crypticmushroom

[crypticmushroom]

Oh absolutely, this has double the angst and double the hurt/ comfort.

Bill killing Stan and Ford then possessing both of their bodies while they watch in horror definitely counts as a good idea. I know you said that Ford’s ghost sent Stan postcard but consider the possibility that Bill called Stan like he did in canon later on after he already accidentally killed Ford so that he could use Stan’s eyes to open the door to get to the portal. The problem with that plan was that apparently dead people’s eyes, especially eyes that got shot with a crossbow aren’t the same as when the people where alive and he still can’t get to the portal room.

So now Bill’s stuck with two decaying bodies and no way to get his party started, then he remembers that there was one more person who worked on the portal and might be forced to open it. Specks! Sure Bill had avoided him after seeing what a mess his mind was but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Cue Ghost!Stan and Ghost!Ford desperately scrambling to warn Fiddleford about Bill using an old radio in Fiddlefords apartment. While Fiddleford becomes convinced he’s going insane hearing the voice of his old partner guilting him for using the memory gun and reminding him about things that should stay FORGOTTEN. When Bill finally tracks him down using Ford’s body, Fiddleford does the only thing he can think of, which is to shot Bill with the memory gun till he stops moving. Accidentally killing him.

Then Fiddleford is left to deal with the body of his friend and his twin brother along with their ghosts. Eventually just coming to the conclusion that if he can create a gun to erase all the bad memories he has, then he should be able to stop these ghosts from bugging him by erasing their deaths, aka accidentally reviving them after they annoy him too much.

Man is done with all their bullshit and everyone needs so much therapy when everything is said and done. Also, post revival Stan and Ford getting used to being alive again and being codependent is everything to me. Maybe the Axolotl takes pity on them and helps them get revived, who knows.

Love this concept so much

GUYS. GUYS. I just had a terrible but wonderfully angsty AU concept come to me.

A Frankenstan AU except its ALSO Frankenford. Bill somehow does end up killing Ford, maybe by throwing him off of the roof of his house or something- that part doesn't really matter. Ford just has to die. BUT since Bill can possess dead bodies, he keeps using Ford's to build the portal. Ford's ghost somehow gets a postcard to Stan, but when he shows up, Bill is there with a crossbow. Now both Pines twins are dead and no one knows about it except them.

So now the Stans have to go through their own deaths while also mourning for each other AND have an awkward reunion AS GHOSTS. Maybe they find a way to get Fiddleford to bring them back to life or at least get Bill out of Ford's corpse, then break the portal.

Does any of this make sense or am I rambling

[crypticmushroom]

little drabble of @shanklin's shellfish au + stan takes (younger sibling) shermie. because if there's one thing i like it's seeing stan in a messed up situation and going "okay, but what if he had a kid he also had to take care of, making everything worse for everyone?" and their shellfish au. god their shellfish au-

warning for swearing and stan's dismally low self-esteem, i guess? this is really angsty, fluff lovers beware-

Stan’s gonna strangle Elmo. 

That’s a hyperbole. He wouldn’t actually strangle an innocent puppet. 

Doesn’t mean that he doesn’t really want to right now. 

“You first!” Shermie demands, frowning seriously at Stan.

“Kid-”

“You first!” Shermie insists and damn it, he sounds like he’s one push away from a full-blown tantrum. Stan sighs. 

Sesame Streets’ filled his little brother’s head up with all these warm, sunshine-y ideas about sharing and empathy. The last things either of them need. Everything was fine before, back when Stan could get away with just taking Shermie’s leftovers or stamping back the hunger pains clawing and squeezing his stomach when mealtimes rolled around. The kid wouldn’t complain then.

Now Shermie thinks they have to share. And apparently, to Shermie, sharing looks like passing their latest stolen meal back and forth like they're taking hits of a cigarette. 

And damn it, but toddlers were fucking stubborn when they wanted to be, and Stan doesn’t think he can handle a screaming toddler, okay? Not tonight. 

“Okay, okay.” He takes the smallest, most unintrusive little bite someone could possibly make, taking the tiniest nibble off the slice of stolen sourdough. Even that has his stomach seizing greedily because fuck, when was the last time he ate? Pulling the bread back from his mouth takes a herculean effort. “Satisfied?”

But Shermie looks far from placated. “That was too tiny!” he shrills in his angry baby voice. “Take a better one!”

“You need more than I do, kid-” 

“Bigger bite! Bigger bite!” Shermie yells, flailing angry fists in the air. Fuckin’ hell, what’s Stan raising here, the next Mother Teresa? This kid should be way more selfish than this. Stan’s raising him, for fuck’s sake. 

Stan takes a bigger bite. He practically has to choke this one down - it drags against his throat, clogging with the thoughts rising in his head. Selfish, selfish, that should have gone to Shermie, you’re so selfish-

“There,” he croaks, once he’s finally able to force it far enough down. He holds out the rest of the bread to Shermie. “Now your turn.” 

At least no one could ever accuse the kid of being some sort of saintly, selfless altruist - he takes the bread in his hands and takes a big, generous bite, just about as much as he can fit in his mouth. Just like Stan taught him. 

