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When you met Stanford Pines, his hair was brown, and he was full of a hunger for knowledge that he usually sated by flinging himself headfirst into whatever piqued his interest.
In the seventies, Gravity Falls was still a sleepy, middle-of-nowhere town. You'd stumbled upon it completely by accident—it literally wasn't (and still isn't) on the map, and you hadn't been expecting any sort of civilization besides the occasional shady rest stop for miles and miles. But there it was, nestled within a seemingly neverending stretch of pine trees.
Within minutes of your arrival, you'd concluded that it would be a perfect place to rest your legs. Because even though it was the dead of night, nobody had batted an eye or glanced in your general direction when you sat down in the local diner and asked for the rawest, bloodiest steak they could get you. Not even the waitress who took your order.
(Though you're pretty sure that she was muttering something along the lines of "kids these days" when she shuffled her way back to the kitchen.)
(You might've been young for your kind, but you're also pretty sure that you were her age.)
Regardless, the townspeople were fairly welcoming, in a don't-harm-me-and-I-shall-not-harm-thou way. You weren't looking to make friends, but you still made idle small talk with the man working at the convenience store and the girl who worked the desk at the motel you rented a room at. Nobody questioned your abnormal hours, and for a few days, things were fine.
That was, until a guy with thick glasses and a sweater vest cornered you by the very edge of town, near the border between the buildings and trees.
"Pines," he said, "Stanford Pines," and then, with much more intensity, "I know what you are."
You stared at him, wondering if anyone would miss him if you drained him of all bodily fluids and left him looking more raisin than man.
Underneath the dim, flickering light of the streetlamp, you noted his determined stare. His hands, periodically clenching into fists and then relaxing. To confront someone like you in your normal environment was incredibly ballsy, for sure, but also incredibly stupid. You couldn't tell if he had the foresight to hide a crucifix inside his trench coat.
But if he wanted to stake you, he would've followed you to your motel and waited until the sun rose.
So instead of ripping a chunk out of his unprotected, tantalizing neck, you smiled and replied, "What do you want, Stanford Pines?"
He told you that he was studying supernatural activity in the area. He told you that he was keeping journals and collecting data about whatever creatures he had the fortune to encounter—there was a distinct glint in his eye when he talked about his research, and with your near-perfect night vision, you didn't miss it. He clasped his hands behind his back.
You accused him of stalking you, and it was a guess, but the way he reacted immediately confirmed your hunch.
"I didn't—" His mouth opened and closed before settling into a firm line. He shook his head. "I was not— stalking you. It was—it was more of an investigation, of sorts." The more he talked, the faster the words tumbled from his mouth. "I had to make sure that my suspicions were correct. I had to make sure that I wasn't going to accuse a random visitor of vampirism!"
By the end of his little rant, his hands weren't behind his back anymore. They were by his sides again; that was when you noticed the six fingers on each hand. But you didn't mention it.
"So you followed me," you said. "You asked around about what I was doing. You asked about when I left or returned to the motel."
Stanford nodded. "Essentially, yes, that is what I did."
Raising your eyebrows, you crossed your arms.
"Right. You definitely weren't stalking me."
"Thank you," he replied, and you could practically hear the whoosh of your sarcasm flying straight over his head.
His intentions were completely, remarkably innocent. He just wanted to ask you some questions. And thankfully they weren't the generic, silly kind of questions that originate from common human misconceptions. Stanford didn't ask you about your opinions on garlic. He didn't ask if you could turn into a bat at will. He didn't even ask if you could see your own reflection (which you could, because mirrors weren't made with silver anymore).
You told him about memories and how they can drive older vampires insane. You told him that as time passes, vampires grow stronger, but their hunger grows stronger as well—they have to constantly be on the hunt. Their noses are sensitive, perfectly attuned to the smell of blood.
"Fascinating," he kept muttering, as his pen flew across the pages of his dark red journal. "Yes, I should've guessed that. Yes, that makes sense."
When you gave Stanford Pines a handjob, it was in his cabin, because he didn't want you to feed on him on the sidewalk, where anyone could see.
He'd asked you if a vampire's bite was a guaranteed way to turn someone. You said no; to turn someone, you needed to kill them, and then have them drink the blood of a true vampire. He was skeptical, of course, after being exposed to a lifetime of shoddy monster movies and even worse pulp fiction novels.
You offered to demonstrate how merely feeding on someone wouldn't turn them.
He didn't want you to demonstrate on a random person.
Unsurprisingly, when you gently raised his wrist to your lips and bit him just hard enough to draw blood— sweet, it was sweet, it was so sweet —he shivered, eyes locked onto where your inhumanly sharp canines pierced his skin. You initially figured the shiver was from pain or disgust, which were both completely normal reactions.
But then your gaze strayed downward and fell upon the shape of his half-interested dick stirring in his trousers.
Stanford was quiet as you indulgently stroked your fist up and down his hard, heavy cock; but it was near-silent in his cabin, so you could hear every little noise he made. Every little sharp intake of breath and every little almost-moan that he quickly stifled in his throat. You didn't bite him again, but he probably would've let you do it—he would've let you properly sink your teeth into his throat and taste more of that ambrosia.
You settled for tucking your face into his neck and quickening the pace of your hand until he was gasping and thrusting himself into your grip, once, twice, three times—
"I'm sorry," he muttered, in the aftermath. "Did you feel … um, obligated, to do that?"
Leisurely, you looked him over. You'd been able to see him just fine in the darkness, but it was still different, seeing him under a bright, steadily-working light. Gone was the rash confidence he'd displayed when confronting you in town. It had only taken an orgasm to strip that all away (though he was still mostly clothed).
Flushed from a mixture of embarrassment and post-sex satisfaction, Stanford Pines made a pretty decent picture.
"No," you answered, lightly. "I don't usually make a habit of doing that."
It was dumb, how that statement made the corner of his mouth twitch upwards.
"I would assume not," he said, seeming marginally less self-conscious. "It's not often that people ask you to … feed on them, right?"
"It's not often that people come up to me and exclaim that they know what I am."
Stanford frowned, and feigned as it was, his seriousness still contrasted his softening dick. "I didn't exclaim it."
"Sure you didn't." The faint scent of blood lingered in the air, and it made you feel good. "And, see? Your heart is still beating. You're still breathing."
"I am?" It took him a second to realize what you meant. "Oh. Oh! Yes. You were right, then. The bite wasn't enough to transform me into a member of the undead." He phrased it incredibly mildly, like he was talking about the weather and not the possibility of him transforming into a bloodsucker.
You were charmed.
After making a note in the journal, he awkwardly tucked himself back into his pants and walked you to the door like it was your first date or something.
"Thank you," he said, "for your insight. It's extremely valuable information."
"I'm sure it was valuable, alright."
He went delightfully red, and while he was trying to stammer out a reply, you reached for his wrist. The small puncture wounds from earlier were barely visible, but you could still tell that they were there.
His pulse thundered in your palm as you raised his wrist to your lips again.
Pressing two easy kisses to the marks you'd left, you watched as the wounds faded, and then completely vanished into his skin.
"Oh," breathed Stanford. "That's practical."
"When you write that down, make sure to note that vampires can only fix the injuries they've caused," you murmured, before letting go of him.
"That's less practical," he observed, letting his hand fall back to his side.
"I guess." In the absence of the sound of his pulse, your ears picked up on the sound of insects drawn to the light pouring from the open doorway. "Most vampires don't care much about healing, though."
Stanford smiled. "So you say."
You smiled back. "I do."
Two days later, you left Gravity Falls.
Stanford managed to convince you into letting him watch you transform into a bat.
--------------------
Forty years pass. The Internet becomes a thing, and you only manage to join a few vampire-exclusive forums before getting annoyed about constant dayposting. You travel around, staying in some places longer than others; you develop a fondness for Alaska and a deep, deep hatred for Florida.
But, for a while, you don't return to Oregon. To be more specific, you don't return to that sleepy, middle-of-nowhere town until you realize how long it's been and your mind becomes occupied with various variations of is it still there? and is it still Gravity Falls?
Seeing the water tower during your descent into town actually makes you feel something, and for at least three seconds, you understand why a substantial portion of your kind would rather go crazy than forget anything.
The diner is still there. The convenience store is still there. Some businesses have changed, and the streetlamps are brighter. But for the most part, the layout of the town's the same.
You order another basically-raw steak from the diner and generously tip the waitress after you're done eating.
"Hello," you say, making eye contact with her non-lazy eye. "Do you know of a Stanford Pines?"
She hums contemplatively at your question, crossing her arms. Patiently, you wait.
"Oh!" The waitress exclaims, after nearly a minute of deep thought. "Oh, sure, honey. I know of a Stanford Pines. Yeah, I definitely know him."
