[AN]: WARNING! THIS STORY CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE EPISODE "THE LAST MABELCORN" AND THE SERIES AS A WHOLE.

Hey! I can't really find much to preface this with other than that I watched TLM and fell in love with Stanford's past with Bill. Even more so, I wanted more of the deterioration between Stanford and Fiddleford, because those two are one heck of a dy-nerd-ic duo! (I'm soooooo funnehhh I'm sorry) That's this oneshot in a nutshell.

Enjoy!

"Ford, I'm just trying to understand it all!" Fiddleford called from the next room. "I just wanted to know where you get your inspiration from!"

"And I said 'drop it,' Fiddleford!" Stanford shot back, shuffling papers around, setting aside artifacts and instruments. He knew he'd left his journal in this room, but where?

"There's no need to get so defensive." Fiddleford appeared in the doorway, cradling a stack of files in his arms. The brilliant mind would have barely filled the doorframe were it not for his lab coat to offer an authoritative air. Juggling the files, he quickly readjusted his glasses and pushed back a tuft of unkempt hair from his eyes. "The only reason I pursue the subject is your evasiveness. I was more than ready to attribute this sudden break in our studies to pure genius…" He edged his way to a desk, whose surfaced had been recently cleared in Stanford's frantic search, and set the files down heavily. He leafed through for one in particular. "But now—"

"Not now, Fiddleford!" Ford barked. "I can't find it—I can't find it!" Rushing from desk to desk, drawer to drawer, he sent a stack of notes flying like autumn leaves kicked up and scattered to chaos. Notes and sketches fluttered like snow back to the floor.

McGucket looked up from his own search, frowning. "Can't find what?"

Stanford pat the outside of his coat, checking the surplus of inside pockets for, "My journal, man, my journal! I left it in here, I know I did!" He ran fingers through his dirty, tangled hair. Subconsciously, he remembered how long it had been since he last showered, but all other thoughts were retracing his steps, picturing where he'd last seen a golden hand with the number 3 painted over.

Fiddleford sighed quietly, massaged the bridge of his nose where his glasses rubbed. "Where did you last see it?"

Ford ceased his pacing in the middle of the room to take a deep, shaking breath, trying to keep his six-fingered hands from trembling. Finally, he said, "In here. In the lounge. I had it in the lounge last."

"Where in the lounge?" Fiddleford continued, speaking in a calming tone, as one does to a child in the same situation.

"Don't you think I'd have it by now if I knew that?!" Ford exploded, turning to McGucket in a rage. "Do you even think, Fiddleford? Sometimes I wonder!"

Instantly, Ford realized his mistake, but it was too late. He couldn't suck the words back in and cage them like smoke. He watched his words travel through the air and strike his friend in the chest, watched his face contort for a fleeting moment in anger, hurt, confusion. And just as the look appeared, it was gone. Because Fiddleford had trained himself not to bend to harsh words or to allow people access to that side of him—the side that wanted to run away at the first sign of conflict and apologize for doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Fiddleford narrowed his eyes in the heavy silence that followed, standing his ground across the room from his colleague.

Ford pressed his palms into his eyes. "Fiddleford…" he started. "I'm sorry. I overreacted. I'm just—"

"What is going on with you lately?" Fiddleford interrupted. "This isn't like you at all, Stanford!"

Ford shook his head. "I know, I know."

"Have you been drinking?"

"What? No! Of course not!"

"You didn't find something crazy in the forest, did you? Something experimental—"

"No! It's nothing like that! I just need to find my journal…"

"Dangit, Stanford!" Fiddleford erupted. "This is about more than those journals of yours! You've been getting progressively more irritable the past few weeks; you get upset over the most trivial of things! The other day, you told me off for bringing coffee into the study. We've never had that problem, Stanford, and when I told you there was nothing that could be damaged in there, you argued that the smell was distracting. The smell?"