“Don’t choke,” Stan says, like saying that is gonna do anything, reaching out to put a steadying hand on Shermie's back. He tries not to think about how small Shermie is under the palm of his hand as he rubs the little guy’s back, mumbling to him, “There ya go, chew slowly now, just like that.”

Finally Shermie swallows it all down, without too much of a hitch. Stan pulls his hand back.

Stan almost hopes for a second that Shermie would be reminded of his own hunger enough to forget Stan’s, to just take the bread and eat it all, but he doesn’t. He passes the loaf back to Stan, and he waits.

Stan sighs. He tears off another bite. The voracious animal in his stomach makes it feel like nothing. Never satisfied, always asking for more. Selfish.

Shermie’s starting to smile at him now, at least, swinging his little legs a bit. “Does it taste good?”

Stan raises an eyebrow at him. He hands the bread to Shermie. “You had some yourself, why don’t you tell me?”

Shermie frowns at him, tiny nose scrunching. “Yeah, but I wanna know what you think!”

What is this, more Sesame Street crap? Shermie should know Stan’s opinion doesn’t matter. Stan doesn’t get to have an opinion. “I dunno, kid. If I say no, will you eat all of it?”

“Noo!” Shermie wails. Damn. “We havta share!”

Stan’s too tired to fight about this. He’s always tired - it’s a bone deep dredge, this exhaustion. It haunts him at every moment, has for years. It’s starting to become more a part of him than anything else, making a home next to the rotten greed of his core. 

“Alright, alright.” Stan sighs. “It’s good, okay? It’s very, uh, very… flavorful?”

Shermie nods, like this makes complete sense. He takes another bite of the bread, chewing thoughtfully. 

Stan glances out the window. Getting dark out there. Hm.

“You want a story tonight, Shermie?” he asks, as the kid passes the bread to him. 

Shermie blinks at him. “But it’s not bedtime yet?”

“We’re going to bed early tonight,” Stan tells him, because he’s a selfish bastard who doesn’t care if his kid brother wants to stay up later, because he’s Stan Pines, greedy, selfish, Stan Pines- “Stan’s tired.” 

But Shermie doesn’t even look that upset. “Okay,” he says easily. Because he’s used to Stan being selfish, of course, because he has to live with him, forced when he’d be happier anywhere else, because his brother’s a selfish fuckup who killed their- “We’re gonna keep eating though, right?” 

Stan tries to keep his breathing even. “Yeah. We’ll keep eating.” And he takes his bite out of the sourdough, just to reassure the kid, before passing it back.

Shermie takes a big bite out of the bread. “I love you, Stan,” he says with his mouth full. 

No you don’t. You shouldn’t love me. I’m the worst person alive. All true, but also things he can’t in good conscious drop on his kid brother, because Stan’s not that awful. Shermie doesn’t need to be burdened with Stan’s fucking shit. “I love you too, buddy,” he says instead, and at least he’s not lying. 

[crypticmushroom]

yo. part four of stan if he was raised by coyotes is here :-)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3/ part 4(you are here!) / part 5(eventually)

Here’s the plan:

DNA testing was a relatively new science in the 1970s and 80s. The science was known to be possible, but the technology wasn’t quite there yet. Also, Ford did not, for all his many PhDs, take a minor in Biology. Or have a degree in Engineering. 

All of these things Fiddleford had. 

Granted, Ford would be lying if he said part of it wasn’t fueled by the desire to see his old college friend again. Fiddleford had been the first ever true friend he made after Stanley went missing. Ford hadn’t exactly been chomping at the bit to attend Backupsmore, of all places, but he’d been desperate to go to college, to get out of the house, as soon as possible. Backupsmore provided that.

But meeting Fiddleford had made it all worthwhile. It had been so long since Ford felt there was someone he just fit with. Fiddleford shared his curiosity, his brilliance, and brought to the table his gumption and creativity, with a pragmatic attitude and hospitable personality. They’d spent many nights up late, playing DD&MD, or studying together, or just sitting on their separate beds, talking quietly as they stared up at the ceiling. Fiddleford felt like a kindred spirit, a fellow star amongst stones. They fit.

Then they graduated. Then Fiddleford got married. 

Ford had wondered often throughout his life if there was something wrong with him. As a child he reasoned that his lack of interest in the opposite sex (or even the same sex) had simply been the logical thing to do. That belief had held throughout college - why would he take precious time away from his studies to go on frivolous affairs with people he didn’t even know that well? 

It certainly worked out for most of his life. Ford didn’t know of any women (or men) who would want to go out with him. He was always viewed as strange, unwieldy, unsociable. And Ford didn’t even want romance - the idea of it held nothing for him. 

What he wanted was companionship. Someone to be there. 

He’d been happy for his friend, of course. Fiddleford really did seem to love Emma-May. It was just that-

-it was just that it was yet another reminder that Ford was abnormal. An alien in human skin. 

It was just that Fiddleford getting married felt like being left behind. It was just that Fiddleford getting married felt like a reminder that Ford was alone, that he wasn’t normal, that eventually everyone, even Fiddleford, would move on to normal, happy lives, without the stain of the freakish Stanford Pines.