"Great." If your heart wasn't still, it would probably soar. "Is he still, like, around?"
"Sure, he's around. But not around town." It's a statement that could imply many things, but for some reason, you get the feeling that she's not the type to use subtlety. "If you wanna find him, you'll probably have to pay a visit to the Mystery Shack, honey."
That's new. "The Mystery Shack?"
The waitress laughs. "Oh, you're funny. You've seen all the signs, right? And the bumper stickers? And the complimentary coasters? And the—"
"Um, no, I haven't seen any of those things." Probably because you didn't drive here. "Could you tell me where the Mystery Shack is?"
She gives you a look. "What's the magic word?"
You sigh.
"Could you tell me where the Mystery Shack is, please?"
Clapping her hands together, the waitress smiles. "That's better."
"It's pretty darn hard to miss," she tells you. "Just follow the flyers. And if you can't do that, then just walk down that road—" she points out the window, and you look where she's gesturing, "and take the second left. And then a right. And then another left."
"Okay." You pull some more money out of your wallet. "Thanks."
"Oh, boy! You really shouldn't, honey." She stuffs the bills into her apron.
The night air's refreshing, and once you've stepped out of the diner, you immediately start walking.
At first, you concentrate on the directions the waitress gave you—and the flyers. She really wasn't kidding; they're everywhere. On plain white paper, in what looks like someone's okayish handwriting, the flyers implore and beg customers to visit the Mystery Shack in order to obtain "special summer dealz".
But, by the time that you're nearing your destination, you've realized that you know exactly where you're going. And not just because of the flyers.
You've been down this exact route before.
Stanford's cabin looks somewhat worse for wear, and it's obviously been transformed into a tourist trap, but you have to admit: it's pretty cool, in a kitschy kind of way. It takes you a minute or two to figure out which door's the correct one.
The sound of the doorbell only confirms what you're doing.
Nobody answers, obviously, so you press the button again again. And again, slightly more urgently.
At long last, the door swings open.
"We're closed," grumbles the preteen boy in the STAR EXPEDITION tee shirt. Rubbing at his eyes and yawning, he opens the door just a little more, peering out at you. "Y'know, if you're one of Grunkle Stan's friends, you should've used a different entrance—"
He stops dead when he actually sees your face.
"What," you say, on instinct.
"What," he echoes, voice cracking.
"Hey, I said it first."
The boy stares at you, and then shakes his head, like he's clearing his thoughts.
"Um, wait here," he blurts, before retreating into the depths of the house and leaving the door open behind him.
Mildly confused, you have no choice but to wait.
Luckily, the boy returns after a couple minutes. The journal he's got tucked underneath one of his skinny arms makes you pause—he opens it, flipping through the pages with the speed of someone who's spent nights perusing and mentally cataloging every little detail of that dark red book.
He quickly finds what he was looking for and holds the journal out so you can see the page.
You pause again.
"Vampires," you enunciate.
"Yeah," says the boy. "And this—it can't be a coincidence. Right?"
The detailed drawing of you that accompanies the entry about vampires and their habits makes you laugh—from both surprise and delight.
"No, that's definitely not a coincidence."
The kid eyes you suspiciously, but you can detect a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes that is so, so familiar.
"My name is Dipper Pines," he says. "And I think you bit my great uncle?"
--
You snap awake from a good day's rest to find a girl leaning over your makeshift bed. She's wearing a hot pink, cable-knit sweater that greatly contrasts the considerably-grayer basement.
"Mabel," she says brightly, with absolutely no preamble. She sticks out a hand to you. "Do you get all shimmery in the sunlight like the vampires in Dusk?"
Still groggy, you take her hand, giving it a firm shake and telling her your name before replying, "No, I just burst into flames and die."
Mabel frowns, crossing her arms. "That's not fun."
"I completely agree."
The sound of a hand hitting a forehead alerts you to Dipper, who's standing a little further back than his sister. (You're fairly certain they're related; their facial structures are almost exactly the same. Twins, then?)
"I'm gonna pretend she didn't ask you that," groans Dipper.
"It was a very normal question to ask!" Mabel fires back. "Because what if vampires did glitter in the sun? That would be, like, totally awesome."
"Y'know, I'm pretty sure that a low-quality fantasy romance film franchise isn't the best source to go off of when talking about—"
Mabel gasps, deeply offended.
"It is not just a franchise. It is a saga."
