The holidays had come and gone, the last echoes of New Year's hurrahs long since dissipated into the frigid air. As the celebrations passed, the winter gloom had swiftly arrived to take hold in their place. Some days it seemed like years since the valley of Gravity Falls had fallen to a hush under its icy spell. So was the nature of the season, especially in tiny, isolated northern towns such as this one. Some nights had been merely uncomfortable, others downright ruthless; and some evenings, like this one, harbored a strange peace beneath the layers of frozen grey.

Stanford drowsed in the wide window of his study, lulled into relaxation by the gentle wind outside and a rather monotonous text on medieval alchemy. Hugging him snugly was one of the many unique knit sweaters of his great-niece's design. This particular creation was a bold midnight blue color dotted with white and black points, representing the vast depths of outer space.

He might have slumbered there the whole night through, had he not been startled back into consciousness by the creak of an old wooden door. Low light from the adjoining hallway peeked into the room, as did an unmistakable pair of gold-rimmed, green-lensed spectacles.

"Ah, I reckoned I'd find you in here." The voice that accompanied the glasses and the face that carried them both were just as warmly familiar. There were precious few people in the multiverse who could enter Ford's solitary space without warning and face no consequence. Fiddleford McGucket was at the top of that list.

"H-hello, dear," Ford mumbled as he sat up and stretched. "Were you looking for me?"

"Mm-hmm. I think you need to get outta this stuffy old room fer a bit. While I do like t'see ya getting some sleep fer once…"

Ford reddened slightly. His rest habits were still far from ideal, it was true. Even the previous night had contained far more pacing and writing and mucking around than actual slumber. Perhaps that was why he had so easily dozed off in a windowsill…

"…this ain't exactly good for you either," Fiddleford went on. "You need fresh air and somethin' to do besides work an' study. We both do." He chuckled lowly. "Feels like I've been tellin' ya this since college."

"Ah…b-but you see, I—" Ford briefly fumbled for an excuse, but he stopped himself just as quickly. He knew his partner was right. Letting go of his pride and admitting where past habits had failed him was all part of the process of his recovery. And though Fiddleford was chiding him, hearing him hark back to the days of their youth was a subtle proof of all the memories he had regained. He, too, had been able to recover.

It had been a few years now since they first reconciled in the eye of the storm that was Weirdmageddon. In that time, both of them—and their whole family, and the whole town, even—had come a long, long way. Yet, even now, any sign that the brilliant man Ford had known all that time ago was still alive and kicking was a help to ease the latent aches in his heart.

The past years had brought great strides in personal growth for each of them separately, but there was another component to their healing as well. Three decades' worth of estrangement, they found, had not been enough to stop them from harboring feelings for one another. Once they were reunited, they found the time to get to know each other again and a safe home in which to do so. The process was slow, and soft, and gentle. It came in summer evenings, reminiscing on days gone by. It came in autumn afternoons, retracing the paths in the woods they had hiked long ago. It came in winter nights, warding off nightmares with tea and quiet reassurance. It came in spring mornings, as the sun barely dusted the distant mountains, with the feeling of home in the strange little town around them and in each other.

It came in the sensation of lips against lips, beard against chin, soft nostalgia and new excitement all at once. It was a modern rendition of the same paradoxical harmony that had stirred two college boys' hearts to life long ago. This time, they were falling in love amidst a supportive family and a place that they could truly call their own. This little sliver of the vast multiverse—this time, this space, this love—it was theirs.

Maybe, this time, it was going to stay.

Ford shook his head and recentered his thoughts. "Right, then," he said aloud, directing his attention back to Fiddleford. "The day is still young, yes? We've got plenty of time to do something. Did you have anything specific in mind, or—"

"Stanford, hon, it's goin' on seven in the evening," Fiddleford laughed.

Ford took a rapid glance at his wristwatch and found it to confirm this statement. There was a silent pause before he let out a soft, embarrassed, "Oh."

"But don'tcha worry about that. Late nights never stopped us before. C'mon." Fiddleford made his way across the room, meandering around piles of books and unfinished projects of all descriptions. Soon he was close enough to Ford to take his hand and look him in the eyes.

"C'mon, now," he repeated. "Up and at 'em. Let's get out of the house. Just you 'n' me."