So he did what monsters did best, and holed himself up in a lonely lair to hide away, until he had achieved an accomplishment, a discovery so big and so bright, it would eclipse his abnormality in importance. He would stop being Ford the Freak and start being Dr. Stanford Pines, Ph.D, the Genius. 

(When he, at the ripe old age of five, told Stanley of this grand plan (still young in the making), Stanley had just shrugged at him and, with all the simplicity that comes with being five years old and seeing everything at its face value, said, “Okay, whatever makes you happy, Sixer. Just so long as you don’t forget about me.”)

But now he had a reason to call Fiddleford up. For science- er- for Stanley!

The plan was to phone Fiddleford and invite him to leave his family for several months to create some sort of machine that would revolutionize the study of genetics, so that Ford could definitively prove that Remus was not his brother and that he was simply going mad with grief or something, and once they had that done, they could create some sort of DNA-seeking robot to hunt down Ford’s real brother and return him. All very achievable things. 

Actually, more achievable than you might think. Fiddleford picked up on the second ring. 

“You say you're tryin' to build a biochemical deoxyribonucleic acid analyzer to compare two folks’ DNA?” Fiddleford paused for Ford’s awkward, ‘Well, yes, but…’ before cutting him off, “Well that's biologically and mathematically feasible, I reckon!”

Ford let out a billowing sigh of relief. “Thank you, Fiddleford. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“Hey, just so long as you ain’t planning on using it for evil!”

A beat.

Fiddleford cackled, telephone-static crackling in his laugh. “I’m just kiddin’! Science has no morals!”

Ford chuckled fondly, already feeling lighter. He’d forgotten how comfortable he’d felt around Fiddleford, how at ease everything felt - he didn’t have to pretend to be anything he wasn’t. “Quite. It’s good to see that the married life hasn’t changed you too much.” 

“Oh, hardly! It’s real boring, really- ever since Emms banned murderbots in the house,  I’ve taken to creating computermajigs to keep m’self sane! I’m like a hog with no mud to roll in, Stanferd. It’s maddenin’!”

“I’ll welcome any murderbots you wish to make here,” Ford told him genuinely. “So long as they don’t turn on us, of course.”

“What do I look like to you? A first year Engineering student?” Fiddleford laughed brightly. “I’ll see ya in a week, Stanferd!”

“Farewell,” Ford said, before the line went flat.

He set the phone down, breathing out with a small smile on his face. 

Right then.

It would take at least a week, maybe two, for Stanley’s baby teeth to arrive - Ford had tried to get his mother to pay for faster shipping, but she’d been firm in that she wasn’t spending any more money than she had to, especially when Ford wouldn’t even tell her what he planned on doing with the teeth beyond ‘it’s for science’. In her mind, if Ford wouldn’t tell her exactly what he was planning, then it clearly wasn’t urgent enough to pay the extra however-many-scents for express shipping.

Typical, really. Ford was certain that if he had told her he planned to do mystic, folklore spells with them, she would have paid for the President himself to deliver the package. Typical.

Instead, Ford was using science. Which his parents did not think was good enough. “When will you start making money, Stanford?”

They hadn’t exactly shelled out for Stanley’s search, either, he thought bitterly. If they had, maybe Stanley would still-

Ford cut that thought off, running a hand through his hair with a deep sigh. It wasn’t that he disagreed with it, but he didn’t have time to spiral down that particular cold staircase of thought. It was one best explored on empty nights, with a shot glass as his only company. Right now, he had to get to work.

Stanley’s teeth would hopefully provide an adequate DNA sample to test. Ford knew Stanley hadn’t lost all his teeth before he went missing (most children slowly lose their teeth throughout all of their childhood, all the way until they’re twelve), but Ford did have the very distinct memory of Stanley accidentally smashing headlong into a fence at the dock and losing a tooth, which they had then brought to their mother.

Stanley had been very casual about the whole thing, contrasting the sheer, all-consuming panic Ford had felt at the time because, was that supposed to come out? Oh Moses, Stanley, what if you knocking the tooth out too early means the adult one doesn’t come in right? What if-

You mean I might get an awesome pirate tooth? Like a gold one or a snaggletooth? Stanley had grinned broadly, showing off a mouth that looked far more gruesome and bloody than it really ought to have. That would be so cool!

Ford had been such a nervous child, he recalled. Smart enough to know about the dangers of the world, but not smart enough to know he really didn’t have to worry about most of them. The same younger version of him had been deathly afraid of rabies (fair) and brain-eating amoebas (absolutely absurd, they were swimming in the ocean, not Lake Michigan or what have you).

But Stanley had a way of balancing him out. As a child Ford had thought Stanley must not be scared of anything, which in retrospect certainly couldn’t have been true, but Stanley had certainly always acted the part. Ford would always remember his brother to be daring and reckless, rushing into things without a moment's thought. If we’re together, Stanley had always said, then I’ve got nothin’ to be scared of. 

…he must have been so scared, alone, abandoned, at the gas station.

No. Ford had to stop thinking about this. Now isn’t the time. 

