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bennydwight · 3 years

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Bondmates- A FordxOC Oneshot

I’ve never put a story directly onto tumblr before, but I don’t feel right putting this on my fanfiction page until Dakota’s story is fully published, so I suppose I’ll just throw it into the ether here.

Bondmark: A distinguishing mark, feature, or otherwise occurrence for an individual hinting to the identity of their perfect match

~~~

Dakota is nearly twelve when her bondmark manifests; earlier than most, but not unheard of.

She wakes up one morning to see a stripe of swirling colour on the inside of her left wrist, a vortex of tangerine and bright purple, shifting in and out of intensity as the day progresses. She's so excited, and jitteringly nervous too, for some reason, running down to show her parents right away. They say after school they can celebrate!

She's just gotten home from school when the galaxy on her wrist washes deep, deep crimson, and she's hit by a wave of rage so thick and relentless that she's broken three plates before it ebbs. Her parents send her to bed, the celebration cut short.

In the days that follow, her wrist fades to a numb grey, and Dakota sinks into a bone-deep depression.

Her parents take her to see a therapist.

Twenty-five year old Stanford has accepted by now that his bondmark won't manifest.

Logic and studies show that ninety-nine percent of people receive their bondmark before their twentieth birthday, and less than 0.01 of the remaining one percent go through life without their bondmark ever making an appearance. Ford makes peace with that, just another way he's a freak. An outsider.

During a class on calculus, a song gets stuck in Ford's head. It sticks around for hours and all attempts to drown it out are futile.

It takes a week for Ford to realize that the voice in his head isn't one he's ever heard before.

Dakota knows two things about her bondmate:

One - They're emotionally connected somehow.

The colours on her wrist are quickly identified to reflect the feelings of her bondmate, different colours representing different emotions. If he (she assumes it's a he) feels something strongly enough, Dakota will feel it too. She starts to differentiate which are her emotions are which are his by the taste: hers are tasteless, but his leave a sour taste in the back of her throat, like she'd just drank milk.

Her therapist offers a coping solution during her first sessions. Art or music, something to make her happy when his negativity threatens to overwhelm her. She chooses singing.

She's twenty when he starts to respond.

Two - He's slightly stunted, in her opinion.

His deep emotion affects her in a way, but he ever since those first few weeks, he hasn't felt anything deeply at all. But she develops a habit of keeping an eye on the colours shifting on her wrist and singing to match them. In his sadness, she sings brightly, and the cloudy blue on her skin lightens to a more cheery eggshell. When he's anxious, she learns slow, ancient songs in odd languages. In his anger, she sings soothing melodies from her childhood.

She hopes it's because they're a bondmatch, and her mood influences him as well.

Ford knows two things about his bondmate:

One - They're emotionally connected somehow.

He realizes within a week that she knows what he's thinking to some degree. Her songs change to equal or balance what thoughts weigh in his head. During his exams, she sings almost exclusively in Latin, which spurns a desire to learn the language so he knows what she's saying.

He sings back once, his name and age in a simple melody, to see if they are a bondmatch, but she doesn't respond. That's alright, he tells himself, bondmatches happen once in every five hundred thousand. He's just happy to have a bond at all.

Two - She's an alto.

If her screechy attempts at a high C are any indicator. Fiddleford gets very concerned one day after he right near jumps out of his skin at the murderous scream resounding through his skull.

His initial annoyance vanishes under the next line, as she sings about how awful that note was to the original tune of the song.

He smiles for real for the first time in what seems like forever.

Fiddleford gives him an odd look, but doesn't press further, and Ford is grateful for it.

Dakota's bondmate is more frustrated than normal today.

The mark on her wrist has been a steady, dulled burgundy all morning, and the back of her mouth stings under the sour taste of his emotion.

She tries singing something to cheer herself up, a German celebratory song with a catchy chorus.

The taste in her mouth intensifies, and her mark is shot through with an angrier, burnt rust as his frustration turns to outright irritation.

She stops singing. It's not making her feel better anyway.

Ford can't concentrate.

This quantum mechanics test has been the hardest he's ever encountered thus far, and he pulled an all-nighter to study. Sleepless, running on coffee, and nerves about the test are bad enough.

Halfway through question three, his bondmate starts singing something raucous.

On any other day, Ford might meet the cheerful tune with a smile, but he's trying to focus. The moment he's sure he'll have an outburst if she continues any longer, she stops.

The test is over in an hour, but she doesn't sing again for the rest of the day.