A deep, cleansing breath—exhaled to the count of one-two-three-four-five-six—and then Ford gave the hand in his a gentle squeeze. "All right," he sighed, relinquishing any last hint of stubbornness. "Give me a moment to tidy up and fetch my coat, and then I'm all yours."

Fiddleford did not speak in response. Rather, he raised the wider hand to his lips and tenderly kissed each knuckle in turn, one-two-three-four-five-six. When he looked up again, a kind, adoring smile was gracing his features, the sort of expression that could transcend time itself. Gazing back at him, Stanford could see his college roommate, his research assistant, and his aged-but-never-defeated lover all at once. The vision all added up to the most beautiful person Ford had ever met in any dimension. When had he gotten so lucky? When had the Fates decided that he deserved such forgiveness, such tenderness, such love?

He was again wrenched from his internal musings when he felt the lither fingers slip out from under his own. "Meet ya downstairs," Fiddleford said. He made his way back through the clutter, and the door of the study again let out a low creak as it shut behind him.

With that, Ford stood up and resolutely began to neaten his appearance. After all, it would be dreadfully impolite to keep his beau waiting at this hour.

The outdoor temperature was hovering right around the freezing point that night, the sky dark and shrouded with clouds. The average, reasonable person would be indoors, curled up in blankets or huddling beside a fireplace with a hot beverage. Cases of "average" and "reasonable" anything, though, were few and far between in this town that was quite literally a magnet for strangeness. The couple that strolled together through the dimly-lit streets, hand in hand, was high on the list of the strangest of them all.

Neither of them had been at the wheel of a standard automobile in decades, after all, so they were somehow out of practice with the proper technique thereof. Beyond that, they had grown to prefer this method of transport anyway. Walking together, no matter the distance or the season, had become something of a meditation for both of them. The act brought about the chance to slow down, embrace the moment they were in, and cherish the precious time that they had left on this Earth together. Such a simple ritual of purpose and closeness was sometimes all it took to keep their old bones alive.

It was rare that Stanford allowed himself the privilege of aimlessness, of releasing all structure and expectation and instead simply going wherever the wind—or in this case, Fiddleford—took him. Laughter and foggy ice-breath were encircling them both. Hair and beard and coattails were billowing in the cold breeze. The rhythm of their feet was steady on the frosted sidewalk. It was enough to lull Ford's restless mind into a sort of blissful trance, one that was only broken by the sound of a familiar excited, cacophonous shout.

"Welp, here we are!"

Ford nearly tripped face-forward as his partner stopped abruptly in his tracks. Once he regained his footing and adjusted his glasses, he recognized their location immediately.

The redwood train-car-turned-restaurant was something of a Gravity Falls landmark, somewhere between the Mystery Shack and the old water tower in terms of recognizability and postcard sales. Ford himself had visited many a time before, whether by himself in his years of solitary research or, in more recent, happier instances, with his family. Of course, the times when he and Fiddleford had come to this place to share coffee and chat, just the two of them, spanned both eras.

Greasy's Diner had definitely earned its place in memory and gratitude. What Ford didn't quite understand was what made this one of their many old haunts so significant on this particular evening. Why had Fiddleford taken them here, now, so suddenly? There had to be a reason of some kind.

"Heaven's sake, Stanford, yer standin' there like a deer in the headlights, or a deer that's just had a run-in with one of my ol' huntin' contraptions, or a deer caught in the eyes of a Gremloblin…or one of those things, anyhow."

Ford shook his head and smiled. The old engineer always had a plan, impossible as such plans might be for an outsider to immediately understand. So he gave Fiddleford's hand another affirming squeeze, and again released himself to the wind.

Susan had been cheerful and welcoming as ever, giving the two "lovebirds" her classic wink as she served their coffee. What a wonder, that a pair of old men could so casually display themselves in a discernibly romantic context. To see themselves peacefully accepted rather than questioned would have been beyond belief when they were young.

It seems a great deal can change in thirty years, Ford mused, not for the first time.

The atmosphere within the diner was about the same as it always was, even if the winter blues muted the sensations to some degree. The air held the expected sounds: the chatter of the few other patrons, the clink of plates against tables, and the buzz of the overhead lamps that never quite illuminated all the way. All of that faded into the background, though, as Ford's senses were absorbed by the man seated across from him.