He had to… he had to set up the guest bedroom. Yes, that’s what he had to do. Fiddleford would need a place to sleep while they worked. 

Ford had a small basement he’d been thinking about renovating for more lab space, but there was no way even the impressive construction abilities of the Corduroy family could get that done in the week’s time it would take Fiddleford to arrive in Gravity Falls. 

The DNA-Machine (name pending(maybe something in Latin?)) could easily go in the living room area, if Ford cleared out some space. Ford certainly wasn’t about to make his friend sleep in a sleeping bag on the floor, so he’d have to get a bed from the mattress store. As for the room-

Fiddleford certainly couldn’t stay in Stanley’s room. That was… no. Just no. Ford had to keep that room open, for if- when Stanley returned. Letting anyone else stay in there was out of the question. 

It would have to be in the attic area then. Ford was quite certain he could convert one of the rooms into a suitable, even comfortable guest bedroom. He’d even put in a few books of his he knew Fiddleford would like, in case he wanted to pick up some late night reading - Ford and Fiddleford were both prone to restlessness in the night. 

Ford would also need to pick up some more groceries. He certainly didn’t have enough food to feed two, much less-

Oh, right. Remus. 

Fiddleford would… probably be okay with Remus, right? Ford didn’t really see the creature going anywhere in the near future, and the DNA-Machine was being built quite literally because of Remus. 

Remus certainly couldn’t sleep in Stanley’s room either, because he wasn’t Stanley. Ford may not have proved that yet, but he was certain of it nonetheless. 

Remus could sleep in his room with him, Ford decided. Remus wasn’t human, and clearly had no concept of human boundaries, and Ford didn’t mind sharing the space. He’d shared a bed often enough with Stanley, when they were young. 

There was a soft, muffled thump from down the hall, and Ford straightened, attention snapping towards the noise. 

He could hear the quiet, distinct noise of Remus walking towards the door on all fours, then begin to scratch at it, making a sound halfway between a whine and a growl. 

Ford huffed, amused. It seemed someone had woken up. 

His eyes trailed towards the clock on the wall. Halfway to 8 o'clock at night was a bit early to turn in, but by the sound of it, Remus wouldn’t let him stay awake any longer than that. Apparently it was their bedtime. 

He would get an early start in the morning, he told himself. Going to bed early meant he would only wake up even earlier than usual, maybe even avoid some crowds. He had no idea what day of the week it was - time seemed to blur together like that, when the only schedule that mattered was your own. Without school or a 9-to-5, it was easy to lose track of the days of the week, as they didn’t really matter. 

Ford moved back down the hall, not bothering to muffle his steps as he walked back to his bedroom. 

Soft growls and whines could be heard from the other, Remus’ nails creaking against the wood - Ford frowned at the thought of the damage the creature must be doing to his poor door. Or to his own nails. Perhaps it would be best to teach Remus how to use a doorknob. 

Ford waited until the scratching stopped to open the door - he didn’t want Remus to fall through it unexpectedly. He grasped the handle and softly pushed the door open.

And there sat Remus, long, curly brown hair billowing out around him, spooling out on the floor like cascading water - it was amazing how one bath could make Remus look so much better. Now he was a far cry from the ragged, scruffy creature Ford had found in the woods earlier - long, clean hair, not a smudge of dirt on him, with brown eyes blinking up at Ford with a severely unimpressed look, like Ford had personally offended him. 

It was almost funny, till the thought ‘Looks a bit like Pa’ crossed his mind, and suddenly Ford just felt tired. 

“Yes, yes,” Ford said, giving a small, tired huff of amusement, “I’m supposed to be in bed, hm?”

Remus growled softly, letting out one, sharp bark. 

“This is actually my house, you know,” Ford said jokingly, “You should be the one following my rules, not the other way around.” 

Remus growled again, starting to sound annoyed. He stepped forward, snapping his teeth around Ford’s pants leg and trying to pull him. There was a surprising amount of force in it, for an action that was all teeth. 

“Senseless beast,” Ford sniped, though there was no heat behind it. Only a fond sort of humor, at Remus and the situation both. “Very well. I see I have no choice in the matter.” 

He allowed himself to be pulled towards the bed, before climbing in himself so that Remus wouldn’t get it in his head to try and force him again. That had been unpleasant. 

Fortunately Ford hadn’t put his shoes back on after the bath, so all he had to do was awkwardly shrug off his trenchcoat and toss it to the floor, then set his glasses on the nightstand (Ford was fine sleeping in his shirt and pants - he’d done it plenty, more often than not, actually). 

Remus climbed in beside him, thankfully not on top of Ford this time. He curled up at Ford’s side like a dog, seeming pleased, either with himself or with this whole thing, Ford couldn’t tell. He definitely looked smug, though. 

“I should make you sleep at the foot of the bed,” Ford said, making no move to do so. He lifted a hand, petting Remus’ hair idly. 

Remus made a contented noise, shifting to get more comfortable on the bed. His head tipped towards Ford, welcoming Ford’s petting.

