed his fingers on the handles. "I wasn't expecting you to be down here. I should probably bring these barrels of toxic waste in through the front instead. I don't want to interrupt your phone call."
Fiddleford paled at Ford's comment.
"Barrels of... what?"
Fiddleford could just barely make out Ford's toothy grin through the tinted window in his mask. "Toxic waste. There's a nuclear waste site just outside of town. Considering how clean the hyperdrive runs, really, we're doing people a favor."
"Fiddleford!" Emma's irritable shouting could just barely be made out from the receiver dangling off the side table by the word.
Fiddleford slowly picked the phone back up, eyes still locked on his roommate.
Kitten is food aggressive. It's best you keep it out of sight, out of mind until it's time to eat. I usually hand-feed him so he's forced to pace himself and actually able to enjoy the food.
Kitten is food aggressive. It's best you keep it out of sight, out of mind until it's time to eat. I usually hand-feed him so he's forced to pace himself and actually able to enjoy the food.
Kitten is food aggressive. It's best you keep it out of sight, out of mind until it's time to eat. I usually hand-feed him so he's forced to pace himself and actually able to enjoy the food.
Kitten is food aggressive. It's best you keep it out of sight, out of mind until it's time to eat. I usually hand-feed him so he's forced to pace himself and actually able to enjoy the food.
Kitten is food aggressive. It's best you keep it out of sight, out of mind until it's time to eat. I usually hand-feed him so he's forced to pace himself and actually able to enjoy the food.
Is the little one not allowed to be happy (or is that a horny face)
I'm not Bill, I prefer all my pets spoiled and happy. I can't really speak to @the-pet-ethics-guy's feelings on the matter of my shirt. You'll have to ask him if he enjoyed it.
Look, nobody is saying that anyone is cartoonishly good or evil, I'm just saying that my situation isn't the same as some other people's. I'm more of an intern with a weird gimmick. "No better than" an apocalyptic demon is a pretty big thing to say.
It's called Tag Talk. Click the little speech bubble under the post, then click reblogs, and you'll see tags. People use them for organization like you might in a library, but we also just talk with them.
You wish. I was talking to my pet. I'd send you clothes too if your husband would allow it but I wouldn't expect any gratitude. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass on occasion Bill would let you wear pants.
Is the little one not allowed to be happy (or is that a horny face)
I'm not Bill, I prefer all my pets spoiled and happy. I can't really speak to @the-pet-ethics-guy's feelings on the matter of my shirt. You'll have to ask him if he enjoyed it.
Look, nobody is saying that anyone is cartoonishly good or evil, I'm just saying that my situation isn't the same as some other people's. I'm more of an intern with a weird gimmick. "No better than" an apocalyptic demon is a pretty big thing to say.
It's called Tag Talk. Click the little speech bubble under the post, then click reblogs, and you'll see tags. People use them for organization like you might in a library, but we also just talk with them.
You wish. I was talking to my pet. I'd send you clothes too if your husband would allow it but I wouldn't expect any gratitude. Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass on occasion Bill would let you wear pants.
Is the little one not allowed to be happy (or is that a horny face)
I'm not Bill, I prefer all my pets spoiled and happy. I can't really speak to @the-pet-ethics-guy's feelings on the matter of my shirt. You'll have to ask him if he enjoyed it.
Can I buy your raccoon friend so that I can snuggle with him? :3 I'll give you lots of rubies and a kitten if you deliver him to my house
Tempting for a kitten for sure but I am not that shallow and will not give anyone my friend! >:( give me your name and address so I can bite sense into you!!