Fiddleford's eyes shone an intelligent clear blue behind his spectacles. His full white beard had long since been trimmed to a manageable length, but it remained shaggy in an endearing way that only added to the character of his face. His hands, though withered by age and misfortune, maintained the softness and the skill they had had in their youth.

These were the details that Ford knew and loved, that he knew he would see whenever he glanced in the direction of his partner. It was with the backdrop of such familiarity that more atypical things could become apparent. While there was nothing terribly out of place, nor did there seem to be anything blatantly wrong with the situation or Fiddleford himself, a few details did strike Ford as unusual.

The sharp olive sweater-vest and tie that Fiddleford was wearing were noticeably dressier than the clothing of anyone else in the vicinity. His eyes had been darting side-to-side every so often, as if he was feeling anxious or wary of impending danger. Ford mentally calculated his knee-bounce-per-second rate to about 3.2, which was greater than the standard; and as his leg twitched, the hard sound against the wooden floor confirmed that Fiddleford was wearing weather-appropriate shoes! What did this all mean? Was there something deeper going on that Ford wasn't aware of?

Perhaps, but it was just as possible that he was overreacting. Overthinking, as he was wont to do. He and Fiddleford had been sharing their lives again for a good while now, Ford rationalized as he stirred his coffee. They were friends, partners, lovers. Surely if anything was truly wrong, Fiddleford would say something…

"We've had a lotta memories here, eh?"

"Hmm?" Roused from his thoughts, Ford looked up from his mug, willing Fiddleford to continue. One of the things he loved most was hearing his partner's recollections, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant they were. Seeing the man who had once lived in fear of his own mind willingly delve back into their shared history, rocky as it might have been at times, was nothing short of incredible.

"I remember the first time we came here," Fiddleford went on. "The first night I moved up t' Gravity Falls to work with you. You showed me around, we had coffee and got caught up on all th' whatnot that we had been up to since we saw each other last. It was a lot like this…prob'ly the most peaceful evenin' we had that year." He laughed, the sound soft and warm even as it scratched in his throat. Ford marveled at his ability to take everything that had almost destroyed them in such a lighthearted manner. Pride and love swelled within him at all the bravery and perspective Fiddleford had built, how far he had come since the days spent walking amongst portals and demons.

That thought sparked to life a different memory in Ford's mind, another occurrence from years past that had taken place in this very location. Words and images flashed through his head: coffee, snow, tense hands, bouncing knees, research papers, fortune-tellers, Probability of Failure.

Remorse burned within him, all the regrets from which he was still unable to free himself, even after all that had happened since the winter of nineteen eighty-two. Today Fiddleford and he were living together in a committed relationship, one that was healthier and steadier than any of their past interactions. They knew each other far better now, and they had made amends for all that had previously transpired. All had been forgiven, and there was no longer a single doubt in Ford's mind that what he felt for the man across from him was deep, honest love.

Still, some days it still didn't feel like enough. Some days it seemed that all the love and repentance in the world wouldn't be able to heal the wounds still festering. Whenever Ford thought of just how much he had hurt the man he claimed to adore, broken his trust and his heart and his mind, it seemed near impossible that he could ever forgive himself, let alone expect absolution from the victim of his careless misdeeds.

He shook his head and attempted again to return to the present reality. Soon he noticed that Fiddleford had draped his limber hands over his own. He must have noticed his face clenching up with emotion.

"I hustled us here for a reason," Fiddleford murmured. "I reckon I know what you're thinkin' about, 'cause I've been thinkin' about it too. We've been through a helluva lot and not all of it has been pretty. We've both made some godawful mistakes. But we keep movin'.

"All I want now is to find the ways t'make the rest of our lives as amazing as damn well possible when you're a couple'a old wackadoodles like us. This place's become my home. Y'all have become my family. I don't want t'live in fear of the past no more. It's like ya said all that time ago—that we're scientists, an' we can conquer just about anythin' if we put our smarts together? I think I got a better idea of what that means now.

"I want to keep movin'. I want to keep makin' new memories…and I want to do it with you."

"O-of course," Ford stammered. Fiddleford's words were wise and heartfelt, and again Ford was aching with the weight of his remorse and relief and devotion. "That's—that's all I want to do as well," he said quietly. "That's all—that's all—I thought that's what we were doing already? Is there something I'm missing, or…or am I making a big fuss over nothing—"

"Stanford."