“I wonder how intelligent you are, anyways,” Ford mused. “I should run some tests on you, seeing how human-like you really are. Just because you’re not my brother doesn’t mean you’re not some other, completely human individual who happened to have grown up in the woods.”

Ford stared up at the ceiling, voice hushed. 

“Surely you can’t be Stanley, though. He was five years old - far too old to completely lose all language skills and human development. He should have been able to find a place in a human society - why on Earth would he have ever needed to- to become something like you?” 

He wouldn’t have needed to. 

Unless something horrible happened to him. 

Ford shuddered inexplicably. No. Remus was not his brother. 

Once he had his proof then he would be able to put that ridiculous, borderline intrusive notion to rest. He knew it couldn’t be true, Remus couldn’t be his brother, yet he couldn’t stop thinking it. About how much Remus looked like him, how he acted in ways that were reminiscent of Stanley, just twenty years evolved and grown. 

But it wasn’t true. Ford was certain it wasn’t true. 

(Surely he would have known if Stanley had been suffering. 

Surely he would have felt something. Some cosmic pull. A divine sign. Something.)

Remus huffed at him. Ford could hear the exasperation in it, like Remus was telling him to shut up and go to sleep already. Ford smiled faintly. 

He rolled over, pulling a pillow under his head. “Goodnight, Remus,” Ford whispered, giving Remus’ hair one last pet.

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[crypticmushroom]

Trapped in Active Depart

A prequel of sorts to Dead on Arrival; the moment of Stanford Pines' death.

Can be found on Ao3.

The pain was so blinding that Ford almost collapsed to the ground the second he woke up. It lanced through his head, burning and unending, throbbing through his skull. As he braced his knees and sucked in ragged gasps of air, Ford reached up to feel at his head where the pain was at its most acute.

There was blood trickling down his face, warm and thin. He could feel it trailing down to his chin. A lot of blood. Head wounds bled heavily.

The pain bloomed anew the second his fingers brushed against the edge of a wound, and Ford almost crumpled again. For that brief second before he yanked his fingers away, he thought he felt something hard. Bone, perhaps.

Had Bill cracked his skull in?

Ford attempted to straighten up, blearily looking around the room—his bedroom, he realized. He patted around his torso; his coat was still on, the journal still in one of the inner pockets. Good, good.

He swayed in place, his legs weak. The pain pounded at his head, and he struggled to think, to plan.

A curse was torn out of him as the pain around his temple was joined by a sudden horrible burn of pain at the back of his head, just above the nape of his neck. He clapped a hand there. It was worse, somehow. How was it worse?

He tried to think, tried desperately. He hurt so badly it was all his mind could process. He could feel panic working its way through him. 

How bad was the injury?

Were their more?

What had Bill done?

Could he fix it?

God, it hurt. It hurt.

How did he stop it? Did he have any medication that he hadn’t thrown out in a fit of fear that Bill would send him into an overdose?

How did he stop this?

His breathing came faster until they sounded more like sobs. He could barely stand, but he needed to get out of this room, needed to keep working on a solution. To the pain, to the weak spots in his defenses, to Bill. 

If he could just move, he could work. If he could work, he could plan. If he could plan, he could fix this. 

He just needed to move. 

His head hurt. The world was tilting, blurring. It was so hard to cling on to thoughts, it felt like it was impossible to think.

Except—even as the pain blinded him, dissolved anything else but its presence away, a strange feeling overtook him.

It wasn’t panic. It wasn’t a sudden burst of calm. It was just nothing. Nothing at all.

Ford breathed in.

There was one thought crystallizing in his mind.

I’m going to die.

It wasn’t a thought born of fear, not the panicked cry of a mind newly aware of something coming to kill him. There was no rush of adrenaline to accompany the thought, the body’s desperate reach for survival. No fearful surge of motion or acuity to keep living.

The thought was pure fact. Immutable.

I’m going to die.

There was no use in trying to save himself. Ford knew this with a cold, unshakable clarity. There was no saving himself from death. He was already dead. What had killed him had already occurred, and his body could not undo it. His body knew this. It wasn’t going to try anymore.

I’m going to die.

He staggered forward towards the wall, collapsing against it with weak arms. The was a dark stain of blood on the wall. Was this where Bill had cracked his head open?

Was this where Bill had finally killed him?

He slid down the wall.

I’m going to die.

His arms felt numb. The pain in his head still pounded. He could feel the pound of his heart with it. A heart that would soon slow to a stop. Was it already slowing?

I’m going to die.

Something warm rolled down his face. It must have been more blood, but it was odd that it trailed down both sides of his face. He couldn’t spare the brainpower to care.

I’m going to die.

Ford knew that all he had to do was stay here, crouched against the wall like a frightened animal, and it would happen. Everything would be over with.

A new thought came into being, sudden and stubborn and childish: But I don’t want to!

A groan of despair escaped him. 

I’m going to die. 

I don’t want to die.

He was supposed to fix this. He was supposed to stop Bill. He was supposed to dismantle the portal. He was supposed to get rid of the mural.

He was supposed to see Stanley again.

I’m going to die.

I don’t want to die.

It was too late. It was too late. He was gone already.