"Oh yeah because Beatrice Sparrow is definitely going through a hero's journey when she enables the behavior of a total weirdo—"
"Guys," you interrupt. "I'm sure both of you have completely valid reasons for your arguments. But could you please tell me where your great uncle is?"
While Mabel's glare instantly shifts into a smile, Dipper's demeanor remains the same—he glances at Mabel, giving her a look (that she ignores) before returning his attention back to you.
"Grunkle Ford is upstairs," says Mabel, wiggling her eyebrows. "He wanted to give you some privacy."
Grunkle Ford?
"Yeah, he didn't know when you were gonna wake up," hurriedly interjects Dipper, looking slightly embarrassed. "And I was okay with waiting with him—because it's, uh, polite host behavior—but Mabel—"
"Dipper was curious," Mabel interrupts, grinning widely. "He wanted to see if you could snore."
Sputtering, Dipper quickly jumps to defend himself. "I - I did not."
"Did too!"
"That—that's so stupid! Why would vampires snore? They can't breathe, so—so, yeah! It'd be impossible!" Laughing nervously, Dipper glances away. "What kind of moron would even consider that idea?"
Both you and Mabel look at him.
"A - anyway," Dipper coughs, and despite how he's pointedly looking away, you know he's addressing you. "You should come upstairs."
"If you say so," you reply, getting to your feet. "By the way, don't you think it's a little strange that you just … let me into your house?" A lack of caution and common sense must run in the family.
"It is strange. Based on all the facts about vampires I know, letting you sleep in our basement was basically condemning us all to death." Dipper shrugs. "But Great Uncle Ford seemed okay with it, so … "
It's got to be genetic.
"Okay," is all you can say. "Sure."
The twins take the stairs two at a time. You follow them, your mind beginning to work faster and faster. It's been years. Things have changed. People change. Your face hasn't changed at all—you have mixed feelings about the fact that you'll never develop wrinkles—but naturally, with time, your mind's developed. You've been learning. He's probably been learning, too—he was so focused on his research.
"He's in the kitchen," Mabel calls out to you, "follow me, this way!" You're forced to lengthen your stride to catch up. Dipper jogs behind her, evidently used to her usual speed.
There's a distinct image of Stanford—or just Ford?—that's been occasionally floating around your head during the past four decades. The glasses. The excited way he told you about flying eyeballs. His hair. The sheepish look on his face. His face.
When you step into the kitchen, you have to stop, because the two men seated at the table look nearly identical.
However, only one of the men stands up, and as your eyes are drawn to him, you realize: that's him.
His hair's gone all gray, but it's still just as fluffy as it was before. You can pick out laugh lines and crow's feet, and his glasses look a tad thicker, but actually, he's aged quite well. And he's staring.
"Stanford Pines," you say, gaze lingering on his shoulders, which fill out his turtleneck rather nicely. "Running around collecting data is pretty good exercise, isn't it?"
The man who's still sitting down raises his eyebrows.
"I," Ford starts, apparently caught off-guard by your tone. "I suppose it is."
You smile.
"That's it," says the Ford lookalike, standing up. "Kids, we're leavin'. C'mon."
"But Grunkle Stan—" Protests Mabel, staying put as Dipper hastens to move.
"Don't but Grunkle Stan me," says Stan, turning to look at Ford. "Sixer, you've got the stuff, right?"
Ford nods. "I doubt that I'll have to use any of it, Stanley."
"You never know. Better armed than sorry."
And with that, Stan shepherds the twins out of the kitchen (he only really needs to shepherd Mabel, because Dipper was already halfway out the doorway), leaving you alone with Ford. You take a quick look out of the only window—it's dark out, but you can see the forest that sits beyond.
"I realize that I never got your name," says Ford. "That's silly, isn't it?"
"A little bit." You look back at him. "But you never asked, and I never gave it to you."
"I'd prefer it if you gave it to me now. I don't want to keep referring to you as just the vampire."
You give it to him.
"Alright." He repeats it. "Good to know. Sit, please." He gestures to the seat Stan vacated.
"Stanley and Stanford," you say, once you've lowered yourself into the cheap-looking chair. "That must be kind of annoying sometimes."
"Eh." Ford shrugs. "When you're twins, you already get mistaken for each other enough. In the long run, similar-sounding names don't really affect that."
"True."
Ford runs a hand through his hair and adjusts his glasses. You watch, and then meet his eyes (brown, just like his brother, great-niece, and great-nephew).
"You haven't changed in the slightest," mutters Ford, quietly. "I suppose it's a given, considering that you'll outlive everyone in this house without developing any aching joints—but it's still odd. Seeing you."