Ford felt himself flush as his name was uttered with such a tender, gentle, romantic inflection. The thumbs atop his own rubbed the back of his hands in a smooth, comforting motion. In response he released a heavy sigh he hadn't known he was holding. This was bliss, and even if it was a bliss he didn't deserve, it was a bliss given to him by the man he loved and trusted most, and in that moment that was enough for his rueful heart.

"Stanford, darlin'. Stanford, sweetheart. Stanford, love. I'm askin' to marry you."

In that moment, everything stopped. Time stood still. Stanford's heartbeat and breath and whirlwind of thoughts came to a halt.

When the universe began to move again, Ford blinked, attempting to refocus and to process the words that were circling around him.

Marry—marriage—he wants—

He asked—me—marry me—he wants to—

Fiddleford—marry—marriage—marry me—he asked to—

To two college boys with barely a grasp on love and life and their own atypical partnership, this would have been unthinkable. To two lonesome researchers with their prodigal heads in diverging places, it would have been implausible. But just as prophesied by an old tune that Fiddleford used to strum on his banjo, the times, they were a-changin'. So much was different now. The whole world was different. The two of them were different too.

In Ford's younger years, the societal ideal of finding a partner to settle down with and marry had not seemed appealing in the least. He was yearning for a different life entirely. He wanted to explore and discover and learn, to never stop for so much as a breath, and to do it all alone.

And in the end, it had gotten him nowhere.

Here, now, surrounded by family and without a scientific goal in sight, he was the happiest he had ever been.

His life had unfolded in miscalculation and paradox. None of his original theories had come to pass. But what Ford had learned, what the West Coast Tech representatives hadn't known, was that the success of an experiment was not determined by confirmation of a hypothesis. It was the process, the willingness to reexamine and rethink and retry, the ability to keep moving forward even when all seemed hopeless.

What was a relationship, if not its own sort of experimental process? Love was not quantified in absolutes, and many a time it was the act of perseverance and discovery that made it so wonderful. With Fiddleford by his side, the most brilliant person he knew, Ford was willing to try just about anything.

At last it dawned on Ford that keeping his partner waiting as he internally monologued was perhaps not the most polite or assuring means of action. He cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and reeled his disheveled mental threads into the single straight path of commitment.

"Yes," he uttered. He felt his anxiety melting away and a smile gracing his face in its stead. "Yes, Fiddleford, my love, Fiddleford, my dearest. It would be an honor to be your husband."

Fiddleford yelped with glee, and immediately threw his arms across the table to clasp Ford's shoulders. The rest of him soon followed, dodging the objects on the table to fall into Ford's arms and smother him with bearded kisses. As their faces pressed together, Ford could feel the pricking of tears in his eyes and on Fiddleford's cheeks, but right then it mattered little. After all, no one was around to see…

It was then that cheers and whoops of delight began to sound from all directions. In the weight of the moment, Ford had forgotten that they were in fact in public, and that the people of this town were suckers for romantic displays as well as cheap carnival cons. The heat returned to his face, enveloping him in bright scarlet embarrassment.

Glancing around, he found no recognizable faces in the diner, except for Susan, of course. These were complete strangers reveling in a moment that had nothing to do with them—another social phenomenon that he would never understand.

Still, he thought, celebration was undeniably a preferable reaction to the confusion and disgust they might have received a few decades earlier. Let the people stare. He was a man in love with a fantastic and handsome husband-to-be on his arm, and this time, he was going to take no shame in it. He swept his gaze around the restaurant, nodded at Susan, and gave the man he loved the biggest, deepest kiss he could muster.

The patrons applauded. Fiddleford beamed. Stanford laughed, at last permitting the tears to run and the joy within him to burst to the surface.

"Aw, banjo polish—I almost forgot!" Fiddleford shimmied out of Ford's embrace back down to the floor. He positioned himself down on one knee, reaching back to his seat to retrieve what appeared to be one of his favorite cube puzzles. With expert nimble skill, he twisted the colorful segments into place in a matter of seconds. Once all the pieces were aligned, the box popped open.

