I Was Watching An Episode Right Now Where Mabel Made A Wax Stan.

I was watching an episode right now where Mabel made a wax Stan.

What would happen if Author!Stan would get such a gift? I don't know from whom and it doesn't matter.

Would he be scared too if he saw his copy?

Initially yes, he'd probably have a near heart attack seeing "Ford" and thinking he's somehow back from the "dead". Then he'd get extremely sad because "on never mind it's not him, and now I'm forced to think about how he's gone all over again".

Then he'd probably need to punch someone. Preferably whomever was responsible.

Convention had an old machine that lets you put papers into pins and make your own in the arts and crafts room ran by the local library

So now I have this

The clock just rolled over, so happy new year from Sweden!

Genuinely great job making it through this year everyone. It's been a rough one, but I'm so glad you're still here and I hope to see you in the next one 💜

The Mystery and The Isosceles

Ch 14: He's Gone; We're Safe

Also on AO3

Ford was a man of many talents, in his years away from everything he’d mastered languages, weapons, codebreaking, and a plethora of other skills. But if there was one thing he still wasn’t good at, it was processing emotions. That was natural. The only feelings he’d needed for thirty years were hate and vengeance. Anything else was a distraction from the goal but now…

But now Bill was dead.

Ford groaned quietly as he lifted a hand to drag across his face. His muscles ached from the earlier overexertion. The deck had been mostly cleared of the remnants of battle by now; Ford sat leaned against the main mast where the sail once again hung properly. There was no sour smell of sulphur and black powder to accost his senses, just seaspray and wind. There was hardly a speck of blood left on the scrubbed decks. There was almost nothing to tell of the ordeal that had taken place, but it had happened. It was real.

Bill was dead. 

Somehow, Ford had no idea how to feel about that.

Well, of course he knew what he should be feeling—relief, satisfaction, maybe even repulsion at the sheer graphic nature of it all—and there were definitely shades of that. But mostly he just felt upset. It was supposed to be him who finally put the demon down. It was supposed to be his vengeance for himself and everyone like him. For everyone who'd been taken and tortured and killed. It was his revenge. It was his duty to all those who came before. And he'd failed.

He'd been preparing to face Bill for decades. He'd known that eventually he would. It was inevitable. Every action he’d taken was in pursuit of that. And yet, once it had finally come down to it, he'd been unprepared. He hadn’t raised a finger to defend himself, much less attack. He'd been scared and pathetic, and everyone knew. Stan had rescued him. Stan had ended Bill. And he’d-

Well, he’d been utterly useless. Not only that, he’d gotten so completely lost to the memories as to lash out at Stan. Stan didn’t deserve that, he was a shortsighted idiot, but he didn’t deserve his own brother hurting him. And if Ford couldn’t even interact with another grown man without hurting him because of some irrational flashback, how the hell was he supposed to take care of Dipper and Mabel? He wanted the children off the ship. He wanted them safe and happy, living honest lives back on land. But if he couldn’t be sure they’d be safe with him, then what was he supposed to do with them? They weren’t safe on the ship and they wouldn’t be safe with him. What was he supposed to do?

Above all else, Ford felt angry. Angry at Bill for destroying him so completely. Angry at Stan for robbing him of revenge. Angry and disgusted with himself for being such a pathetic fucking mess. He was angry. Angry and sick and ashamed.

He couldn't even trust himself. Bill had destroyed him. Broken him into pieces that Ford—despite his best efforts—couldn't fit back together properly. All the pieces had come back wrong leaving him askew. He felt wrong, he felt disgusted. It was as if some horrible parasite was squirming around inside of his soul. His skin crawled, he swore he could still feel Bill looking at him. But Bill was dead. Bill was gone.

Bill was gone, so why didn’t it feel like it?

Ford pushed himself up and whistled for his bird. The seagull clumsily glided from the rigging to flump down on Ford's outstretched hand. Why he still insisted on getting so high up when he could hardly fly Ford didn’t know, but far be it from him to admonish. Just so long as the bird came when called.