He clawed his stiff, numb fingers into the folds of his coat, drawing out his journal. Guided only by feeling, he pulled out a note he had stuffed in between its pages for safekeeping. 

The note for Stanley was supposed to just be a precaution, a bit of paranoia. He wasn’t going to die. But just in case…

Ford let his bloodied head slide further down the wall until he was folded over his own knees, his forehead resting on the ground, the journal and the note cradled in his arms between them and his chest like it was an old, worn teddy bear. He clung to it as though it could comfort him just as much.

There was only the howling of the wind outside to accompany him as his body gave up.

His last thought was desolate, miserable, and empty.

I don't want to die.

[crypticmushroom]

im home from work bc i Got Injured so im indulging myself by finishing and posting an incredibly noncanonical joke i made about @dark-lord-of-awesomeness's shapeshifter Stan AU (fic here). stan has since learned fiddleford's name unfortunately, but i love to bully him.

sorry about no id but i injured my hand and typing this took a really long time

bonus: things i couldnt make them say but which theyre thinking anyway

[crypticmushroom]

Just keep thinking about necromancer!Stan from all the talk with @coldbronzemoon. (And Ghost Ford is here too, being reasonably judgmental of his brother's life choices.)

I know that in the time frame of resurrecting Ford, Stan probably not gonna sit down and perfect his persona yet. (That's for Murder Hut 2, baby.) But I still think it would be fun to tweak his appearance a bit. :3

Then I think it would be fun if he had that hand from the Hand Witch episode, that he somehow raised it as a zombie hand in his command when he first tried the spell, and now he just has it as a weird assistant.

The Necronomicon, after he released the seal Ford put on (by using a chain cutter, because the magical riddle to solve a lock was for NERD you DRAMA QUEEN), kinda just attuned itself to him. So, sometimes it just..appeared to him. That does cause problem when he just trying to sale some doodad and the schmuck he try to sale it to noticed the book and thought it was a doodad.

After a while, Ford started screaming at his brother to just keep it on his person (like Ford did with the journal), but alas, no one heard his ghostly wisdom.

[crypticmushroom]

I don’t think it’s ever talked about in canon and it probably has a magical explanation but what if, after the burn on Stan’s shoulder’s healed enough to become a scar Stan decides to get it tattooed over with the signature color we see on the show.

What if he does this as a reminder of his mission. A reminder that he might have killed his brother and it’s his job to get him back and he cannot forget it. If the scar is allowed to fade then that means that that night could fade from his memory. And Stan, more than anything cannot allow himself to move on, because his brother is more important than he is and the scar is a reminder of that.

[crypticmushroom]

Gee wonder what THAT was all about- Sure hope our lil Ford didn’t accidentally summon a DEMON or somthing. That would be pretty foolish if you ask me.

WOAH! Updates? Hope you enjoyed part 7- One more part left and that’s the end of CHAPTER 1 with this fun lil au of mine. I have it all plotted out on a word document trust- Just gotta have faith in the process yk? lol. But I’ll leave you in suspense once again, cuz cliffhangers are the best.

Previous

First

[crypticmushroom]

dead on arrival by @coldbronzemoon

"Sixer," he said into the cold air. His voice was hoarse. "Stanford. What are you doing? Get up." There was a dark patch on the wall in front of his brother. "Stanford. This isn't fucking funny. I'm tryin' to help you."

The fic stayed in my head; I just had to.

[crypticmushroom]

Some unserious FrankenFord doodles

(Insert awful joke about Ford closing his eyes, but not being able to block out Stan's suffering because his eyelids are transparent.)

For the record, this isn't super accurate to what I have in mind, lol.

[crypticmushroom]

Sighs.

Im back

Au where ford actually kept track of Stan a little bit more than in canon. I’m talking the man would cast spells and ask the mail box “is my brother alive” or “where is my brother”

But of course because I love myself some angst, Fords questions were worded in such a way that he ONLY knew his brother was alive—but being alive doesn’t equal being okay. He gets his brothers location, but being realistic do you think Ford would think that he’s traveling so much because he’s running away or because he’s successful and LIKES to travel. “Oh look Stanley’s taking a vacation in Colombia. Although that’s a long vacations it’s been months… he must be pretty rich thanks to his products!” (Because remember ford had seen Stan’s commercials, so ford follows his line of logic to be that Stan is pretty successful.)

Of course one day Ford finally asks a slightly different question, one that crumples the narrative he created in his mind, “How is Stanley doing?”

And that’s when he learns that his brother is currently being transported to a hospital. That his brother is on the verge of death due to malnutrition, hypothermia, and because of an infected untreated wound. That his brother hasn’t been okay the last few years.

He learns that he asked all the wrong questions.

[crypticmushroom]

FrankenFord AU

Someone mentioned that this AU should exist and I agree.

In this world, Ford tried to dismantle more of the portal before Stan arrived. Instead of getting sucked in, he got slammed into the machinery and broke either his neck or his brain after Stan pushed him. (He doesn't decompose because of magic. Maybe.)

