this is one in a series of fiddauthor fics i wrote for tumblr, re-posted here for convenience. enjoy!
"Fiddleford! You have got to come and see this!"
The screen door creaked as he poked his head out, craning his neck for some kind of visual. Both men had gotten in the habit of waking up early, but this particular morning, Fiddleford was greeted with an empty bedside and Ford's glasses absent from their usual spot on the nightstand. He had figured that Stanford had opted to get a head start on the day's portal work- as opposed to messing around outside.
And lo and behold, Ford sat at the edge of the porch, legs dangling off the wooden board as he slouched over his journal. He scribbled wildly on a page near the center and didn't seem to notice the ink smears that stained his writing hand.
Letting out a yawn, Fiddleford hovered near his boss, "Any particular reason you called me? I was in the middle of makin' some French toast, y'know." Ford refrained from lifting his nose out of the book; he merely motioned to the woods that encompassed the rustic cabin.
"Take a look out there and see if you can spot him. He's advancing," Ford replied excitedly.
Squinting, Fiddleford scoured the front yard for whatever his partner was talking about. It was difficult to make out figures against the dark silhouettes of the scattered pine trees but there was definitely something out there, running around in the grass. Leaves crunched underneath the figure's feet as it bolted over to Stanford.
Fiddleford caught his breath as soon as he could recognize the small, brown-haired child.
"Tate…?" he asked softly. "What in the world are you doin' here? It's not my weekend to be lookin' after ya, I got work to do today! Did your mother drop you off or…"
"Daddy," Tate interrupted, pulling on Ford's sleeve. "I almost caught a bunny hoppin' around over there!"
Fiddleford eyed the two suspiciously. Since when had Tate adapted to thinking of Ford as his father? Looking up from the journal, Ford leaned down towards the kid.
"Show me what it looked like," he instructed. Fiddleford watched in confused horror as his son's form morphed into a much smaller creature. A white rabbit stood in his place, twitching its' nose.
Jovial laughter rang out from Ford. "You've done it, my boy! I'm so proud." The monster's shape fluctuated once more; sprouting back up to the thin figure of Tate McGucket.
"I've been practicin' so hard lately!" he exclaimed with a toothy grin.
A shudder ran through Fiddleford's body. The shape shifter had mimiced his child's speech and smile almost exactly. His nails dug into the wooly crimson material of Ford's sweater vest, provoking a raised eyebrow from his co-worker.
"Something the matter, Fidds?"
"Stanford. May I have a lil' chat with you… in private for a moment?" he said through gritted teeth. His eyes silently darted towards the screen door that slowly swayed open in the direction of the wind.
The mousy-haired boy looked from Fiddleford, then back to Stanford. "Private? Oooooohh, somebody's in troooouble," he teased in a sing-song voice, grin still plastered to his face. Fiddleford stared down at the kid but said nothing.
The journal was set upside down, still opened to bookmark the page Ford was writing on.
He heaved a sigh, "I don't really see why that's necessary. I mean, whatever you can say in front of me, you can say in front of Shift-" His opposition was cut off by an abrupt yelp as Fiddleford dragged him inside the house. Head swerved around, he shot a look at 'Tate'.
"Go play with them forest critters, uh- Shifty," he commanded, still pulling on Ford's collar. "Yer father and I got some grown-up things to discuss."
'Tate' nodded, brushing the bangs out of his eyes before sprinting back down off the porch.
The door slammed behind the two engineers. Letting Ford free from his grip, Fiddleford scrambled to spy out one of the side windows. Stanford readjusted his collar, glaring at his partner's back.
"What the hell was that for?" Ford spluttered angrily. "I thought you'd be impressed by our son's development- he can turn into humans now! Well, children is the extent of it, but… it's still something! Can't you just be happy for him?"
"I don't see it. I think… I think it's off playin," Fiddeford murmured, finally fixing his gaze back onto Ford. He walked over and bent down a little so that they were both the same height.