“Thank you, Stan.” Ford muttered absently. “I might… I might require some support.”

The bird tilted his head questioningly, before his eyes narrowed in understanding and he nodded resolutely. Scratching the arm of Ford’s jacket he clambered up onto his shoulder with clumsy flipper-feet.

Ford headed back inside the darkened ship, taking a lantern off the wall to light his way down the cramped creaking stairs. He passed the children on their way back towards their cabin, but couldn’t bring himself to speak to them. Both looked at him warily. Of course they would. Of course they’d be wary, of course they wouldn’t want him anywhere near them. Of course they’d be scared. They’d read his journal, they'd seen him break. 

Quickening his pace until he arrived at the lower decks almost out of breath, Ford paused at the bottom of the stairs. It was dark, no natural light could reach so far below decks, his lantern cast long looming shadows that watched him from all sides. The walls were close and the smell of death hung in the air. The bird on his shoulder cooed nervously and buried his face in his hair making noises uncomfortably similar to a distressed child. Still, he showed no signs of leaving. Ford was infinitely grateful for that as he walked further into the room feeling his stomach sink.

The cramped space had been hastily converted into a medical office. There were crates of bandages and medicines, a desk with tools, a table hastily refashioned for operations, and above it all hung an oil lamp that Ford wasted little time in lighting. He placed his lantern down on the bloodied table as if moving through a haze, never taking his eyes off of the far corner.

He wasn’t sure who’d bothered to throw a sheet over the body. Fiddleford, probably. Maybe out of some obligate ‘respect for the dead’ that was in no way earned but still given. Maybe because the man just couldn’t stomach looking at Bill either.

Every step closer made Ford feel more and more viscerally unwell.

It was like a dark cloud hung over the remains. All the malice and cruelty that had practically radiated from Bill when he was alive still clung to the sheet-covered body, and Ford swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. He tried to swallow the primal terror of being alone in a room with Bill. Bill couldn’t do anything to him this time, he furiously reminded himself as he got down on shaky knees. Bill couldn’t touch him, Bill couldn’t see him, Bill couldn’t do anything, he repeated like a mantra to steady his hand as he reached for the fabric.

Soon as he touched the body, however, his hand recoiled and he flinched back with a hiss. The bird squawked anxiously, hopping off his shoulder and hiding himself behind Ford. Ford swore quietly. He should be better than this. He should be able to face Bill again—but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to pull the sheet back and look at that awful inhuman face ever again.

But he had to. Had to prove to himself that it was true.

Moving quickly to not give himself another chance to hesitate, Ford grabbed the corner and yanked the fabric down. He immediately gagged.

The motion kicked up more of the horrible stench into the room. Burnt hair and the sharp smell of alcohol hit him like a wave. The former was new, but the latter he’d had more than his share of. The face was charred, but still horribly recognizable. The cheeks were pulled back as if in a wild grin, the formerly blue eye was shrivelled into its socket and the skin around it was cracked and flaked like paint. The gold prosthetic eye stared up at him with terrifying familiarity, and while it was mostly intact, the uttermost layers had just begun melting off. The drops of gold were frozen on his cheek like tears, burned and fused into the skin. His gold teeth were melted and solidified together in a rigid grimach. A few drops had escaped past what remained of his lips.

Ford shuddered, his breathing picking up as he fought down the memory of Bill drooling through grinning teeth as he cut deep slits into his skin and clawed at his face.

Moses, even confronting the dead body felt impossibly daunting. What was wrong with him? He was stronger than this. He should be, he had to be. Ford forced himself to pull the sheet down further. His fingers struggled to grasp the flimsy fabric, his hand shook and he pressed the other over his nose and mouth to keep from retching. The smell was so overpowering it was like he could taste charred skin in the back of his throat. The chest and arms were burned worse than the face had been, likely as the thick layers of clothing had given the flames more to feed off of. But Ford could still make out a few scars and bruises. He felt as if there should be more of them.