Stan spends the first day tending to Ford's wounds, the second day waiting for him to wake up, and the third day trying and failing to look through Ford's stuff for a "quick fix." He's in shock and sleep deprived- so he's opening books and basically just holding them in front of his face. He isn't legitimately trying to resurrect Ford because he has no reason to think that's possible; it's just denial. That is, until he meets Bill, hears weird interference through radios, and gets more acquainted with Gravity Falls.

Insert some other half baked ideas about finding Journal 2, meeting McGucket and hoping he has cult magic, Ghost-Ford and Bill interactions, and Stan being less precise and more impatient, so Ford keeps being semi-ressurected or temporarily resurrected with really freaky side effects.

[crypticmushroom]

Franken Ford au >:) write it i dare

Oh GOD I have so many other things to WRITE

But listen I have been thinking about this and here's the thing

Because I WROTE Abandon my Eulogy. I've played these games before. I've done the frankenSTAN route, and I'm gonna be honest, Stan's version would be very very similar in terms of utter angst and self loathing

I've DONE it, so when it comes to FrankenFORD (honestly i like Fordstien better but that may be just me) I'd want to switch it up a little. In that. Well.

It's from Stan's POV (mainly) and therefore would be a comedy

A dark? Comedy maybe. Nothing too angsty (I LOVE angst don't get me wrong, but writing AME takes a lot out of me to make the angst really HIT ya know?) So, if I were to HYPOTHETICALLY write this, it'd be more Comedy leaning than angst

Secondly, id use this as an opportunity to enforce my Bill As A Weird-Creepy Guy agenda on everyone in that I think the Stan and Bill dynamic is HILARIOUS

I know some people ship them (which, I ship based on what's the funniest so I see the vision) but there is an empty place where a hilarious character dynamic should rise, and that is a Stan and Bill buddy cop situation.

Picture this

Stan, (fresh off the streets, mullet having and Stressed) comes to Ford's house to find him dead. Ford's fallen off the roof, or fell down the stairs, or some other way, and is DECEASED.

Stan grieves, does the whole thing, and turns his back to call SOMEBODY (his Ma? The morgue? Who does he even call?) When FORDS BODY gets up, dusts itself off, and introduces itself as Bill cipher.

Stan punches it in the face. Ole reliable.

He ties it (him?) To a chair, and when said yellow eyed freak awakens, demands answers

Bill Cipher, who maybe wasn't paying close enough attention to his favorite meat puppet and let it die, is having a BLAST using a human body. So many sights! So many smells, and tastes, and feelings! This is great! Except he really does need that portal opened up, and even in Sixers body he can't open the door.

He aims to make a deal with Fiver, Aka Spare parts. Open the portal, and Bill can bring Ford back to life! Easy as hell! Cmon all we gotta do is shake on it. I know how, it'll be simple!

Stan, a conman by trade and a person who prides himself on Not Being A Sucker goes, "well if you say it can be done, I'll do it myself, no demon help required, actually."

Which leads to this standoff. Stan wants his brother back, simple, and Bill wants the portal opened.

But as long as Bill is IN Ford's body (which he hopped into at FIRST opportunity) then Ford's body isn't actually DECOMPOSING, it's just. Sort of in stasis. If Bill LEAVES the body, then Ford will start to rot.

And Bill actually. Likes? Having a human body. Sure this one in particular is sorta weak and smells a little musty, but being physical is FUN, and he enjoys it.

But TECHNICALLY, the deal that's allowing Bill to even BE corporal in this dimension is fading. Ford is dead, that's the deal maker, and Bill doesn't have any sort of anchor in this dimension anymore.

So he sort of. Doesn't think it through, and he offers Stan a modified deal.

Stan doesn't have to OPEN the portal, he just needs to allow Bill to use Ford's body, TEMPORARILY, and Bill will give guidance on how to bring Stanford back from the dead.

(Bill believes that eventually, with a push, Stan will WILLINGLY open the basement door and Bill can slip down, kill the spare, and start the apocalypse, no problem.)

(Stan believes the demon just wants to fuck with him by wearing his brother's skin, and Stan is READING the journals, he knows that technically, Bill can still be banished.)

It's really a finicky and terrible plan, but what has Stan got to lose? His brother is already DEAD, and not using the body, and Stan will just Not Tell Ford when he gets back, easy peasy.

Stanford Pines, with a new ghost form, watches his brother make a deal with the demon that basically killed him, with a sort of pained, horrified look like one watches a speeding train hit a school bus, and then a nursing home bus, and then a bus full of puppies, and then an ice cream truck.

That is to say, this is Bad. This is Very Bad.

Now some of you may be thinking "E, how is this a buddy cop movie?"

Because I have this image of Stan (who won't leave Bill alone in thr house for good reason) taking Bill (in Ford's body) to greasys diner in "disguise" (Bill has sunglasses on) and Bill putting the salt in the sugar container like a little bastard kid

Stan has to babysit Bill (an all powerful cosmic being) who is possessing his TWINS CORPSE because Bill WILL stick his (fords) fingers in the garbage disposal

(Oh and Bill learns about the power of friendship because Stan can't reel in his Take Care Of Ford energy even when Ford is being piloted by a demon)

(Oh and Ford follows the two of them around everywhere because he needs to find a way to Stop Bill and also because he hasn't seen Stan in years and is worried)

(I've thought about this too much.)