"Stanford Pines," he scolded under his breath. "That varmint is NOT our son. Frankly I'm concerned with how attached you've gotten to it! It's an experiment. A potential danger. You namin' him and puttin' on this bizarre kin facade is makin' you lose sight of that."
Ford's mouth opened to shoot out a protest but Fiddleford didn't plan on stopping his chide.
"It's troubling, Stanford. You have no idea what that thing might be capable of… and I'm not too comfortable with it imitatin' my Tater-tot like that. Get a hold of the situation before it grows up enough to take one of our forms." Stanford gazed blankly at his partner, then placed a hand on his chin in a contemplative fashion.
"I suppose you have a point, Fiddleford. I'll try to, er- stop with calling him my son and all," he admitted. Fiddleford gave his boyfriend's shoulder a squeeze before leaning down to plant a kiss on his hairline.
"Thanks hon," he whispered into Ford's dark brown curls. Stanford returned the affection with a brief embrace.
"Anytime. So… Can I finish my journal entry about Shifty- er, the shape-shifter and THEN start laying down the law?" he questioned reluctantly. Fiddleford rolled his eyes before playfully shoving him out the door.
"Alright, whatever you say. Just back in about 15 minutes! I got French toast to make, an' I don't intend on eatin' all of it by my lonesome!"
The stench of bleach overpowered any lingering fragrance left behind by breakfast.
Sponge in hand, Fiddleford scrubbed away at any dirt smudges he could find on the titled-floor. Footsteps sounded behind him and a shadow loomed over his crouched figure. He titled his head, "Stanford? I thought you said you were taking a nap."
He lost his balance and nearly slipped on the soapy floor as soon as he laid eyes on a young boy standing in the doorway. Quickly regaining his composure, he latched onto the counter-top.
Fiddleford gulped audibly, tugging off his rubber gloves.
He probably could've guessed that it was the Shapeshifter, sure. Not many kids roamed about in Gravity Falls' woods, let alone wandered into their house. But this form- this wasn't Tate. There was something vaguely familiar about it, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
The Shapeshifter looked to be about twelve years old; wearing angular glasses that framed his dark brown eyes and a threadbare professor's jacket that appeared to be one size too big on him. A pencil stuck out of his curly hair and his arms remained folded behind his back.
"Uh, hello there, Shifty!" Fiddleford greeted despite his blatant lack of excitement. Ford had mentioned to him during breakfast that the Shapeshifter could only learn how to take the form of something- or someone- by seeing and interacting with it in real life, and Tate had been the only human being he knew how to change into. Who was he now?
A hurt look combined with a pout flashed across the Shapeshifter's face and he proceeded to pace around the kitchen. Fiddleford grimaced as he watched mud trek onto an area he had just wiped down moments ago.
"What, er- who are ya tryin' to be?"
The Shapeshifter declined to answer; instead, he let out a soft whine. "I don't understand. I thought you'd like me better as this, since all my other forms make you…" He stopped, leaning against the wallpaper as he struggled to hiss out the last word, "…uncomfortable."
Fiddleford nervously scratched at his neck. "I reckon you heard our talk?" A sharp intake of breath followed.
"My kind can hear noise from up to a mile away. I know, I've done it before," the Shapeshifter replied, looking at Fiddleford squarely. Anger resided in his tone, but that quickly vanished as his bottom lip began to tremble and he scurried over to McGucket; clinging to his leg. His small shoulders shook.
"I don't understand why you h-hate me so much," he sobbed, wettening the man's khakis with his tears. "What did I do wrong?"
Fiddleford peered down at the boy, feeling the slightest bit of remorse for what all he said. It was true: the Shapeshifter was a monster. But it also has human emotions and, apparently, the capacity to care about other people's opinions of it.
He knelt down and pushed the boy's hair back, shushing him. "C'mon now, I don't hate you," Fiddleford cooed, brushing the tears from his cheeks.
The Shapeshifter sniffed loudly. "You don't?" he choked.
"No! No no no, I'm sorry it came out the way it did. I didn't mean… oh goodness. I'm jus' not fully adjusted to all this weirdness your dad prides himself in 's all."