He didn’t want to see more. He didn’t want to see any of it, but he needed to prove to himself it really was Bill. He had to prove to himself that the monster really was gone. Steeling himself, Ford let go of the sheet. It was enough. It was more than enough.

The stairs leading down into the cramped space creaked and Ford startled. He stayed seated on the floor next to the body though, frozen to the spot. Half out of being too shaken to move, and half out of his rational mind reminding him that—at least for the moment—he wasn’t in enemy territory. The light of a lantern came bobbing down the stairs.

“Now whatinne-” Fiddleford corrected his glasses as he set his feet on the bottom of the stairs. “Stanferd? Whatcha- Oh.”

Ford looked between Fiddleford and Bill’s body, swallowing hard.

“I… I was just-...”

Fiddleford regarded him carefully from where he stood, before placing his lantern next to Ford’s on the table and approaching. His steps were almost as hesitant as Ford’s earlier had been. Ford looked back towards Bill.

“I’m sorry, this was idiotic of me, I know. I just had to make sure that-... that…”

“Yes well, ah… I understand ya know. ‘S hard to believe, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

Fiddleford stepped close enough to put a reassuring hand on Ford’s shoulder before moving away again to start looking through the cabinets and crates.

“What are you looking for?” Ford asked numbly, still not looking up. He wasn’t looking at the body anymore either though. Not really. He was more or less just staring at nothing.

“Bandages, poultices, that sorta thing. Ah was trying to take a look at yer brother’s injuries but the man’s stubborn as a mule.” Fiddleford complained, but there was some fondness in his voice. “Still, do us good to get a proper ship’s surgeon ah reckon.”

“Ah. I see.” Ford chewed his lip, feeling something like guilt nagging at him. “Is he doing okay? Stan.”

“Wish I could reassure ya, but medicine ain’t my strong suit. Still, I’ve got a few home-remedies from back at the farm, and nothing seems to keep that man down fer long. Ain’t the first time I’ve had ta patch him up.”

Ford nodded. Maybe he should go check on Stan too. Directly or indirectly, Ford was the reason he’d gotten hurt after all. He was about to do just that, when something caught his attention and Ford felt the blood go cold in his veins.

“Wait-” Ford gasped. Fiddleford was at his side in seconds.

“Stanferd? Stanferd what’s wrong?”

Ford ignored his friend’s concerned tone. His focus was back at Bill’s awful burned body, his hands were hovering over his chest, but he refused to touch him. Instead he just searched frantically with his eyes.

“He-” Ford remembered thirty years ago with mounting dread. He was one of very few people who’d spent significant time close to Bill—far longer and far closer than he’d wanted to—and gotten out of it alive. He knew what Bill looked like. He knew what Bill was supposed to look like, and there had definitely been something off, hadn’t there? “He has a scar. A deep one, across his throat. I didn’t notice when we were fighting, it’s under his shirt, it- I can’t find it-”

“Ford, calm down.” Fiddleford sent a fleeting glance at Bill’s body then very pointedly pulled the sheet back over it. Ford reached over to pull it back off, but Fiddleford caught his hands and held them gently but firmly between his own. “Ford- Stanferd, look at me! Look at me, please.”

Ford fought back control over his breathing. If he wanted to, he could pull his hand’s loose, but he allowed Fiddleford to keep hold. It was grounding, familiar, and Fiddleford had never flinched away from his six-fingered hands like most people. He still didn’t. He’d taken his hands unflinchingly.

“Ford, ya hear me?”

Ford nodded.

“Good. Now, you listen to me.” He spoke kindly, but with authority. Ford had the sneaking suspicion it was the same voice he would have used with Tate when they were younger. Had Tate survived Bill’s attack? How many people hadn’t- “Ford, no, yer getting caught up in yer own head again, stop that. Just breathe. Just listen to me, alright?”