Dakota is finding more and more recently that her bondmate is keeping odd hours.

She wakes up at three AM to find her wrist vibrating in swirls of thrilled lemon and inspired peach. His anticipation is tangible. What's got him so excited so late?

She sings softly, trying to lift her own spirits, but she can't stop the unwelcome thought. What if someone else is making him so excited so late?

The notes are cheerful, but the words are melancholy.

Ford glances up from the chess board as lilting notes drift across his mindscape in an odd, echoing quality. His partner notices his grin, gaze shifting upwards to follow Ford's, though the song seems to emanate from the very essence of the vast expanse of Ford's mind. "What's that?"

"My bondmate." Ford is pleased she's up so late, his friend has never yet gotten the pleasure of hearing one of her songs. She's picked a good one, and it serves to lift Ford's already bright mood.

"Oh yeah, that old ritual." Bill moves his pawn. "Seems a little distracting, don't you think?"

Ford looks to the 'sky', his smile fading. Maybe it is...

Dakota hasn't slept well in months.

What started as a few odd days, wrist fading to colours she's never seen him experience, turns into weeks of deepening anxiety, marked by tangerine spots so intense they're almost white, and an ugly charcoal gray. She gets twitchy and restless, like there's something she should be doing. The taste of his emotion starts small, but eventually she can't stand most food for the sour taste in her mouth.

She knows these feelings aren't hers, but it doesn't make falling asleep any easier.

She sings herself French lullabies, but they don't help her much.

Ford has to find a way to stop him.

Ford doesn't have a way to stop him.

Ford can't fall asleep until he finds a way to stop him!

His bondmate has other ideas. Her soft voice cuts through the mess of paranoia and fear in his brain, stilling his thoughts. No! He can't stop! No matter how tired his eyes are, or how comforting her voice is...

Ford falls asleep to foreign lullabies -

"Well, what do you know! Your better half is good for something after all!"

- And wakes up to three fractured ribs and forearms scored with hundreds of leaking cuts.

Dakota is at a conference when she first feels it.

The first surge of terror is brushed off, she's used to it by now, though she does still worry about her bondmate. But the anger that follows, so blood red it practically glows, prompts her to leave the conference hall and seek a secluded corner where the chances of her breaking something reduced drastically. He hasn't been healthy for a long time, but this time it's different.

Something is wrong.

She stares at her wrist, in its pulsing reds, and downs the rest of her champagne to try to rid herself of his sour taste. It's all she can do to stand there and feel.

Something sparks on the stripe of colour, a tiny burst of the darkest gray she'd ever seen. Rapidly, the gray overcomes the blood, and Dakota is struck by a panic that reverberates to the very core of her being.

Something is wrong!

It's brief, but the sheer scope makes it seem like the shock is drawn out forever.

Then, nothing.

It's as if the air conditioner has been shut off, and you find yourself in a house that's deafeningly silent. A constant, gentle stream of emotion Dakota has felt since she was eleven ebbed in an instant. She feels some horrific being has reached down her throat and yanked out her very core, leaving her nothing but a hollow shell.

Her boss finds her some time later, in the fetal position against the wall.

Somewhere, somehow, she registers the stripe on her wrist has gone completely black.

Ford doesn't have much time to think the moment he enters the nightmare realm. Survival takes precedence.

He's occupied for the next standard week trying to devise a way to defeat Bill.

It takes him a month before he has enough downtime to realize he hasn't heard singing once since he became trapped.

It takes him another three years to come to terms with the fact that he'll never hear her again.

He wants so badly to quietly break down somewhere. If Bill finds him, so be it. But he quashes the impulse. He has work to do.

Dakota doesn't sing for years after her bond dies.

She started singing to cope with his feelings, and now there's no reason to.

Ford turns and leaves without a word.

The hospitable Urarians are confused. Why would the best choir on the planet cause their guest to react this way?

Thirty years pass.

Dakota is humming tunelessly as she cooks bacon, but her breath stops as her chest explodes in anger.

The force causes her to stumble, grasping the counter for balance. Saliva gathers in her mouth to combat the sudden sour sensation. She can barely breathe for the rage, eyesight going blurry.

And then she can't breathe for the tears.

Because the stripe on her wrist is glaring blessed crimson.

Thirty years and a day pass.

Ford lays down on the couch, arm covering his eyes. He's back. He's back.

Somewhere, a song comes on, and Ford is just about to shout at Stanley to turn the radio down when his chest constricts.