The weeping had diminished down into quiet sniveling. Fiddleford maintained his smile.
"Now how's about I whip you up somethin' to eat, huh? Would that make you feel better?" he offered. The Shapeshifter nodded before stretching his arms out; wishing to be picked up. Fiddleford scooped the child off the ground, wrapping two arms around him.
"We have some soup in the pantry, I think! Would ya like some grilled cheese and… and.."
Fiddleford dropped the Shapeshifter almost as soon as he held him in his grasp, as if he were a sack of hot coals. Oh lord.
The boy wailed out, using both hands to clutch an injured knee- two six-fingered hands.
"You're him!" Fiddleford shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You're him- as, a-as a child! Stanford said… how in the WORLD were you able to…?!"
Rocking back just beneath the table, he stammered out, "I'll change! I'll ch-change into something else!"
His clothes bled into a striped T-shirt and blue jeans. The glasses disappeared from the bridge of his nose and a band-aid appeared on his jawline. But all of the other features stayed the same: including the Shapeshifter's terrified expression.
Fiddleford was startled when he sensed movement in his peripheral vision.
"Fiddleford? What's all this ruckus about?!" Stanford asked frantically. His disheveled hair and sleepy eyes confirmed that he had just woken up from his nap.
Shock appeared to pummel him as he froze in place, peering underneath the table. Dazed, his lips barely moved as he spoke, "What is the meaning of this?"
Fiddleford wasted no time latching onto his partner's arm. "It was just lookin' like YOU, moments ago."
"From what?!" he suddenly barked at the Shapeshifter, causing Fiddleford to flinch. "Pictures? Is that it? Did you base it off a photo that you found?"
Recoiling underneath the dining table, the Shapeshifter nodded relentlessly. Ford proceeded to shrug his assistant off of him.
"Fiddleford, you're not needed here," he muttered without facing his direction. Fiddleford blinked and retreated from the kitchen as was ordered of him. Ford was obviously in a bad mood: he didn't have to repeat himself.
"Stanford? Are you alright?"
Nightfall descended onto both of the men, seated in the dead middle of the wooden steps that lead to the cabin's front door. Luster from a moth-swarmed porch lantern was the only source of light in the scene.
A near-empty bottle of whiskey sloshed around in Ford's hand, "I don't know anymore." He then proceeded to gulp down the remainder of alcohol, allowing some of it to trickle down his chin. Fiddleford swiped the bottle from his grasp and placed a supporting hand on his boyfriend's back, frowning. Scarcely did Ford ever get distraught enough to try and drink his problems away.
Stanford tiredly swayed back and forth. "I locked it away," he slurred. "Experiment three-hundred… ugh, whatever number it was."
Fiddleford's hand inched up to his neck and rubbed circles into his tense muscles. "In that spare cage we got in the observatory?"
A nod was issued, and then a hiccup. "It can change from photographs now. You were right all along, Fiddleford. I'm so sorry… I shoulda… I was too caught up in my own fantasies, I suppose," Ford apologized, hanging his head.
"You did what had to be done. It didn't seem to know it was doin' any harm, but I reckon that boy, i-it turned into… it was someone who was close to you when you were jus' a kid?" Fiddleford asked.
Ford didn't give a direct response, but Fiddleford could already guess the answer. The chirping of crickets filled the vacancy of conversation between the two for a minute or so… until he felt Ford's body begin to rock beside him with quiet sobs.
"The Shapeshifter, it didn't revert back to its' original form like I asked it to. It just kept crying and crying, while looking and sounding like him, asking me why I hated it so much… I-I didn't know what else to do but to discipline it! I don't hate it, Fiddleford. It- he's not like the other creatures I've tested on! Putting him in a cage was like putting my own damn son in a cage! And yet, he has the potential to become the most deadly of them all…"
Ford collapsed into his partner's arms, still drunkenly rambling about how badly he had screwed up. Listening attentively, Fiddleford decided not to interject and kept on softly consoling him; stroking his unshaven face and continually murmuring that everything was going to work out okay with the Shapeshifter…
Even though he wasn't quite sure of that himself.