Ford took a deep breath before nodding again.

“It’s okay. We’re alright, yer alright.”

“But the scar-”

“Don’t think like that, that’s what he wants you to do. The scar probably ain’t visible under all them there burns. He’s in a bad way, you saw that. We both did. The man’s barely recognizable.”

“I recognize him. I spent way more time with him than-”

“Ford, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Ford did. Fiddleford’s eyes were kind and set in determination. 

“You went through hell an’ back Stanferd. None of us are denying that, you were there, you saw ‘im. But look at us both. We’re old, he might not’ve looked it, but so was he. Years change people. Scars fade.”

“They don’t disappear.”

“No. They don’t. But they fade, and he was burnt. There probably ain’t much to be found anymore. ‘S the trauma speaking. You have every right to be traumatised after what you went through, but it’s still yer head bein mean to ya. Don’t let it be.”

“I’m not traumatised.” Ford hissed between clenched teeth. Maybe Fiddleford was right, maybe the scar just wasn’t visible. He collected himself and folded his hands back in his lap.

“Okay.” Fiddleford sighed. “Okay, I… Okay. I’m going to get back to making my rounds checking on the injured crew, then but-... Look, ‘s not yer fault. Okay? Even if you are traumatised. I’d be. I am. I think we all are.” Fiddleford got back up, collecting the medical supplies as well as the torch and heading back towards the stairs. He turned before leaving though, looking back at Ford one last time. “But it’s over now. Alright? He can’t hurt us.”

Ford nodded silently, somehow finding that hard to believe.

Despite the gnawing anxiety, Ford eventually made his way to the cabin Stan had shown him earlier. But sleep was anything but restful.

Ford awoke alone in his cabin to a voice calling his name from outside the window. It was familiar, but so raspy and echoey that he couldn’t possibly place it. The only problem was that there shouldn’t be anything outside, except for endless stretches of water in all directions.

Merfolk, maybe?

Cautiously, Ford pushed himself up from his warm bed and approached the window. It was cold, why was his cabin cold? They were in the tropics, weren’t they? Subtropics, maybe, but it should still be plenty warm. He kept the blanket around him as he shivered, he could see his own breath form billowy clouds. Outside his window there was an endless pitch black sea. Just like he knew there’d be. The sky was dark above, no stars, but a large yellow full moon glanced at him knowingly. The voice reached his ears again: ‘Ford’. The wispy rasp floated up from—

From the water.

Ford looked down, leaning far out the window. He almost fell as his heart jumped into his throat and the lingering cold gripped his lungs. Bill. Bill’s badly burned body floated face up in the dark waters, staring at him. The gold eye and his sharp, sharp, grin were all that was visible: All that wasn’t burnt beyond recognition. Bill's sharp voice kept whispering his name over and over as he stood frozen.

Suddenly hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him back inside the cabin. Ford’s yelp of alarm turned into a choking gasp as he came face to face with Bill. Intact, this time, and smiling viciously. Ford pushed against him furiously, his hands were no longer wrinkled and covered in age spots, the hair that fell into his eyes as he frantically shook his head was brown. The blanket around his shoulders wasn’t there anymore; replaced by a garish golden yellow jacket that smelled like death. Bill released him with a sharp barking laugh and Ford fell backwards onto the floor of the cabin. Bill’s cabin—Bill’s cabin aboard The Isosceles. The floor was covered in blood, his head spun, his clothes were torn and everything hurt.

“No, no no no!” Ford screamed. His voice came out smoother—younger—but cracked and broken and breathlessly terrified. “No! This isn’t real! This- this was over! This was over thirty years ago!”

“Aww, really?” Bill cooed through his sharp joyful grin. “But I missed you! Didn’t you miss me? Admit it! You missed me.”