Nestled inside the modified Cubic's Cube was a piece of what appeared to be solid gold, artfully shaped into a double ring. It would fit Ford's hand better than a standard single band, and from the side it bore a resemblance to the universal symbol for infinity.

"Oh, F," Ford breathed, kneeling down for a closer look. "It's beautiful…"

"A one-of-a-kind ring for a one-of-a-kind fiancé." Fiddleford grinned. "Th' rings are connected magnetically," he explained, "t'allow you yer mobility, see. Now, this one here's just a prototype, I'll have you a better one hootenanied up before—"

Ford chuckled in endearment; only Fiddleford would ever refer to an engagement ring as a "prototype". He remained still as Fiddleford slid the ring onto the fourth and fifth fingers of his left hand. He then flexed his digits and admired his new accessory from all angles. It would take him some time to adjust to the sensation of jewelry on his hands, but Fiddleford's genius handiwork and the bond the ring symbolized were worth showing off.

"So it's official, then," Ford hummed, still turning his hand around in awe. "You and I, we're…we're going to be married."

Fiddleford pressed a kiss to his lover's extended hand, without moving his sparkling eyes from Ford's own.

"You bet your sweet tush we are."

Slowly they stood up together, laughing as their joints cracked in unison. Swiftly they paid the check for their coffee, bidding Susan and the other remaining customers goodnight. A few spoken congratulations followed them as they slid on their coats and made their way out the door.

Hand in hand once again, they began the trek home.

The gates and stone walls that had formerly surrounded the mansion had long since been torn down, replaced with a tasteful hedge fence not half as tall and far more welcoming. One could peer over the side and look down at all of Gravity Falls, though tonight a dark smudge was all that was visible of the town below. From one of his favorite meditation spots on the edge of the yard, Stanford gazed into cold and silent nothingness. He absently ran a finger back and forth across the ring on his hand, mentally replaying the events of the evening once more.

The walk home had been calm and quiet, accented by jokes of proposal robots and potential competition with a certain raccoon. Once they had returned to the Manor—or the Shed, as Fiddleford was still apt to call it—Ford had opted to linger outside to clear his head before coming to bed.

"Don't you go freezin' to death or anythin'," Fiddleford had warned with a wink. "Would be mighty inconsiderate of ya, right after I just proposed and all."

Proposed…Fiddleford proposed…and I said yes…I'm going to be married…to Fiddleford…

A thick gust of wind whistled past, interrupting Ford's thoughts. He shivered and pulled his coat closer to his chest. Just as was thinking he ought to take Fiddleford's advice, he heard a thick cough and the strike of a match behind him.

"Ah, son of a—Light, you piece of—"

That voice and that vocabulary betrayed the newcomer's identity. "Stanley?" Ford called. "What are you doing out here?"

Sure enough, it was Ford's twin who whipped around to face him, startled. Clearly, he hadn't expected to find anyone else out here either. He gripped a matchbook in one hand and a fat cigar in the other.

"Oh, hey, Poindexter. I could ask you the same thing," Stanley said gruffly. "Ah, there ya go," he uttered triumphantly as he succeeded in lighting the cigar. There was a pause as he took a long drag.

"But we both know it's pointless," he went on. "It's cold and it's late and it's dark and we're old and yadda yadda yadda, but we do what we want and there's nothin' anyone can do about it, not even us. How was your date, or whatever?"

"My d—ah, yes. It was just fine, thank you." Ford grunted as he stood up. "Nothing too exciting, I'm afraid. We went to the diner, had a chat and some coffee, that's all…"

"A'ight, well, that's—holy cow!" Stan nearly choked on his smoke. "Whoa, whoa, bro, I may be losin' my mind and my eyesight but I know that ring wasn't there this morning."

Ford stiffened. He realized he had inadvertently slipped his hands from his coat sleeves and begun to fiddle with the extra weight again. He hadn't been intending to break the news to the family just yet…What was he going to say?

"C'mon, Ford, dish! You and McGucket, are you two—"

"Yes," Ford sighed. He knew he couldn't hold off his brother's pushing questions, nor could he whip up a lie that would satisfy the master conman. He cleared his throat. "We…Fiddleford proposed to me tonight, and I said yes. At some point…some point relatively soon…we're going to get married."

