Note: Past FiddAuthor. For Fiddauthor week on Tumblr: Body Switching prompt.

Ford saw him and reminded himself, for what must have been the hundredth time, that Fiddleford had chosen this. Somehow, inexplicably, he had wanted this.

He didn't understand how that could be. The man was twenty-nine years old and he looked like he was sixty. He was hunched over and barefoot. He was wearing dirty overalls and had the longest beard, stark white, that Ford had ever seen. His beard had a Band-Aid on it.

None of this was okay.

But he looked happy. He must want this. Or, if not, he would have wanted it at some point. Wanted to forget, at least.

Ford could understand wanting to forget. Hadn't that been lurking at the corner of his mind ever since he had realized the truth about Bill? But this wasn't the answer and it was irresponsible besides. Ignoring the problem wouldn't make it go away.

Belatedly, Ford realized that he was approaching Fiddleford. That was a bad idea.

He hadn't spoken to him since two days before reading about how a disoriented man was found at the museum and sent packing. It was Fiddleford, that much was clear. And he had seen that his old friend was aging more rapidly than he would have expected and it couldn't all be from stress. He could feel stress aging him prematurely but not that much and not that fast. He'd looked to be in his fifties before and like he'd aged badly. This was something else.

This was a bad idea. Ford closed his eyes and turned away.

"Well hello there, stranger!" Fiddleford said brightly.

He sounded happy. He said stranger.

His eyes were strange. They'd never stared so emptily at him before. Even when they first met, there had been some curiosity in them. Now he could have been anyone.

The last time he had spoken with him, his eyes hadn't been empty. They'd been full of so much anger and judgment and fear. That had been when-

Fiddleford was still staring at him, waiting for a reply.

Ford smiled painfully. "Hello."

"Haven't I seen you around before?"

What was he supposed to say to that? Of course he had. He had 'seen him around' every day for years on end, both in college and in Gravity Falls. Ford had seen glimpses of Fiddleford since the day he read about Fiddleford's fate in the paper but he had always made sure not to get too close. Until today, that is. Perhaps Fiddleford had seen him as well.

"I wouldn't know," he said, after a moment.

Fiddleford tilted his head at him and his hat fell off. There was the curiosity but it wasn't the same. "You don't talk much, do you, fella?"

What good was talking? Words were treacherous and anyone could find them. Words made him fall under Bill's sway, words bound them together. Ideas were only safe trapped deep within his mind. Once they were out they became threats, became portals that could destroy the world or the sanity of a friend. Of a someone who didn't quite fit into that neat little category.

What did that matter? It didn't matter to Fiddleford so how could it matter to Ford? It wasn't just a matter of not caring. It was a matter of forgetting. It was a matter of choosing to forget.

It was obvious to Ford what had happened, even if it maybe wasn't so obvious to Fiddleford. Maybe it wasn't even obvious to the Society of the Blind Eye, depending how much they liked to turn those guns on each other. Did Fiddleford want this? He couldn't want what he had ended up with. But was enough ever enough? It still defied belief he even wanted as much as he had. The first time Fiddleford had said 'terribible' in his presence, he had been so mortified, he had…

Whether Fiddleford had finally gone too far and destroyed his mind for good or whether that sick society he had probably created had turned against their failing leader didn't matter. Not really. It had happened and as far as Ford knew there was no way to fix it. Why would a fanatical society so hell-bent on policing everyone's memories have a way to undo the damage they had done?

Ford didn't know enough about the process to even try and he couldn't afford to let himself be distracted, either. He was safe from them. He had learned that the hard way.

"Friend? Is that really what you want to call it, Ford? Friend?"

It didn't matter. He couldn't afford to lose his focus, not even for a moment. Bill was just waiting for a slip-up and, ever the fool, he had practically handed him the world on a silver platter already.

"Right," Fiddleford said slowly, his smile fading. "I'm just going to go then. See you around, stranger!"

"Stanford," he blurted out.

Fiddleford turned back to him, blinking a few times. "Eh? What was that now?"

"Don't call me stranger," he said. It didn't matter. Why was he doing this? It didn't matter. Fiddleford had made his choice and he'd made damn sure that it hadn't involved Ford. Was it taking advantage, forcing his association on someone who had made it as clear as anyone possibly could that he wasn't interested anymore?

"Well what should I call you then?" Fiddleford asked reasonably. "Stan, you said?"

It took him a moment to contort his face back into a neutral expression. "Stanford. Ford if you must but I…Stanford."

"Stanford," Fiddleford repeated and there was nothing. How could there still be nothing? How could there always be nothing? It was like some sort of cruel joke with only him being cursed to see the punchline. "I'm Fiddleford McGucket."

"I know who you are," Ford said quietly.

Fiddleford grinned ruefully. "Yeah, I reckon you do."

For a moment, Ford let himself hope. "You do?"

"I can't seem to escape that darn article," Fiddleford explained.

The article. Of course it was the article. Ford just stood there, breathing, forcing himself not to react. It didn't matter. It was what Fiddleford wanted. How pathetic was it to keep thinking that maybe if he just looked hard enough he'd find what no longer even existed? Why was he still standing here? Fiddleford had been about to leave. He had been about to let him.

"It really was a slow news day, I expect. Seems there are a lot of those around here. Everybody knows everybody's business in these small towns."

Nobody knew his business. Nobody even knew his name. He emerged infrequently when he needed supplies and ignored all the not-so-subtle inquiries into his personal life. He hadn't had time to make friends when he'd first gotten here. He'd been way too interested in discovering every little secret this little town had been hiding to bother to meet with the perfectly nice but also perfectly ordinary populace. Excitement had turned to frustration when he couldn't quite make the pieces fit together turned to the giddy rush that was his time with Bill turned to…whatever this was now. Disillusionment and disappointment and probably a fair dose of paranoia.

"Are you new around here, stranger?" Fiddleford seemed to catch himself. "Stanford?"

"Please. Call me Ford."

"Some would say so, certainly," Ford agreed. "To some, anyone not born and bred here is some kind of interloper."

"That's not real specific, Stanford."

Ford turned it around on him. It wasn't fair, perhaps, but neither was the fact he had just introduced himself to a man he'd known for ten years. "Are you new here?"

Fiddleford frowned, troubled. "I don't…my son is here. I can't…no. No, I don't reckon I am."

Ford felt a useless flash of guilt. Whatever had happened may be Fiddleford's own fault (but not entirely. He hadn't asked to be flung headfirst into that portal and he had never trusted Bill. He hadn't been the one to literally conjure him into their lives) but the man he was now had no knowledge of that.

"I should…" he trailed off. Useless. "I should let you go."

Fiddleford nodded slowly, looking disconcerted still. Why was that? Was it something of who he used to be nagging at the back of his mind or was Ford just too unfit for normal human interaction these days that even someone cruelly dubbed the local kook found it hard to bear? "I'll see you around then."

As he turned to go, Ford's eye fell on Fiddleford's hat, still lying on the ground.

It wasn't much. It looked like it'd been taken off some sort of scarecrow or something. It was as dirty as everything else and it just added to the overall crazed old man impression that the man in front of him, the man who hadn't even reached thirty yet, was giving off. Truthfully, Fiddleford would probably be better off without it. But he had so little. What right did he have to strip him of even more?

He reached down to pick it up at the same instant Fiddleford seemed to remember the hat on his own and they bumped heads.

Instinctively, Ford closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead, waiting for the immediate flash of pain to dissipate.

When it did, he opened his eyes and found himself looking at…no, that was ridiculous. It couldn't possibly be Stanley. Stanley wasn't here. Stanley was never going to be there again. It must be himself, somehow. But Fiddleford…he was looking up at himself and Fiddleford was nowhere to be seen.

That answered that question, then. He never had quite gotten around to moving his body swapping carpet; he was too proud to hide it away somewhere. He had had some good times in the past switching bodies with Fiddleford (and then some rather terrifying times when his copy had forcibly switched bodies with him and tried to melt him) but nowadays he had no time for such tricks. He usually avoided shocking himself but earlier that day he had been half-awake and moved wrong and it had just happened. He wasn't sure if the power would fade away if he didn't touch anyone right away. It had been, what, five hours and the answer to that question was that no, it did not.

He really needed to be more careful with that rug. He really needed to be more careful with everything in his life, didn't he?

Sometimes he wondered how he wasn't dead by now with all the careless risks he had taken and the blatant disregard for his own safety. Sometimes he feared he knew the answer.

It was still strange to see himself from the outside. He had experimented with the rug and with the copier, of course, but not nearly enough to make this feel less surreal. When it was the copier it was still him, really, that he was looking at. When it was the rug at least it was a friend. Now it was still those empty eyes gazing out at him from his own face.

He swallowed, hard. It was a painful reminder of what had almost been done to him. What wouldhave been done to him if he hadn't literally inserted a metal plate into his own head. There were times he looked at where he had ended up in life and seriously wondered if this was at all normal or okay. Then things like that happened and he knew it didn't even matter and he couldn't afford to hesitate.

"Why'd you go and start looking like me?" Fiddleford asked. "And why do my feet feel all funny?"

"Shoes, I expect," Ford said. "Socks, too."

Fiddleford looked down. "Huh. How'd that happen?"

Well wasn't that the question? There was no point in going into the technical details of how the carpet worked. Chances are, he wouldn't understand anymore. And he had known, once, but – like with so much else – he had chosen to forget.

"I have a carpet that, if you get shocked on it, it causes you to switch bodies with the first person you touch," he said. Did that make sense? It occurred to him belatedly that that might not make a lot of sense.

But Fiddleford just nodded. "So it seems the thing to do then is to just go back and get shocked and touch each other again."

Ford nodded, his beard scraping across the ground. He fought a wince. That couldn't possibly be clean. And now that he thought about it, he realized that nothing about him would be clean, would it? He could feel the grease in his hair and once he started to notice it, he couldn't stop. Then there was the fact that he had never liked facial hair in the first place. It was very unsettling, to have something constantly on his face. It would probably be out of line, for the very short period they were each other, to try and shave but did he really have to feel as though he hadn't taken a shower in a week?

"I'm going to need a shower," he murmured.

Fiddleford frowned at him. "How long do you think this whole switching back will take?"

"Not long," Ford assured him. "Just long enough to go there, and it's not far, and get a shock. I'm usually better at avoiding a shock so intentionally getting one shouldn't be hard."

"Then what do you need to go taking a bath for? Lord knows I haven't had one in a week."

Even though he wasn't surprised, he still didn't enjoy hearing the man who had once had to remind Ford to take a shower (and eat and go to bed and a million other things) because he had once again gotten too caught up in work freely admit to going without for far longer than Ford had ever dreamed of.

"Why not?" Ford asked. "Do you not have access to one?"

"Not a shower, no," Fiddleford said. "But I've got a bathing tub! It's just that…"

"Just that what?" Ford said, as gently as he could.

"Well there's this old hillbilly that keeps trying to watch me bathe! It makes me real uncomfortable but I can't seem to get rid of him."

Ford frowned at that, uncertain what he meant by that. Then he realized and he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Did he look like me? Like I do right now, I mean."

Fiddleford stepped closer to him, peering intently at him. "Now that you mention it, I reckon you do. I'd ask if you knew anything about that except I know you normally look like this and no one who looks like you ever comes by."

What else was there to say?

"We should get back to my house."

He didn't want to. He didn't want to take Fiddleford back there, not after what had happened last time. Not after he was looking the consequences right in the face.

He couldn't trust him anymore. He knew that, of course he knew that. There was nobody he could trust. Even Stanley had betrayed him in the end. And he could insist it was an accident all he wanted and Ford might even believe him (because Stanley had always been selfish but never malicious) but it didn't change anything in the end. He had still broken Ford's project when he had no business messing with it and he had still covered it up. Stan had known exactly what Ford was talking about when he accused him. If he'd only come to him and admitted what he'd done there might have been time to fix it. And, even if he couldn't, he at least wouldn't have had to fall on his face in front of the West Coast Tech people.

It didn't matter. He knew it didn't matter. Maybe one of these days he'd be able to think of his brother without remembering what he'd lost. He'd managed to get most of it back, eventually, and who could say that he wouldn't have still ended up right here in this strange little town if things had been different? Maybe then, at least, Stan would be beside him. But, knowing Stan, he'd probably try to punch a pterodactyl or something. It was probably safer with him off doing whatever he did wherever he was. He'd reach out if he really needed help, wouldn't he? Granted, it wasn't like Ford was doing that but this was different. This was something with the power to destroy lives, something he didn't want anyone he cared about getting caught up in.

This was something that had already taken one person he loved from him and he'd be damned if he let it claim another.

"Do you want to use the tub before we go?" Fiddleford offered.

Ford smiled painfully at the absurd act of generosity. There was a perfectly good shower at his place that he would certainly be throwing Fiddleford at the moment they had switched back. Ford wouldn't be like this for more than half an hour and Fiddleford was like this all of the time.

Dear God, how could he live like this?

Fiddleford had made his own choices but hadn't it been Ford's choice to bring him to Gravity Falls in the first place? He'd read about Bill Gates and Steve Jobs and knew Fiddleford would have been right up there with him if he hadn't called him here where he'd lost virtually everything. If it weren't for his son, who was still just a child, he would have nothing left.

"That's fine," Ford said. "But thank you."

"So do you have a car, Stanford, or…?"

"Oh, I did," Ford said. "But during my first week here it was crushed and dragged away by some giant creature. I never really got around to getting a new one."

Fiddleford nodded like that made perfect sense. In a place like Gravity Falls, he supposed it did.

"Walking's good for you anyway," he decided.

Fiddleford let out a long, low whistle when he saw Ford's place. "Fancy!"

Ford nodded uncomfortably. Before, Fiddleford had thought it was neat, though a bit fiscally irresponsible, that he had had his own cabin built but aside from that a house was a house.

"It's right up this way," Ford said. "Follow me."

He opened the door and was hit with an overpowering sensation of wrongness. He had been feeling that ever since he had first seen Fiddleford but now that feeling was keeping him frozen in his tracks.

"Are-are you okay, friend?" Fiddleford asked, hesitantly poking Ford in the side. Or rather poking himself in the side with Ford's hand.

Was he okay? What a ridiculous question. He hadn't been okay since…oh, who even knew anymore? Some days it felt like things hadn't been okay since the day that his perpetual motion machine had stopped working. Some days he wondered why he wasn't able to just let go. But that day had led to Stanley leaving had led to Backupsmore had led to his thesis had led to his grant had led to Gravity Falls had led to Fiddleford coming had led to Bill had led to…to all of this.

"I'm fine," he said curtly.

"It's too little too late, Ford. Anyone could have told you trusting Bill was a bad idea. Hell, I did! Dozens of times! But you just never listened."

Fiddleford looked unconvinced but didn't press the issue. He never was willing to press the issue, just waiting and thinking and then one day having it all blow up and then there was no going back. Instead, he said, "Well where's this here carpet then? No offense, but I just don't feel right in your body like this."

Ford actually chuckled at that. "No, I don't imagine you would. I don't feel right like this, either."

"I don't feel right like that," Fiddleford admitted. "Is that strange? I got no other way to feel and nothing to compare it to but it's not right."

If he were the world's most unlikely twenty-nine-year-old he didn't think he'd feel right about looking like a good candidate for social security, either. Strange that he somehow knew that, even though he couldn't remember. But who could say what he really did remember amidst all that trauma and chaos?

"I'm sure you're not the only one who hasn't felt at home in your skin," Ford told him.

He tried to remember what it had felt like when he had done it before. The first time had been almost an accident and after that they had only done it to make each other laugh. When the point was entertainment, was there room for confusion and dysphoria?

"So, what? You see some sort of apocalyptic nightmare or something coming for us so you decide the best thing to do is forcibly remove it from your mind and not lift a finger to stop this? And to spread it…how do you even know these people want this? If they don't know what's out there, how can they possibly protect themselves? You're only making this worse."

Fiddleford looked down. "Is it all of the carpets here?"

Ford shook his head. "No, that would be far too dangerous, even with just me living up here."

"You live here by yourself?" Now Fiddleford actually sounded sympathetic and the last think he wanted was this man's pity. Why should Fiddleford pity him? He had no idea just how in over his head Ford was. And Fiddleford was really the last person in the world who should be pitying anyone. From what he understood, the man had barely known his old name when they had found him and all of it – or nearly so – was self-inflicted. "Doesn't that get lonely?"

"It's fine," Ford said with a tight smile. Lonely. What he wouldn't give to be afflicted with honest-to-God loneliness. He was far too worried and too busy to ever feel alone. He had far too many encounters with Bill, even now, even after he had been forced to put a metal plate into his own head, to ever truly feel alone. "What about you?"

Stupid. Why had he asked that? The last thing he wanted to do was to bring up how far Fiddleford had fallen, if indeed he even did. It's not like he even remembered the man who had driven him to such desperate lengths.

"I'm not looking for an apology. God forbid you would ever actually apologize about anything."

"Well, my wife left me awhile back," Fiddleford said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry," Ford said. He'd said it before but wasn't that the sort of thing one said when they were told that? It wasn't as though Fiddleford would remember that, though.

"Eh, thank you but it's alright. I don't even remember her, truth be told. I've seen pictures of her, though, and she sure is beautiful," Fiddleford said wistfully.

She was beautiful. Beautiful and sweet and oh so normal. They had been so happy when they had first come to Gravity Falls but if there was one thing this town specialized in it was crushing dreams. She might have been happy in Palo Alto but with Bill and the portal and everything else that the town learned to ignore or accept…Ford hadn't been surprised when he heard the news. He had been upset, of course, but more for Fiddleford's sake than because it had happened.

Of course Fiddleford couldn't remember. It had come before they had even fallen out. It was supposed to just be temporary but Fiddleford had never wanted to talk about it and then he had started to fall apart and there wasn't anything for Mrs. McGucket to come back to.

Ford remembered, though. He remembered the tears in Fiddleford's eyes and the ring in his hand and the way he had begged Ford to distract him because all he wanted to do was find the closest bar and set up shop.

"Well what was I supposed to do? You came out all catatonic and all you would tell me is I had to shut everything down? You still won't even tell me what happened! Did you really think I'd agree so easily when you wouldn't even tell me why?"

Distractions were one thing. Ford could do distractions well enough, especially with one of the few people he had ever met that was smart enough to understand him and his work. The world of science held endless distractions and every time you turned around Gravity Falls could provide something curious to study.

He hadn't thought it would be hard to take Fiddleford's mind off of what had happened, at least when they were together. Nothing could stop the ghosts from coming after you at night.

It was wrong for the two of them to be here. Wrong that Ford was Fiddleford and Fiddleford was Ford. Fiddleford wasn't even Fiddleford, in mind or in body. He had quickly slid into Old Man McGucket and Ford didn't know that there was anything to be done to get him back. Did he even want that? Were those horrors he'd seen really so great that he could do nothing but wreck himself so utterly to get a moment's peace? Was peace of mind really worth that much?

Fiddleford couldn't remember but every inch of this house was covered in memories. There was the spot on the floor he used to meditate with Bill while Fiddleford pretended he wasn't thirty seconds away from an exorcism. There was the lamp that had gotten broken three times before they finally moved it. There was the sofa where Fiddleford had first kissed him. There was that slime stain that never would completely go away. There was the wall they'd christened when they couldn't wait for two more minutes to get to the bedroom or at least the couch. There was the glasses Fiddleford had left behind that Ford still hadn't managed to bring himself to throw away or return or even move. There was the spot where Fiddleford had stood and broken his heart.

The spot where he had broken Fiddleford's heart was in the basement.

"Did you ever consider that maybe all of this is your fault? You're so busy blaming everyone else and going on about trust but you're the one who summoned Bill in the first place! What did you think would happen when you get information from a cave painting warning you not to summon a creature?"

"You have a son, don't you?"

Had he mentioned that before? Ford couldn't remember. It wasn't as though Tate McGucket's existence was some sort of secret so he supposed it really didn't matter.

Fiddleford immediately brightened. "Oh yes! Tate. He's a-he's a good boy."

Was he? He had been, once. Ford had been 'Uncle Ford' once. And that had felt strange. He hadn't expected to be an uncle, even an honorary one. Shermy was too young and as for Stanley…well, for all Ford knew he was an uncle a hundred times over and he might never know it.

The thought made him sad.

Fiddleford had been so ridiculously flustered about it. Tate had just started calling him uncle after all the time he had seen him and it was only after they had started with…whatever they had once had that Fiddleford was worried people would think it was a euphemism that meant the two had a romantic relationship. Ford had tried to point out that it was natural for children to call close friends of their parents aunt or uncle and Tate had done it, quite unprompted, before either of them had any thoughts about that kind of thing. Any admitted thoughts to that kind of thing. It always was in Fiddleford's nature to worry, though, and he wasn't wrong in the end. Not about everything.

But he wasn't right, either.

"At least I'm trying to fix this! You not only refuse to take any responsibility for stopping this but you tried to take me out of the equation, too!"

"I don't see him very much these days," Fiddleford mused. "I mean, he still lives with me but he's always so busy. I don't think I saw him at all yesterday."

"That's just how it goes with kids," Ford said.

Of course he remembered when it had been different. He remembered when they almost couldn't keep Tate out of the lab he was so interested in what his father was working on. He remembered how proud Tate used to be.

Ford could only presume that Tate still remembered that feeling and who his father used to be. He could only presume because it wasn't as though he had spoken to Tate at all in months. He had, sort of idly, wondered what Fiddleford would tell his son in order to convince him to stay away from Ford. Even just saying their friendship was over would lead to questions and orders to stay away might lead to disobedience to try and get those questions answered.

In the end, Ford supposed Fiddleford hadn't had to tell his son anything. One day Tate had waved at him from across the street and the next he was looking right through him as though he didn't know him at all.

"I wish I'd never met you."

"Oh, do you have kids?" Fiddleford asked, looking around the room futilely looking for some evidence of tiny life.

"No," Ford said. "I do have a younger brother, though. And I've spent my fair share of time with other people's kids. I'm no expert but I know enough."

"I'm no expert, either," Fiddleford said ruefully. "On anything, it seems, and yet somehow I'm expected to raise a child."

He had been so angry when Tate hadn't recognized him and so terrified. It was the first time he had spoken to Fiddleford since that time he had run to him after Bill confessed his true purpose.

Fiddleford hadn't been surprised to hear it, of course. He had never trusted Bill, only once trusted Stanford, and those days were long gone. Ford had tried to apologize but he was out of practice and the words came out all wrong. He had asked for help in fixing his mistake. But between Fiddleford's trauma and sense of betrayal and Ford's own feelings of abandonment and his suspicions about the Society of the Blind Eye, they had only just gotten into a fight.

It hadn't gone any better that time. Fiddleford was just beginning to noticeably deteriorate, at least to someone who knew him as well as Ford did, and Ford was furious that Fiddleford was not only using that blasted gun on himself and the residents of Gravity Falls who might have seen too much but on his own son. He hadn't just erased seeing gnomes or eye-bats or what have you.

Fiddleford had literally erased Ford from his son's mind. It was to keep him safe, he had claimed. Nothing good could come from him remembering and Ford certainly wasn't allowed around his son anymore so why did it even matter?

Fiddleford may have found what they were doing with the portal to be terrifying, and not without cause, but how could he not see that what he was doing was just as alarming?

Ford wondered if Fiddleford could see himself and what he had become now, really see and know and understand, if he would still disagree.

"By all means, run away again. That seems to be all you're good at these days. My God, have you even looked at yourself in the mirror? You're destroying yourself and you don't even care. And you can't stop, can you? And don't you dare blame that on me. I never asked you to-"

"Not that I don't want to," Fiddleford said, apparently misinterpreting Ford's silence. "It's just…he's eight years old. Strange for a feller my age to have a son so young."

"You're not that old," Ford said without thinking.

Fiddleford laughed at that. "I know you mean well but you're not fooling anyone. I know how old I am."

"And how old would that be?"

Fiddleford thought for a moment and then his shoulders slumped. "I guess I don't then. But it's old. Just look at me. I'd say sixty, easy. Maybe even older."

'You're twenty-nine,' Ford didn't say. 'You're twenty-nine and only a few months older than I am. I look a little old for my age and that's nothing compared to you. That memory gun that you wouldn't listen to me about, that you wouldn't stop using, that you turned on your own goddamn son did this to you and you let it happen.'

What would be the point? He couldn't say any of that. That would just lead to question Ford didn't want to face which would lead to answers Fiddleford had already chosen to remove from his head once.

He was here for once reason and one reason alone and that was not to dredge up the past. A certain amount of it was unavoidable but there was something to be said for letting sleeping dogs lie. It was working wonderfully with Stanley, why shouldn't it work just as well with Fiddleford? Granted Fiddleford was actually here while Stanley wasn't but if he ever saw Stanley again the man would actually be able to list his grievances.

"All I wanted was to make computers. All I wanted was to help people. I caught my son telling his friend that he didn't know me when I came to pick him up."

Ford shook his head. "I'm sorry, I keep losing focus. I don't think switching bodies agrees with me."

That wasn't it but it could have been.

He began to head towards his room. Maybe he should put the carpet in a different room. It was fine to keep around, fine to even have lying out but if getting shocked was something that would at some point lead to him switching bodies with someone it really was dangerous to leave lying around. This was the first time he had been accidentally shocked since that first time and he could always try to be more careful but he was always careful and it hadn't helped here.

There were really only so careful he could be, after all, and bringing a random person from town back to his home was not exactly his idea of a good time. He didn't want people in his house. He didn't want people in his life right now. It was too dangerous, for him and for them. If it had been anyone other than Fiddleford, even this strange hobbled Fiddleford who called him stranger then Stanford, he probably would not have done it. It wouldn't be very logistically-sound to switch bodies, return home alone to get another shock, then find his body and switch back without touching anybody else.

Beggars couldn't be choosers, he supposed.

"It's real easy to cast blame. Harder to accept the past and move on."

"Is this it?" Fiddleford asked, staring down at the rug. "You did say a carpet did this, yes?"

"It did," Ford confirmed.