Bill’s back was turned to the eye-shaped stained glass window. The same window through which the image of a port on fire would forever be burned into Ford’s mind. Bill approached him, steps light and expression amused. Ford didn’t think, he got onto his feet and ran. He threw open the door of the cabin and bolted outside. He could smell smoke, he could see burning outside the window. He didn’t want to see it—not again, never again.

The hallway darkened in front of him. The walls closed in. Smoke filled his lungs as he coughed and hacked. There was blood on his tongue. There was blood everywhere. Bill materialised out of the darkness in front of him and Ford wasn’t quick enough to stop before crashing against his chest. Bill didn’t budge. He caught Ford’s hands and pulled him close. He didn’t look formidable, Ford should be able to pull loose, but he couldn’t. Bill held his wrists tightly, his nails digging into the skin.

“Let me go! Please- let me go! Not again-!”

Bill laughed at him, it was sharp and cruel. The smoke swirled. Ford heard the crackling of fire just seconds before it broke through the ship’s walls and engulfed them. Bill’s face burned and sizzled. His hands turned skeletal, but didn’t let go. Ford felt the fire lick at his own body, and it hurt. It was like a swarm of tiny creatures eating at him. He smelled burning hair and alcohol.

“I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you-” Bill mocked in a sing-song voice through the flames.

Ford shot up in bed, a scream on his lips.

The seagull on his bedpost shot up with a startled squawk. Ford threw the cover off himself and pushed as far against the headboard as he could, taking several quick gulping breaths. The cabin was warm, and the heat made Ford choke on his next gasp for air. He scrambled out of bed and ran for the door. Fresh air, he needed fresh air. The bird made to follow him, but Ford slammed the door and ignored the loud worried squawking.

Ford practically ran up and out on deck. He paused, stumbling slightly as his head spun and ears rang from the sudden burst of adrenaline and activity. Then he made a beeline for the taffrail and leaned over it, hugging himself as he shook. His eyes were squeezed shut, he startled when he realised that, opening them and scanning the water's surface. But no, there was nothing there. Bill was dead, Bill was lying covered by a sheet in the depths of the ship. He was gone. Ford was safe.

He repeated the words to himself like a mantra—‘Bill is dead, you are safe’—until the shaking finally subsided and Ford began to be able to breathe normally again.

Fuck, that nightmare had felt real. It had felt so much more real than any dream should. He’d heard Bill’s voice, he’d smelled the smoke, he’d felt the fire burning him. He swore he’d really felt it. It was so much worse than any nightmare he’d ever had. So much more real and cohesive than something made from his own exhausted mind should ever be. What the hell was that? Was he losing it?

A demonstrative cough shook Ford out of his defensive huddle against the railing. He turned sharply to look, and came face to face with Stan sat on the stairs leading up to the wheel. Stan was slouched, sitting halfway up and looking at Ford with a conflicted expression.

“How long have you been there?” Ford demanded. He tried for an angry tone, but his voice cracked halfway through. His heart was still hammering inside his chest.

“‘Bout half an hour? Couldn’t get comfy enough to sleep.” Stan shrugged.

Ford noticed the bandages under his sleep-shirt and turquoise striped trousers. The one at his shoulder caught his attention specifically, and Ford shrunk in on himself.

“Ah.”

“Nightmares?” Stan asked evenly.

Ford rolled his eyes, drawing a hand over his face in exasperation. He should probably be ashamed to have been seen so worked up. But after the battle against The Isosceles, he could hardly sink lower now could he? 

“Whatever gave it away?”

“You ran up to deck in the middle of the night like the devil himself was on your tail. ‘Sides, you’re all jittery. You used to get all jittery when you woke up from nightmares as a kid.”

Ford didn’t answer. He looked back over the water again, running a hand through his hair. Stan fell equally silent, and for several moments both brothers seemed content to just let the air hang between them. Out of nowhere, Stan held a bottle out towards Ford who raised an eyebrow in return.

“Ya look like you need it.”

“Is that the stuff you lit Bill on fire with?”

Stan blinked, apparently caught off guard. He turned the bottle in his hand and looked at the label.