Silence fell. Worries that Ford hadn't thought to consider began to creep into his consciousness. Sure, Stanley had never outright objected to the idea of his brother courting another man, but marriage was another thing altogether. They all had been living together in the mansion for a decent while with minimal conflict, and yet…

What would Stan think of having Fiddleford as more than his quirky housemate or his brother's boyfriend—of having him as an in-law?

"Wow," Stan exhaled at last. "That's…that's sure something, huh?"

Ford nodded wordlessly, his fingers still twitching with uncertainty and nerves.

"Well…congrats, bro!" Ford's breath was knocked out of him as Stanley gave him a hearty slap on the back. "I mean, I personally don't give a damn about the whole 'marriage' thing"—he made the quotation mark gesture with his fingers—"I mean, it's not for me. But we all know you two are crazy about each other. If this's what makes you happy, then go for it, and don't let anybody tell ya you can't. Not even me, if I thought I could tell ya what t'do with your own life."

Stan blew another puff of smoke, looking pleased with himself and his scrap of wisdom. Ford allowed himself a degree of repose, releasing the tension in his shoulders and hands. Maybe, one way or another, things were going to work out after all…

"Oh, man, wait, hold up. I just realized somethin'."

The abrupt shift in the tone of his twin's voice immediately sent Ford's nerves on edge again.

"I'm 'boutta have two nerdy brothers gettin' on my nerves! Never mind, call the whole thing off! I can't—I can't bear it!" Stan held one hand to his forehead and let his eyes fall shut in a mock swoon of distress.

Ford laughed heartily and gave his brother a playful punch to the shoulder. At last he managed to truly relax, confidence restored in the bonds of his family. He hoped that Dipper and Mabel would appreciate the idea of having a third Grunkle…

On that note, he added aloud to Stan, "Could you keep this just between us for now?" He stuck his hands in his pockets, as if temporarily concealing the engagement ring could make the engagement itself invisible. "I…I think I'd like a bit of time to think before I tell everyone the news."

"Oh, of course." Stan nodded solemnly. "Whaddya take me for? Some kinda old windbag? Some kinda loudmouth with no respect for other people's wishes?"

The air was quiet for but a few seconds. Then the laughter of both twins exploded like a whole summer's worth of illegal fireworks. Even as he spoke, some part of Ford had known that a boisterous announcement of "ol' Sixer's gettin' hitched!" was inevitable at some point or another. And that was assuming that he himself managed to keep the ring discreet.

Once the roar of mirth subsided, Stan put out his cigar and clapped an arm around Ford's shoulders. "I know I went on that whole thing about how I can't tell ya what to do," he said, "but personally, I'm about to freeze my butt off. How's about we head inside, huh? I betcha your man's waiting for ya."

Ford released a hum of contentment. "You know, Stanley," he declared, "I think you have the right idea."

As he ascended the majestic staircase that would lead him to his bedroom and his fiancé, Ford reflected once more on all the marvels he had in his life. He loved Gravity Falls and all its hidden mysteries, its boundless array of curious anomalies waiting somewhere in the woods. He loved every discovery he had ever made, on science, on magic, on friendship, on trust. He loved his family, each and every one of the people who lived with him, whether they were a Pines by birth or they had been honorarily adopted into the clan of magnificent outcasts.

He loved Fiddleford, dearest Fiddleford. He loved the man who had been an unparalleled light in his life since before they were twenty. He loved the man who had given him new perspective on the meaning of intelligence and the purpose of life itself. He loved the man who had seen him in his darkest, lowest places and still had the heart to forgive.

He loved Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, and soon he would profess to the world his vow to always stand by his side, 'til death did them part.

Two stairs from the second-floor landing and Ford could hear the twang of an old banjo. It was a sound he had found insufferable during his first term of college, but soon enough it became comfortingly familiar. Tonight, it was the sweetest music he could imagine. No orchestral ensemble in the multiverse could compete. He chuckled as he recognized the age-old tune of the "Bridal March" emitting from Fiddleford's strings.

All at once, Ford quickened his pace. All his intention pointed to rushing into their shared room and showering his partner with every kiss and caress he deserved. And in the back of his mind, he was awaiting the gesture to be returned as well. Tonight he had no doubt that the man he had fallen for over and over still felt the same way about him.

After all, Fiddleford had long known Stanford's fingers to be freakish and deformed; and still, he had asked for his hand.