The voice is in his head.

After thirty years of silence, he can no longer contain his sobs, but his grief pales in comparison to his pure relief.

She's back. She's back.

Dakota lowers her hand. "My wrist changes colours with what he's feeling."

They peer closely at the gentle pink etched onto her skin, just a shade grayer than her usual complexion. She smiles at their interest. Neither of the twins have their bondmark yet, and Mabel was practically bursting with excitement at meeting someone whose mark was physical. She'd asked to see it nearly as soon as Dakota sat down. Bondmarks are precious to some people, but Dakota has never been shy about sharing hers.

"How do you know what he's feeling?" Dipper asked, one hand on his chin. So much like his great uncle.

"Lots of practice," she answers. "This pink colour shows up when he's generally content. And see this?" She points to an olive streak slowly circling the perimeter of the mark. "He's a little under the weather right now, but it's small enough that it's only at the back of his mind and doesn't bother him much."

"And you can feel him, too?" Mabel asks, her grin like the sun.

Dakota laughs at her enthusiasm. "Only sometimes."

Dipper and Mabel perk up for a second, eyes darting deeper into the Mystery Shack, but Dakota is distracted. "Ah! See that?" The twins turn back just in time to see the blood orange starburst fade back into dusty pink. "He just got annoyed at something. But now he's okay again."

The twins make joined impressed sounds. Dipper looks at her with those huge doe-eyes of his. "It must have taken a long time to learn everything he's feeling."

"It did. But he's worth it."

Ford catches the sneeze in one fist, but it jerks the rest of his body enough to startle Mable. She turns from where she sits on the floor, knitting in her lap and back pressed against Ford's shins, and gives him a look. "Are you getting sick, Grunkle Ford?"

He sniffles. As much as he hates to admit it, but he can't lie to that face. "Maybe a little. But it's not too bad. I hardly notice it."

The frantic pen scratching on Ford's right stills. "Would you say you're a little under the weather, but it's small enough that it's only at the back of your mind?"

Dipper's words elicit a little gasp from Mabel, and he looks back and forth between the twins, blinking in confusion. Dipper stares back with a raised eyebrow, and if Mabel smiles any wider her head will split in half.

"Er, yes, that's a concise way of putting it. Why?"

Dipper goes back to scribbling in his journal, but a ghost of a smile haunts his face now. "No reason."

Ford looks to Mabel. She's turned back to the tv, but there's an excited pull to her shoulders. In a brief moment between commercials, when the screen goes dark, Ford catches her reflection and her grin has not faltered one bit.

Dakota can hardly breathe for the claws wrapped around her waist, trapping her arms against her chest. She tries to stay calm. Wild animals could sense panic, and she's no troll expert, but she didn't doubt the hulking beast could sense something from her. The stripe on her wrist swirls charcoal, a colour she's barely seen since the incident thirty years prior, and she wonders if her own fear is feeding back to her bondmate.

She whispers a silent apology to him, wherever he may be.

The troll opens its mouth to drop her inside, but Ford bursts from behind a stalagmite, blaster raised. "Let her go, you hairy heathen!"

She can feel the resonating determination pulse through her chest, and by chance she glances at her wrist again. The charcoal ripples outwards, arcing through with rings of rich wine. Ford fires once, twice, at the beast, and Dakota is so transfixed by the spreading wine colour that she doesn't feel herself falling until she's hit the ground.

The troll retreats, whining, and Ford makes sure it's gone before rushing to her side, hands hovering over her. Never actually touching her. "Are you alright? Is anything hurt?"

She can't answer. Can't do anything other than stare at her wrist. The stripe is shot through with mist and gold.

"Dakota, answer me!"

She says she's fine, smiling to reassure him, but she can't ignore the rapid beat of her heart. When he verifies her safety for himself, she asks. "Ford, what are you feeling right now?"

Though initially taken aback, Ford recovers quickly with a soft smile. "Relieved."

The gentle lavender on her skin proves it.

Ford has a lot of catching up to do in terms of music, and Dakota seems to be the right person to help with that, but he finds himself bashful when she asks his favourite songs since so many of them are out of date.

They spend an afternoon not monster hunting, as usual, but sitting in his parlour with a laptop, taking turns showing each other songs. He feels a little better with his music choice after Dakota reveals her own odd tastes in foreign music.

He feels like he's heard some of them before.