“Ah, shit. Is that ‘in bad taste’ now too?”

Ford snatched the bottle out of his hands and took a swig. It was warm in his gullet, and that made him flinch. But he took another mouthful anyway and sat down one step below Stan. It was easier that way. Neither of them had to look at the other.

“I’m sorry about your shoulder.” Ford said. “Does it hurt?”

“Eh, Fidds is pretty decent with first aid. I’ve had way worse.”

“I’m sorry for that too.”

“Not your fault, Pa was the asshole.” Stan nudged Ford with a foot and reached his hand down. Ford passed the bottle back. “Right now I’m honestly more worried about you. Ford… What happened to you out there? You used to be… Well, not like this.”

“It’s complicated. Last time we saw each other we were—what—seventeen? Things change. I’m not exactly happy with the way you turned out either.”

“Why not?”

Ford’s breath caught again, and when he continued his voice was rougher.

“Really? You really don’t understand why I’m so upset at what you’ve done to yourself?”

“Okay, yeah, Bill was a pirate captain and what he did to you was absolute fucking bullshit. I’ve done none of the things he did except steal from rich assholes who had it coming.”

“We’re practically strangers. How am I supposed to know that’s the truth?”

“You…” Stan shifted uncomfortably. “You could start by actually talking to me, you know. Like I’m not some-... Some stranger. Or a threat.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Ford didn’t know. They hadn’t seen each other in decades. He didn’t think Stan had done anything nearly as bad as Bill—okay, that one he was actually pretty certain of—but there was no way to know.

“About what?”

Stan paused for a long while. Then he sighed, suddenly sounding every single one of his almost sixty years.

“Look, I know Bill hurt you, but… Hell, can we talk about that? I mean, yeah I’d already fucked up before that but that was where things really went down the drain didn’t they? If Bill hadn’t taken you, neither of us would be where we are right now. And for whatever little my word is apparently worth to you, I swear I hate him just as much as you do. You weren’t the only one he hurt, and I would never be like him.”

The nightmare rose unbidden to Ford’s mind again and he cringed in on himself. He opened his hand demonstratively and a few seconds later Stan passed the bottle back to him.

“Bill… Bill ruined my life.”

“I know.”

“I went with him because if I hadn’t he would have killed everyone I cared about. I tried to save my friends, but all I did was make him angry enough to come for my home instead. It was my fault. If I hadn’t tried to trick him, Gravity Falls would have never been targeted.”

He remembered it so clearly. Most of what Bill had done to him was a muddled blur—partially because he didn’t want to remember and partially because he’d been so weak and tired that it all got fuzzy—but that first night he remembered. He remembered hands in his hair and a hissing voice in his ear, he remembered shackles on his wrists, he remembered fire dancing outside the window and screaming voices carried on the wind.

“Okay.” Stan answered and his voice sounded exasperated. “You do realise that’s bullshit, don’t you? Hell, Sixer, you're smarter than this. Bill destroyed Gravity Fall, not you. You wanted to save lives, he wanted to end them.”

“Perhaps. But it was still my shortsightedness that made him attack.” Ford sighed. Of course Stan refused to see the truth. Of course he refused to accept that Ford carried part of the blame. He’d always been loyal to a fault. It was reassuring in a way, to see that part of Stan remained. He was still himself in that regard. But he was still frustratingly wrong. “And then you decided the best way to ‘help’ was to turn my home into a safe haven for the exact same kind of people who had destroyed it.”

“I did what I had to do.” Stan’s voice instantly became defensive. “But that doesn’t matter, we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.”

“Why?” Ford snapped back angrily. “Why is it always about me?”

“Always about you? Oh yeah, because nobody ever mentions my mistakes! Moses, Ford, did we even grow up in the same port!?”

“Fine!” Ford snapped back, throwing his hands up. “Fine, it doesn’t matter!”

And there was that same familiar old stubbornness. Apparently, Stan had never lost it either.