"Yeah." You can understand. "I don't usually do this kind of thing. Revisiting people, I mean."
At that, Ford's brow furrows, his stare hardening.
"That is precisely why I'm so perplexed," he says, the grim pensiveness of his tone a complete one-eighty from the soft wonder it was before. "You came back to Gravity Falls. Not just because you enjoyed the steak at Greasy's. And not just because nobody around here asks questions." Ford sits up straighter.
"No, you asked where to find me. And then you found me." He says your name, and the sound's still unfamiliar, but you like it.
"Why? Why me?" Pointing to himself, Ford jabs the tip of his finger into his chest. "What's so special about me that, after all this time, you'd want to come back?"
You pause.
"You knew I got the steak," you say slowly. "You were stalking me."
"It was an investigation." Ford sighs. "And would you please answer my question?"
"And you still remember that I got the steak," you point out, ignoring him. "After all this time."
"Of course I remember," he says matter-of-factly, looking affronted. "You took my virginity."
It takes a moment for you to process that information. It takes another moment for your brain to formulate a proper response.
"I did?"
"Yes. You did." Ford nods once. One of his hands is on the table, and he's drumming his fingers; he probably doesn't realize he's doing it. "I can tell you're surprised. Don't be surprised. It makes sense once you think about it. Up until that point, I'd been entirely focused on my studies—I hadn't the time to do other things. Social things."
"Holy shit," you mutter. "You got your first handie from a vampire."
At the use of handie, Ford grimaces.
"That's one way to put it."
"Holy shit." A giggle slips out before you can stop it.
He clears his throat, apparently not as amused as you. But, seriously, that is one hell of a way to lose one's virginity. After all, you know how your hands feel. They're cold. All the time. Absolutely no exceptions. Did he tell anybody? He doesn't seem like the type of guy to chat about his sexual encounters in a casual sort of way.
"Moving on," says Ford, neither confirming nor denying your internal questions, "you still haven't given me an answer."
"Right."
You study him. He looks at you expectantly—he's probably been turning this over and over in his head for the entire day. Maybe your visit's thrown him more off-kilter than you thought it would. (Maybe you had more of an impact on him than you thought you did.)
"I do like it here," you admit at last. "I like the diner. I like how everybody here is used to weird things. And I usually remember things I like instead of things I don't like." The words are tricky to string together, but you manage. "I remember … people I like, instead of people I don't like. And sometimes, I think of those things, or those people, and I want to see what's happened. You know?"
It's probably super incoherent, but Ford nods like he's comprehending everything, so you continue. "Like I said, though, I don't make a habit of checking up on things. Especially nowadays, now that you can just look stuff up."
"Right. The interweb can be a useful tool."
"Maybe it's just the lack of Internet records on Gravity Falls that influenced my decision to come back," you joke.
Ford blinks.
"That would make sense," he acknowledges, and you're sure that you don't imagine the hint of disappointment in his voice.
Oh, no.
"It would," you rush to say. "But, but. That's not the only reason. It's not that simple."
"Oh?"
It's both baffling and reassuring, the way you're talking to him. Wow. "Yeah. I did look up stuff on the Internet. But, again: I like it here. Gravity Falls stands out. Things here stand out. The general atmosphere and the quantity of weird creatures stands out."
"Perhaps it's the weirdness that drew you here, and, subsequently, drew you back," muses Ford.
"It's possible." There's kind of a pull to it all. "I won't deny that. But."
" … But?"
"It takes a lot for people to stand out to me." It's easy to say, shockingly. "Ford, you stood out. I came back to see if Gravity Falls hadn't burned to the ground yet, but I also wanted to see you. And I don't think I need to say much more than that." You smile. "Unless you want me to stroke your ego."
Ford removes his hand from the table, resting it firmly on one of his knees. His knees aren't far away from yours.
"No, I think I was flattered enough when I learned that you'd returned," he says, finally.
If you could blush, you would.
"If I could blush, I would," you tell him.
He turns a pretty shade of crimson, which surprises you.
"Ah," he says.
"Ford," you laugh. "No way did that—you said that "I took your virginity" with a completely straight face!"
"Because you did, and it's a fact," Ford explains, "it's just the—the implications of you claiming that—" He takes a deep breath. "You just seem very comfortable in your current state of being and well—"
"Okay," you gently interrupt. "I know what you're trying to say."
"Thank goodness," he mumbles, ducking his head. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."