Fiddleford turned away to shuffle through the files, pulling out the thickest of the lot and rifling through it for a particular page. He took it in his fist and thrust it towards Stanford, taking a couple steps closer in spite of himself. "We've checked these equations over half a dozen times in the past week—heck, you did them yourself more than half of those times! But yesterday you had me do it again because you thought an exponent had been dropped!" He slapped the paper onto Ford's chest, who reached up and held it there.

Ford gaped at him, unblinking. "I…I did?"

McGucket just continued: "And the secrets. This is a partnership, Ford, not an employment. I'm not getting paid for assisting with this project, and believe it or not, I'm fine with that. Your machine is genius, and I'm more than happy to finish the job, but I can't do my part if you refuse to include me in the science of it all."

Ford let the sheet slip from his hand. "What do you mean? Of course I include you! You're just as much a part of this as I am!"

"You spend hours locked in that study by yourself!"

"Meditation is proven to stimulate the brain's rationality and thought processes!"

"To heck with it! Something is happening to you, Stanford, why can't you see that?"

"Because He's helping me, Fiddleford!"

Silence settled back over the room like a tarp. Outside, a patch of clouds covered the sun, bathing the shack in overcast and sending the room into darkness.

"Wh—What?" Fiddleford stammered. "Wh—Who is?"

Ford gulped.

"Who is helping you, Stanford? Who are you working with?"

He hadn't meant to tell him. He was going to wait until the portal was fully operational to reveal his muse. Bill Cipher had even asked that "the other one" be left out of their exchanges until the time was right.

Fiddleford waited, expected, but Ford stilled his jaw and averted his eyes. He'd promised, after all.

Instead, he admitted, "I…I haven't been getting much sleep."

Insult shadowed Fiddleford's eyes. "Fine," he spat. He crouched and snatched up the sheet of equations, and his coat flew about his ankles as he turned away. He took up the files up once more and shoved the paper into a random folder to keep it from flying away.

Ford felt his heart threaten to beat out his chest. "Fiddleford, wait!" He needed him to stay; he couldn't finish the portal by himself.

The young man stopped halfway out the door. "I'm not leaving," he said over his shoulder. "A deal's a deal. I'll stay and finish the portal, but not for you. What's happening here is some incredible science, and it's going to change the world…whether you share your secrets or not." He crossed the room's threshold, and the whine of the elevator resonated through the shack as Fiddleford made good on his promise, and headed down to work on the portal.

Ford listened to the doors slide open and closed, and to the wind buffeting against the windows as a storm rolled in like a giant's chariot, promising whip cracks and fire. Another long night.

He lowered himself to the rug and sat cross-legged, steadying his breathing until his heart no longer pounded, but pulsed softly against his sternum. The colors of the room seemed to sharpen with the peace, and beneath a table against the far wall, he spied a glimmer of light off a golden hand, upon which was painted a black number 3.

[AN]: Please review and let me know what you think! I take all manners of criticism!

Poor Ford, right? :( When it came to each character: I found myself focusing on Alex's description of Fiddleford as sensitive, gentle, and kind, but Fiddleford is also very strong when we boil him down. He can stand up for himself, as seen in AToTS, and despite his current goofy disposition, he's not an idiot. In fact, he's a genius, and sets his priorities rationally.

Ford...I love Ford, don't get me wrong, but dangit it man, he's got issues. The problem with Ford is his tendency to push the people he is closest to away (Stan, Fiddleford...he lives in a shack in the middle of the woods), even though he may not realize that he's doing it. Despite his intelligence, he fails to listen to reason, and the lengths he goes to are always extreme for the sake of his goals. His priorities, to say the least, are a little out of balance. Hopefully being around the rest of the Pines family will fix that.

I've been wanting to write a oneshot about these two since I saw TLM. (It's the shortest one I've ever written o-o hopefully my concision is improving...I'll need it for college...) But if you're following "Where Do I Sign?" fear not! It is not forgotten!

Thanks for reading!

~~Iridian~~