“Bill did-” Ford began, but his voice caught in his throat. “Bill- when I was trapped with him aboard his ship Bill-... He… I…”

Bill’s hands holding him down, cutting, burning, beating—trapped, can’t escape, can’t run—

‘I’ll let you die’

‘I get to do whatever I want’

‘Our little secret.’

Ford fell silent again. Where was he even going with this? What was even the point of this, why should he be opening up when Stan was stubbornly refusing?

“It’s okay, you don't have to say anything.” Stan spoke again, quietly and uncharacteristically gently. His gruff voice was impossibly gentle. “I… I kinda know.”

Ford’s head shot up.

“What?”

“Bill.” Stan spat the name. “He talked about it. All the fucking time, liked how furious it made me. Bastard thought it was funny.”

Ford swallowed hard. Suddenly everything felt very far away. The wooden steps under him, the sky above, the sound of the waves crashing against the hull of the ship… None of them felt real. Nothing felt real except the realisation.

Bill told. Of course he did. Why, of all things, did he feel betrayed? Betrayal required there to have been trust at some point. Of course Bill told. Anything to make it hurt more.

Stan knew. Stan knew so much more than Ford had ever wanted anyone to. Stan had spoken to Bill, Stan had read his journal, Stan had seen him cornered by Bill on deck. Stan knew. Stan knew about every weak, pathetic moment in Ford's life and none of it had been Ford's to tell. None of it had been up to him to share. All of it had been laid bare without his permission. The familiar sickly shame pooled in his chest.

"Ford-" Stan began carefully when Ford didn't answer. He stood up to move closer, but lost his balance and tripped over his own feet. Ford reacted fast despite his mind being a mess, rising to catch his twin and steady him before Stan could break his neck falling down the stairs.

It was first when they were face to face that Ford noticed how pale Stan was.

“Stan!” Ford exclaimed angrily, shaking his brother’s shoulders. “Why aren’t you resting indoors? you look terrible.”

“Oh, give it a break, Six. I’m fine.” Stan pushed Ford’s hands off, swaying on his feet as he did so.

“Bullshit.” Stan’s face was pale in the moonlight. When Ford had caught him he could feel the heat of a fever through his clothes. There were dark rings under his eyes and sweat on his brow. “Seriously? You expect me to speak honestly about the worst experience of my life when you won’t even acknowledge you look dead on your feet!”

“I’m fine.” Stan growled. “I’ve had worse. Besides, the rest of the crew needs me to stay strong.”

Ford wavered on his feet, hands clenched into fists at his side. Hypocrite. Stupid, stubborn, hypocrite.

“Fine!” Ford hissed back, turning a heel and marching back into the ship. “Fine. Don’t come crying when you collapse from exhaustion.”

“Why do you even care!” Stan yelled at his back. “Why do you even care if you can’t stand being around me anymore?”

“Maybe I shouldn't!” Ford slammed the door shut behind him. He staggered and fell against the wall as soon as he was out of sight.

Bill was gone. Bill was gone. Everything was supposed to be okay now, so why was his head still so messed up?

Thoughts on DnD fiddleford?? Asked on discord and we're leaning towards Firbolg, but here's the alternatives:

Human for standard down-to-earth farmer background

Tiefling for the irony of the very friendly superstitious guy looking like a demon

Firbolg for the rural/nature-y vibes (suggested by @ramblesanddragons)

What do you guys think? I'd love some opinions

hey, if i tag+credit you for the work you did, is it alright if i use your cleared background from scary-oke for a piece of my own? im writing a gravity falls au with characters from a webseries i like, and i've been doing art but removing backgrounds is indeed hell, and you've already done such a great job. again if i end up posting it i'll credit you for your work! either way, i love your art and i hope you have a good day :) 💖💖

Hello! I'm sorry for the late reply I've been very inactive due to real life bs but yes you can use the background so long as you credit! If you end up making something with it I'd love to see it!