#eheheehhehehehehe

[killuaisaprincess]

[egginfroggin]

Two more for the (draft) road

The Rift is a tiny catalyst for an immense catastrophe, and the fact that Ford didn’t fall into it is, on its own, halfway to being a miracle. It has been almost four days without sleep, now, and Ford can feel exhaustion clinging to him like an unshed skin trying to burrow its way back to his vascular system. Still, the unassuming piece of what may as well be Pandora’s Box is gingerly shooed into a specimen jar, capped, and shoved into a corner far out of reach of curious preteen hands. Five days in, and Ford finally gives up and conks out at the kitchen table, waiting – ironically – for his fifth cup of coffee before nine AM to be done brewing. He comes to at noon with a blanket tossed over his shoulders. “So he wakes,” grouses a gruff voice, and he tenses at the sound of his brother. They’ve been like oil and water so far, and will most likely continue to act as such. “Still haven’t got a sleep schedule after three decades, Sixer?” Sixer. He’s tired. He’s prickly. He’s in the kitchen with someone he’s never felt so close to or so far from, and there’s something tittering in the back of his head – he thinks it might be the catalyst to the apocalypse that's sitting in his basement. Specifically, he thinks it might be Bill reaching in through its undeveloped connection and scraping his horrible little fingers over Ford’s brain. “Don’t call me that.”

There are many ways to summon Bill Cipher – once the doorway is open, it can be as complex as a full circle of chalk, paint, or whatever’s handy, and the appropriate incantation, or as simple as planting oneself in the shadow of his Fearamid and calling attention to oneself. It’s a simple as Ford standing under the festering sky, taking a breath, and yelling Bill Cipher, I want to make a deal

Brainworms are at it again.

His nephew is the first person to greet him before the funeral, followed quickly by Shermie, and then the two five-year-old children who anyone can see will be extremely hard-pressed to sit still for any length of time. “Greetings” for the twins means that Mabel – just as loud as she was when she was a baby, he notes – throws herself at his legs and does her level best to climb him like a tree while dragging Mason along for the ride. He has a moment to regret not reaching out earlier before tossing dirt over the thought in favor of trying to stop Mabel from worming her way under his jacket. Results are debatable. The struggle ends with her slung over his arm like a folded dishrag, giggling away, while Mason – or Dipper, as he apparently likes to go by now – holds onto two of his six fingers on his free hand. Ford has no idea where their parents went, and Shermie is trying and failing to stifle laughter, having been absolutely no help whatsoever.

“What kinds of creatures are there in these woods?” Dipper asks one day, standing on tiptoe beside Ford at the stove. Mabel stands on a stool a handful of paces over, whisking pancake batter with utter abandon. “Squirrels. Bears. Cougars. Opossums. Raccoons. Several species of mice.” Ford could go on, but he reaches over Dipper’s head to steady Mabel when she almost topples over reaching for the chocolate chips on the counter. Stars, these children are short. Were he and Stanley that short at their age? “That’s not what I meant,” Dipper sighs. “I mean like….” He trails off, biting his lip. “Anything spooky!” Mabel says, grinning wide and bright. There’s already a smear of chocolate in her teeth, the bag of sugary chips open and invaded within seconds of her grabbing it. “Orrrrrr, y’know… magical? In a big, mysterious forest like this? I'll bet Bigfoot would love it here.” Ah. That’s not good. “I’d consider rabies to be plenty ‘spooky,’ considering its similarities to a stereotypical zombie bite,” he says flatly, tossing a pat of butter into a skillet. “Or prions.” Mabel makes a face, and Dipper shakes his head again. “Also not what we mean,” the boy says, and, okay, time to nip this in the bud. “I’m sure there are plenty of things in these woods that have yet to be documented,” he says, holding a hand out for the bowl of batter. Dipper smacks the ladle into his broad palm, and, okay, close enough. “You are not the ones to document them. Matter of fact, consider them all a reason to stay out of the woods.” “But –” “No buts,” he cuts in, fixing them both with a stern stare. “You know the rules.” Mabel slides the bowl over, lips fixed in a slight pout, and he takes it. “And believe me,” he says, more gently now, “the squirrels are problematic enough.” That gets a small smile out of them, and he breathes a silent breath of relief.

(There’s a whisper in the back of his mind, the same one that likes to wake up when he doesn’t sleep, telling him that they don’t trust him, that they’re plotting something, that maybe he shouldn’t trust them, either) (He swiftly silences it and shoves it in a box to drown in sheer, unadulterated fondness for Dipper and Mabel) “If you’re sure,” he says, and Mabel gives him a hug around the middle. He smiles and pats her hair before picking up his mug of coffee. “If you ever need to talk about anything, you know I’m here, yes?” They exchange a look – guilty? Worried? It’s gone too fast for him to decipher, and then they’re nodding and saying that right now they’re just hungry and want some lunch and can they please have some ice cream for lunch pretty please? He huffs and tells them no, and they pout and huff right back. Ford is done with the first mug of coffee when a wave of sleepiness comes over him like a sneak attack from the twins. He doesn’t even manage to set the next one to brew before he winds up on the floor, and ah, he thinks on the way down, that was definitely guilt they were feeling.

“Did you kill him?” It’s the middle of summer, and everything is wrong.

[theartofmining]

GUYS I GOT MENTIONED IN THE RAY BANS POST EHEHEEHHEHEHEHEHE

[prince-of-mischief]

~From LokiMun

~To all the followers

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY