The separation came naturally. It unraveled as graduation neared. It was easier than Fiddleford imagined it would be to set aside science and ease into Emma Mae. It wasn't so miserable to leave the student life behind and settle into a quiet life. It was nice to go to bed before 4 am for once. After a week or two, he stopped associating the smell of coffee with Stanford. He stopped expecting to hear about some dream that helped him solve impossible equations. Emma Mae was attentive, and thoughtful, she was caring and she never made him feel incompetent. Fond memories soured before they disappeared completely of the young genius, rugged, cool, arrogant, cold. Graduation came, and then the wedding, then the pregnancy announcement. Years slipped away, and so did Stanford, retreating to the cabin in Gravity Falls.
It was easier for Stanford to move on. He had been smart to keep Fiddleford at a distance. Nothing is permanent, he told himself. He holed up in his old cabin in Gravity Falls, using grant money for his Master's research. The forever student and mad scientist replaced the tugging loneliness with the thrill of the supernatural. Speaking of the thrill of the supernatural, his psychic mentor had quickly enveloped the space that had regularly been reserved for Fiddleford. Bill wasn't just smart, although technically he held infinite knowledge, but he was funny, and his vast glory made Stanford want to work all that much harder. Stanford was on a trip to redemption. He made the right choice going to college, he was going to be something, his way. Bill gave him access to his memories, and an omnipotent view of where those jerks were now. A sense of self righteousness would wash over him, as he thought of how far he had made it from his hometown.
Lately the same motivations hadn't gotten the wheel churning for either men. Fiddleford's mundane life dragged on. He woke up ready to go to bed, he barely existed, pushing through time just for the sake of it. He reached a plateau of existence so boring he was ready to accept the end of his life even though he was only 35. Stanford no longer felt motivated by the cruel repetitions of all his weakest moments. The cat and mouse dynamic of his and Bill's relationship was getting painful to endure. Bill having no concept of what it meant to be mortal, pushed him until he broke. Bill, like a child with a broken toy, bored of the mangled pieces and human emotions abandoned him. Disappearing for days, weeks, months, just to come back seeming irritated to be there. Stanford pushed and pushed, but the more he struggled against it and failed again and again, the less Bill wanted to deal with him. He looked down, disillusioned by the protege in front of him. Bill had big plans for him.
"If you want to do something right, you have to do it yourself," Bill would say, taking Stanford's body. The first time Stanford tried to fight it, Bill reminded him he had signed over his rights to bodily autonomy. A week later he woke up, his shrunken waist screaming and convulsing under his bruised and torn skin. He'd learned all the ways a person could hurt, stinging, throbbing, raw, endless pain. For no reason in particular, Bill left for the longest he'd ever been gone. At first Stanford lived in a tension he had forgotten he could feel, something deep from his childhood. Time continued to pass, slowly Stanford eased into the silence. He still flinched at shadows in his peripheral vision, but he didn't jerk awake expecting to be badly beaten and worn down. After awhile he began to think Bill was never coming back, and underneath all of that guilt and misery, there was a little relief. Without Bill to fill the void of all the people missing from his life, Stanford realized he'd been lonely for a long time.
That's when Fiddleford got a postcard from Gravity Falls.