Without thinking, you reach out, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay," you grin. "Neither of us know what we're saying."
Ford looks up, meeting your eyes. You immediately still, not knowing if you've crossed any boundaries. But he doesn't move to push you away—his hands stay where they are, and though his fingers twitch a little, he doesn't do anything at all.
"I don't know if that's true," he says.
You feel yourself soften. "Ford."
"Would you like to go for a walk?" Ford asks. "We have some catching up to do."
It kind of feels like a diversion tactic, but at the same time, you know he's right.
"We have a lot of catching up to do."
After squeezing his shoulder, you let go, and he stands up.
It's cool outside. Ford pulls on his trench coat before opening the door for you. An owl hoots as you start down the path, heading towards the road.
"So, Mabel and Dipper," you say.
"They're here for the summer," Ford replies, walking beside you and matching your pace.
"They seem like good kids."
"I'd like to think so."
"Of course you would." You look over at him. "Dipper reminds me of you."
"I'm sure he'd be pleased to hear that." The corners of his eyes crease when he smiles. "He's very intelligent—he was making an effort to continue my research. The notes he added to that journal are very promising."
"I can imagine." The owl hoots again. "He recognized me from that journal."
You reach the main road, and Ford moves so he's positioned to your left, closest to the edge of the sidewalk.
"Yes, he told me," he says. "Maybe my drawings hold up better than I thought."
"Do you still draw?"
He rotates his hand, making a "sort-of-kind-of" gesture. "When I feel up to it. Most of the things I draw are still studies from life. I'm not quite good at just thinking things up and going from there, I'm afraid."
"That's kind of ironic."
"Why?"
The buildings of town are visible now, and you look up, searching for the water tower.
"Because you're really familiar with weird, outlandish things. Wouldn't that train you to think of the craziest subjects imaginable?"
Ford hums. "That … Yes, I see your reasoning." He chuckles. "Maybe I'm so used to seeing weird, outlandish things that my mind registers them as normal, and it only worsens my ability to imagine anything interesting."
"Ahh." You bob your head. "That makes sense, too."
"It does, doesn't it?"
Discreetly peering into the window display of a hunting store, you take a good look at the poorly-taxidermied deer heads and the wide variety of rifles. There's a sign that reads "YOU SHOOT IT, YOU BUY IT!"
"What've you been doing?" Ford asks. "Traveling, I assume."
"More or less," you reply. "It's good to keep moving. If you stay in one place for too long, people start to get suspicious. And then they break out the wooden stakes and crosses."
"Not garlic?"
"Oh, no, they totally buy lots of garlic. But it doesn't actually, like, do anything." It's just a really strong, annoying smell. "Did you know that the myth that garlic harms vampires originated centuries ago, when Europe was suffering from mass disease epidemics? Since people thought vampires were created from a sickness of the blood, garlic—which was their antibiotic before actual antibiotics—was thought to ward us away."
"Interesting." Ford's itching to write that down, you can tell, but he doesn't pull anything out of his coat. "Most creatures are misunderstood because of human myths. For example, fairies are little more than house flies with the gift of speech."
You laugh. "Aww. It's probably better that nobody knows that. It'd kill the dreams of millions of little girls worldwide."
"Most little girls are frighteningly optimistic. I doubt they'd listen. They view all creatures as friendly. Even things that want to horrifically maim them! Like werewolves."
"Good for them."
Ford lets out a small sigh.
"I met a pack of werewolves in Wisconsin," you tell him, as you turn a corner. Your arm brushes against his, but neither of you say anything. "They were pretty friendly, actually. Most of the werewolves I've met are aggressively competitive."
"I've noticed," he says. "They have an intense territorial instinct, I believe. It makes sense that, normally, they'd feel threatened by the presence of another apex predator."
"Yeah. Seriously, the niceness of those guys kind of threw me off." Remembering it now makes you feel confused. "They shared things with me."
"That's awful." He solemnly shakes his head. "There are always outliers."
"Yup." Like intelligent fairies. "What've you been up to, Ford?"
In the half a minute it takes for him to respond, you pass by the convenience store, an arcade, and a fast food establishment with what looks like a giant fake (?) ax plunged into its roof. Not bad.
"Oh, well, you know," Ford says eventually. "The usual. Exploration and discovery. Nothing too out of the ordinary." He says it so casually that a minor alarm bell goes off in your head; but he keeps talking, not giving you time to dwell on it. "Me and my brother—Stan, you briefly saw him earlier—we're making plans to leave Gravity Falls and travel the world."
"Really?" You take the bait. "That's really cool. Where are you gonna go?"
"Our first priority is the Arctic Ocean, but after that, anywhere a boat can travel is a possible destination," answers Ford.
"Cool," you repeat. "Didn't know you could drive a boat."
"I can." He slips his hands into his pockets. "Stan's better at it, though. He has more experience on the water."
"He seems like the type of guy to be into fishing."
"He is," Ford confirms. "Lake Gravity Falls is a usual haunt of his."
You eyeball the diner when you walk by. The lights inside are still on, and through the windows, you can see a few people eating late dinners inside. You concentrate, and very faintly, you can hear the sounds of silverware and conversation. And that waitress from before, who's currently gushing about her cats.
"I haven't been on a boat in a while," you remark. "The last time I was on one, I think it was—" Squinting, you rack your brain. "I think it was seventy years ago? Or eighty years ago, maybe. Regardless. It was back when I was still a fledgling and hadn't gotten the hang of transformation, so I didn't want to risk trying to fly long distances." You snicker. "Or even short distances, really."
"Eighty years," Ford mumbles to himself.
"I know, right?" You let out a low whistle. "I've really missed out."
He raises his volume back to its normal speaking level. "On boat development, yes."
"This is so sad." Playing up your guilt, you frown at him. "They've gotten so fast, and I haven't bothered to give them a chance … "
"Sad indeed." Ford frowns back. "How could you?"
"I'm terrible, I know."
"Absolutely awful."
The silence settles, and other noises quickly fill the gap. You find yourself not minding the absence of conversation—out of the corner of your eye, you peer at Ford. He's staring straight ahead, focusing on the sidewalk and the path he's most likely mentally planned out. The light of a nearby store temporarily illuminates him, drawing attention to the squareness of his jaw and the slight stubble on the lower half on his face.
You're quietly tracing his profile when he notices you staring.
"What?" He asks.
You stop beside him at a crosswalk; you wait for several large pickup trucks to roar down the road, each vehicle carrying adrenaline-fueled, yelling teenagers who shouldn't be on the road.
"Nothing," you reply. "Am I not allowed to look at you?"
Ford doesn't even react as the last pickup truck flies by, dangerously close to where he's standing.
"I just don't know what you're thinking," he confesses, hair just a little windswept. "You're … unpredictable." He doesn't look away from your face. "I don't even know if you've been genuinely kind to me. For—for all I know, you could've accepted my offer for a walk just so you could drag me off and kill me."
Your first instinct is to snort—because it's about time that he realizes he's in great danger—but then you really see his eyes and your amusement drops dead.
"C'mon," you say, trying for reassurance. "If I wanted to kill you, I would've done it the second we stepped out of the Mystery Shack. I wouldn't have waited until we got into a populated area full of possible witnesses."
The slow breath Ford releases is quiet, but you can hear it.
"That's a fair point. It'd be pretty hard to quietly take my life here." He assumes a thoughtful expression. "Especially since everyone around here is incapable of forgetting a face."
You wait for a second, unsure if he's joking.
When it becomes clear that he's completely serious, you just nod.
"Let's keep walking," you suggest. "It's nice out tonight."
So you keep walking.
You tell him about the time you ran into a merman on a New Jersey boardwalk. He explains how merpeople vary in size and diet depending on the region they live in. Apparently, merpeople are the largest in the Great Lakes.
Ford opens the door for you again when you get back to the Mystery Shack. Dawn's drawing dangerously close, and you gratefully step inside.
"I guess I'll have to go hide in your basement again," you say, as Ford hangs up his coat.
He mhm s, turning to face you. The light coming from the only source—a small lamp with a threadbare shade—glints a little off his glasses. "I knew building a secret underground lab was a wise investment," he smiles.
You follow him to the gift shop, and after he presses a couple buttons on his watch, the vending machine swings outwards.
"Well," Ford says. "Good night."
You don't move. He doesn't either.
It's twenty seconds of awkward standing in front of the open entrance before you speak up.
"How long can I stay here?" You ask.
Ford looks at you.
"I assumed that you'd be here for a few days, and then you’d go someplace else," he says. "That's … what you're going to do, right? That's what you always do? To be safe?"
He's right and it frustrates you, just a bit. Mostly because you know exactly why you want to change your usual pattern. You know exactly why you asked him that question. You've been around too long to be dense.