"How did you come to get a body switching carpet like this?" Fiddleford asked curiously.

"I invented it," Ford said. They both invented it. "Gravity Falls isn't like other towns. We wanted to see if we could and it turned out the answer was yes. I really should have gotten rid of it but it's hard to destroy your achievements and I suppose I'm getting sentimental in my old age."

Fiddleford gave him a skeptical look. "Your old age."

"That is what I said."

"Must have been some friend, inventing a body switching carpet with you."

Ford's throat felt tight. "He was. The best."

And then it had all turned to ashes and somehow or another he had that very same friend standing in the very same room, forever scarred, asking about the carpet that he had dreamed up.

Maybe that was why.

"I can't say I understand you young people these days and your fancy Freaky Friday carpets," Fiddleford said, shaking his head.

"Freak Friday?" Ford repeated blankly.

"You need to get out more," Fiddleford said with perfect seriousness.

Ford didn't even know how to take that one.

"Who's afraid? Last time I listened to you, we nearly burnt the world. And even then, you had to wait for that thing to confirm it. What if he had said it was an accident? What then, huh? You already made it plenty clear how much you respect what I have to say."

"So how do we do this then?" Fiddleford asked. He bent down to remove the shoes he was wearing.

"Oh, no need. I can do it," Ford said. He stepped onto the carpet and rubbed his feet until he could feel the unpleasant shock that indicated that he had activated the carpet.

He held out his hand, feeling a little silly and a little taboo and a little symbolic all at once, and Fiddleford reached out to take it.

He blinked and he was himself again and holding hands with the man he had loved and destroyed. He didn't wretch his hand back immediately, no need to insult or rouse suspicion, but he didn't allow his touch to linger, either.

Fiddleford looked over at him then started patting his body, looking far happier than someone who had aged as poorly as he had really had any business looking to be returned to himself.

"You did it, stranger! I'm me again!"

Ford's heart clenched. "Stanford," he reminded him.

Fiddleford nodded. "Stanford, right. Don't know why I can't seem to keep that straight in my head. I can't keep anything straight in my head these days, it seems."

That might very well be true but Ford thought he knew why Fiddleford was having trouble with him in particular. Friends for nearly a decade, and more than that until the accident, and Ford was the one thing Fiddleford was desperate not to remember. Tate still knew about fairies but now the man he once called uncle.

"Everything doesn't have to be so fucking personal. I was fooled just as much as you were, more even, and you were never meant to go through that portal. You act like I threw you in."

"Listen, Stanford, I really want to thank you for what you did," Fiddleford said seriously. "It may not seem like much but it is mine and I'm glad to have it back. God knows I don't have much else to call mine. If I don't even look like myself-" But he didn't. That was the worst of it. He looked like what he might have looked like if he'd spent forty years homeless. "-then what am I?"

"There's really no need to thank me."

Fiddleford waved that off. "Yes, yes, all in a day's work for you scientist types."

"I didn't mean that," Ford said. "That seems a little pretentious. I just meant that I needed to get my own body back as well and, honestly, it's my carpet and my shock so it was my fault that even happened. If anything, I should be thanking you for taking it so well."

"Ain't nothing more than a mild inconvenience," Fiddleford said, but he looked pleased. "I'd like to think that I'm a reasonable man. You didn't do it on purpose. Most days I think that I'm not but at least I can not bite your head off when you made a mistake. I'm sure I make worse."

He had. He had trusted Ford. He had come to Gravity Falls. He had invented that memory gun in the first place.

"Don't even give me that. When have you ever forgiven anything in your whole life? What's your brother up to, these days?"

"So…what happens now?" Fiddleford asked. "We got me and you back to normal now and I hope you stay away from that carpet. There's only so many times a man can take that sort of surprise."

Ford wondered vaguely if Fiddleford would even remember this the next time they saw each other, either because of how deeply disturbed he was now or because he was going to get another visit from the Society of the Blind Eye. Fiddleford didn't need to remember their connection in order to be a potential victim of them. Or would he see it as being a beneficiary of them?

He wondered if he would get another visit. Would they try and make him forget what he had seen? Would they remember that they couldn't? Having a secret society whose very purpose was to erase people's memories, with or without their consent, was bad enough but for them to use the memory erasing guns on themselves as well? Especially given what had happened to Fiddleford? It was madness.

"I don't know that anything in particular happens," Ford said. "Now we just go about our lives and try to avoid switching skins again."