Dakota stares at the gentle pattern of dusty pink and brighter rose on the inside of her wrist. She's found her bondmate, she thinks. But he hasn't given one clue as to whether she's his too. Or not. Or even if he has a bondmark. It's an unspoken rule that one doesn't ask about another's bondmark unless the information is supplied willingly, and Dakota hates the thought of relinquishing her budding relationship with Ford because she's impulsive. He might not even have a bondmark.

If he doesn't, that's fine.

She doesn't want to think about the other option.

Ford settles into bed with a happy sigh, ready for the evening end. It has been an increasingly delightful part of his day, as he finds his bondmate has been singing some of his favourites every night. He wonders if she has a connection to his music too, or if it's just a common interest. Either way, being lulled to sleep by those songs has become something to look forward to, and it's been a consistent concerto every night for nearly two weeks.

He shifts under the covers, closing his eyes.

But sleep doesn't come.

Because neither does her singing.

Dakota is hyperaware of Ford's presence next to hers as the Pines family (plus her, plus Mabel's friends, plus the handyman and the cashier) participates in their weekly movie night. She can't concentrate on the movie, too focused on her wrist and the uneven pulses of navy blue and slate.

She leans over and whispers, "Ford, what are you feeling right now?"

He thinks about it for a moment before answering.

She wonders why he's lying.

Ford can't concentrate on the movie.

Another week without a peep from his bondmate has sent him into a deep-seated worry. Has something happened? Is she okay? Not knowing is driving him to madness.

When Dakota leans over and whispers the query, he doesn't question it. She's been asking it periodically for a few weeks now, and he's chalked it up to nothing more than a new habit. She's staring at him with an expression he can't place, rubbing one thumb up and down the stripe of colour on her wrist. It seems active, but Ford can't tell what colours burst forth from her skin in this light.

He's often wondered at her bondmate. He doesn't know what the colours represent, but he knows they're very important to her. He's caught her staring steadfastedly at her wrist for minutes at a time, but hasn't asked. She may just not have found hers yet. Or, a more unpleasant possibility, she might be harbouring a dead bond.

His time in the portal flows back to him. He wouldn't wish a dead bond on anyone.

But he can't assume, so best to keep away from touchy subjects. He gives her the best smile he can muster. "Happy and content."

Her face makes him regret lying.

Dakota can find only one explanation for this.

The unthinkable has happened, and her bondmark is unrequited.

It's rare, rarer even than bondmatches, but occasionally a person manifests a bondmark towards a person who does not reciprocate. It's awful, its psychologically damaging, but Dakota has lasted this long without her bondmate and she can continue doing so. She's lucky enough to know him well as a friend, and cares about him enough not to bring up the fact of her bondmark, and if he finds happiness in the end isn't that all a bondmate could ask for?

She convinces herself of this, convinces herself she feels better, but not even every song in the world could make her feel better. So she doesn't try.

Ford is so distracted by his mounting worry that he doesn't even realize it's raining until his glasses are coated in fat, wet drops.

Next to him, Dakota shrieks, though he thinks it may be in delight. He's glad. There was a period of time where they barely saw each other, and when they did, Dakota seemed more subdued than normal. But whatever is plaguing her seems to be wearing off, and he's immensely glad. He's missed his friend.

Just like he misses his bondmate.

She hasn't sung to him in over a week. There have been silences before, but never this... heavy.

He and Dakota rush into the Mystery Shack, sopping wet and laughing, though Ford worries his sounds slightly flat. If Dakota notices it, she doesn't mention it.

She tosses her camera bag on the table, then heads upstairs to shower off the downpour. Ford smiles until she vanishes, then lets it drop. He likes Dakota, but not even her company in monster hunting can replace the comfort he never realized he got from his bondmate's songs.

Dakota starts singing from upstairs, and Ford frowns. Slaps the side of his head with one hand, metal plate giving a dull clang as he does. It sounds like he's hearing two slightly different variations on the same song. Is he picking up interference...?

His heart stops.

No.

But yes.

He's in the Mystery Shack gift shop before he can realize his legs are moving, out of earshot from the upstairs shower. He knows the song that's being sung, knows where in the verse Dakota should be, matching up perfectly to the version he hears in his head.

It matches.

His legs are moving again, thudding rapidly up the stairs to pound on the bathroom door. He feels like he's going to laugh, or cry, or throw up.

Dakota opens the door in her shorts and tank top, still drenched in rainwater, the steam from the shower rising up and framing her like an angel walking out of heaven's clouds. Her left arm rests on the door, giving Ford a perfect view of the churning colours on her skin.

It looks exactly how Ford feels.

END

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