"I like Gravity Falls," you tell him. "I think it'll take a little longer than usual for people to start hunting me down."
He blinks, and you realize that he kind of looks like an owl when he's surprised.
"I think so too," he says, finally.
"I'm going to go to the diner again tomorrow." You step towards the stairs, but you don't go down them just yet. "Just to make sure I won't do anything stupid."
"Anything stupid?"
Oh, he knows. He's too smart not to know. He doesn't have to ask.
"You know." You give him a pointed look. "You said people don't forget faces. It'd be pretty hard to try and get a meal."
Ford's throat works as he swallows.
"Does—the steak doesn't sustain you as well as human blood?"
He knows.
"Yeah," you confirm, anyway. "Obviously."
"Yeah," he repeats.
There's a sort of tension sticking to the air that sits between you. It's so thick—almost as thick as the smell of beautiful red blood that sits, heavy and tempting, wherever it's spilled. You resist the urge to inhale. You know the scents you'd pick up.
He says your name.
"Ford," you try in return.
He says your name again, and then, "If I let—"
You don't even let him say it.
--
His sweater and (fitted) pants end up on the basement floor, next to the pile of blankets and pillows that you're going to sleep in. Later.
Right now, you're not exactly sleeping.
His skin is so so so warm in comparison to yours. And this—you're pressed up against him, bare chest to bare chest—only emphasizes it. You feel like you're on fire, trembling as you kiss him, your hands traveling over his body. It would be funny if it wasn't so intimate—it's like this time, this is the foreplay to what you're about to do.
"Would you prefer the traditional way this time?" You murmur, once you back away. He's breathing heavily. You don't breathe at all. "My teeth in your neck. Do you want that? Or do you want me to bite your wrist again?"
Ford squirms a little underneath you. He's hard in his boxers.
"Neck," he whispers. "If you—if you can control yourself."
You grin, fangs already heavy in your mouth.
It's blissful, leaning down. You linger, mouth open against his neck, for a brief moment. Teasing him and yourself. It's easy to control yourself, as he'd said, but there's still that tiny, animalistic part of your brain that's whispering, prey prey prey—
Ford's breath escapes in a shuddering gasp when you bite him. You can't see him from your position, but you can imagine what he looks like. His hands clutch at your back, his nails digging into your skin as he tilts his head to the side, baring more of his neck for you.
And you drink, and he tastes just as good as you remember.
He's making soft, choked-off noises by the time you're finished, his hips subtly twitching upwards, seeking relief.
You make a show of licking your lips before grinding down on him with purpose.
--
"So if you don't shimmer," says Mabel, "can you at least run super-fast? Or can you stop moving cars with a single hand?"
Dipper's face firmly meets his palm.
"I can kind of move fast and lift heavy stuff," you explain, to Mabel's excitement. "But it's nothing really extreme. I'm not a superhero."
"Still cool," mutters Mabel, clearly in awe. She throws several kernels of popcorn into her mouth, rocking back and forth in her seat on the carpet.
"Not every vampire is an Edwin," mumbles Dipper from beside his sister. She ignores him.
The living room's old television set lights up the otherwise dark room. The screen's displaying some sort of detective show—you're sure you've seen it somewhere. And the main character is pretty unique. You watch as he indignantly flaps his wings and quacks at the hapless human cop who serves as his foil.
"The villain of this episode is so obvious," Dipper says. "Like, we all saw the look the lady at the post office gave Ducktective when he asked her about her alibi, right?"
"She totally did it," Mabel agrees through a mouthful of popcorn. "She wanted that old guy's hairbrush collection."
"Her hair is pretty long," you observe, leaning back in the armchair.
You expect either of the twins to say something, but they fall silent.
For a few seconds, you figure it's because they're absorbed in the plot unfolding onscreen.
But then you notice they're both looking at the entranceway of the room. Sitting up straighter, you follow their gazes.
"Were you just going to stand there until we noticed you?" You ask Ford, and he smiles.
"Maybe I was."
"Rude."
Ford clears his throat. You become aware of how the twins are watching—Mabel's just as absorbed as she was while watching the television, and Dipper's just a little more uncomfortable.
"I just wanted to know if you wanted to go for another walk," says Ford.
You immediately stand up.
"That's fine with me if it's fine with you."
Effortlessly not paying attention to how Mabel's whispering something to Dipper behind you, you walk out of the living room, following Ford. He'd already put his coat on, so he just opens the door for you.
Once you're outside, you take his hand, threading your fingers through his.