"Yeah, I suppose that that makes sense," Fiddleford said. He looked strangely disappointed for a person who had just been told he could leave and pretend all of this had never happened.

"I can't change the past. None of us can. But you keep acting like I'm the threat here when I am the ONLY one trying to save us. And fine, yes, save us from a danger I might have let into our lives. But intentions aren't meaningless! I just wanted answers."

"What is it?" Ford asked, as gently as he could.

There were a lot of things it could be. Perhaps, as well as he seemed to take it before, the fact that this was something legitimately weird was just now hitting him and he couldn't handle it. Perhaps the fact that he knew Ford was planning to keep the carpet around was convincing him that Ford was reckless and not to be trusted. Perhaps the fact that he knew that Ford had invented the carpet in the first place, and for no better reason than because he could, convinced him that Ford was a dangerous man who needed to be dealt with. Perhaps he-

"It's just…I don't get a lot of visitors," Fiddleford said. "I-I scrape by. I make robots, you see, and who doesn't want a robot? But the town doesn't really take me seriously. I know that. Crazy old McGucket and his crazy robots. I don't mind, not really."

Oh. Or it could be that.

He didn't mind? Except he clearly did or he wouldn't bring bringing it up.

"Fidds-" He tried again. "Fiddleford. I'm sorry. Making robots is…well, it's certainly spectacular. And even if you couldn't, you wouldn't deserve that."

"Well, thank you," Fiddleford said, looking taken aback and smiling a little. "But, like I said, I really don't mind that."

Ford knew better but it would be cruel to say so. "Then what is it?"

"You're never going to see it, are you? Even after all of this you're still so fucking convinced that you're right about everything. Maybe I'm not perfect but I'm trying, too. And at least I didn't unleash the demon. When this world burns it won't be because of me."

"I just…" Fiddleford trailed off, gathering his thoughts. "I just don't know you very well, Stanford. I seen you around but then I see a lot of people around. But, I don't know what it is, but I really think I like you. I don't know you very well but you're very kind. I don't know that I'm a great judge of people but I reckon that I really do like you."

'No you don't,' Ford wanted to say. 'You might have, once, but there's too much between us. You either hated or loved me too much to be able to even go on remembering me and look what that did to you. You can never erase that much of your life. Nothing good remains of us having ever met. You told me that yourself.'

But how could he say that? How could he say it, even if the person he wanted to say it to was really the one standing before him?

He smiled instead, or at least tried to. "Well thank you. It's always nice to hear something like that. And I-I like you, too."

Fiddleford beamed at him. "Do you…do you think that maybe you could come down and see me or something? Or even just say hi when we see each other in town?"

Ford hesitated. Nothing good could come from that. If he asked Fiddleford what his name was right now, would he even be able to tell him? If he did stop by, would Fiddleford have any idea why?

"I don't get out much," he hedged.

"But when you do," Fiddleford said pleadingly. "Would you?"

"Why don't you just leave Gravity Falls if you hate it here so much? Don't even bring up that cult of yours. Gravity Falls got along just fine before that existed and it will get along just as well after that's gone."

Ford felt like a terrible person. That feeling was becoming more and more common lately. But then, who did he have in his life these days to tell him that he wasn't? Stan was long gone and Ford tried very hard not to think of the kind of future a man with nothing but a duffle bag and a car and not even a GED could hope to find for himself. Fiddleford was even more lost to him than Stan and the man was standing not two feet from him.

"Of course I will," Ford said at last, returning Fiddleford's smile calmly.

They chatted for a few more minutes before Ford showed him to the door.

Ford gave no indication that he was lying.

Of course he was. How could he promise Fiddleford that he would get back into his life? He didn't even know it would be coming back into his life!

It was just too dangerous and he was too busy with Bill and, most importantly of all, Fiddleford didn't want that.

Not really.

Oh, he may think that he wanted that but that was only because he didn't have all the information. He didn't know exactly how far he had gone to get Ford out of his life the first time.

Because he didn't know, because he couldn't remember, he would never be able to change his mind about that. He'd never be able to reconsider. He had chosen a very permanent solution to what surely must be a temporary problem.

And how could Ford know all of that, know what knowing Ford and trusting him had driven him to, and just ignore that? How could he go against his wishes without his knowledge?

It would be spitting on the grave Fiddleford didn't even have.

Ford closed his eyes and tried not to think of what might have been and what still could be but wouldn't. He reminded himself for what must have been the hundredth time that Fiddleford had chosen this.

"This is the last time. I just…I wish I was sorry but I'm not. I can't."