[crypticmushroom]

Dead on Arrival

Stan goes to his brother's house hoping for a reunion.

He doesn't get one.

A Frankenford one-shot inspired by this post by @crypticmushroom

Stanley Pines didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

Well, he did. He was looking at 618 Gopher Road, the address his twin brother supposedly lived in. But that didn't make sense.

He wasn't sure exactly what he would've imagined Stanford's house to look like at this point in their lives—mostly he'd be busy gnawing on his jealousy that Stanford had a whole house to his name—but it would've involved less... barbed wire. Less 'KEEP OUT!' signs. Less of an overwhelming air of mania and fear. The cabin stood stark against the white of the blizzard Stanford had forced Stan to drive through. It looked less like a building and more like an animal crouching in wait, some looming beast with one large glassy eye staring down at him.

Stan almost wanted to turn around and go back to his car, currently abandoned some distance away when the piles of snow had proven too much for an old girl with no winter tires to speak of.

But Stanford had sent for him. After ten years. Even if the last sparks of brotherly concern weren't urging Stan on, sheer curiosity would've pushed him forward. What the hell was going on?

He trudged his way through the snow and up to the front porch, stilling at the door. His fist hesitated in place. This cabin was nothing like what he would've imagined. It unsettled him, left him off-kilter. It made his imagination spiral off to odd places; he thought of this house not even being Stanford's, that he was about to invite a maniac to hurl the door open and shoot him dead then and there.

But no. Stanford wouldn't break ten years of silence just to be a bastard. Would he?

"C'mon," he muttered to himself, just to hear something outside of the howling of the wind. "He's your brother. He won't bite."

He knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He pounded on the door.

Nothing.

Just silence underneath the wind and the whipping of pine branches out in the forest.

His breath rushed out of him in white plumes. He shivered. His jacket was good enough for New Mexico, not a freak blizzard up north in Oregon. If nothing else, Stanford owed him some time in his heated house for making Stan drag himself through this weather.

Stan gave one final round of resounding knocks, ones so harsh anyone in the house had to have heard them.

Nothing.

This was the point were Stan turned around, got back into his car, and gave up on his brother. Or at least, it was the point that he turned around, got back into his car, and found a place to stay the night in town before trying again tomorrow, hopefully with less snow whipping around him and chilling him to the bone.

Stan's hand drifted down to the door knob. In a fit of impulse, he turned it and tried to open the door.

The front door groaned open, something scraping along the frame as it went. Stan almost laughed out loud. All of the fencing, the signs, the frantic desperation to keep people away, and the front door was unlocked? Was Stanford stupid?

No. He wasn't. Not this kind of stupid, anyway.

The unlocked door was suddenly as unsettling as the rest of the house.

Still, Stan didn't have any plans to freeze outside when there was a perfectly good interior right in front of him. Better to ask forgiveness instead of permission, that was always his motto. Right behind 'Never say please' and 'Punching solves all your problems one way or another.'

He pushed the door in even further and let himself inside.

Stan didn't know what the hell he was looking at.

He expected a living room. Maybe one of those fancy 'mudrooms' that just seemed like a waste of building material to him. Something half-way to normal.

Instead, there was stuff. Loads and loads of stuff. Things in jars, giant hulking shapes hidden underneath tarps, a huge fish tank with a skull in it, an anatomical skeleton, way too many medical instrument-looking things. It looked like a horror movie props department and the storage room for a college of science had thrown up in the same spot.

Stan edged into the room, shutting the door behind him. It was nearly as cold in here as it was outside, that was the first thing he noticed. The second was that there were no lights on, and that the place smelled bad.

He knew this kind of smell. It came from a bunch of injured people being in a room together before they got any medical attention that introduced disinfectant to the equation. It was a heavy metallic smell that cut through the dust and rot that also hovered in the air.

Why did Stanford's house smell like blood? Why did it look like this?

Mechanically, he turned to make sure that the door was locked, a well-earned habit. He stopped. The front door had eight locks running down its side.

Stan spent a long moment looking at those locks. Somehow, they were worse than all the signs of paranoia outside.

The outside... it was over the top. It was too much. He couldn't imagine Stanford setting it all up. These locks were also too much, but Stan understood them. He had never wrapped barbed wire around his house, but he had installed more locks on a motel room door in a fit of desperation once.

That was something you did with wild eyes, crouching and ducking and thinking that at any second someone was going to take a knife to your back.

Stan took a deep, ragged breath, still staring at the locks.

He was—afraid. Yeah, afraid. Stan had been afraid a lot of points in his life, but it usually wasn't this kind of slow, sickly fear, one that made him unable to move. Usually his fear was driving his feet to run him straight out of Dodge.

A loud howl of wind scraped along the sides of the cabin, rattling it. Stan flinched away from the door, then lurched back to it to hastily lock every lock he could in one go.

He turned back to the dark cavern of a room he was in, finding a doorway to a hallway with his eyes.

There were two options.

One: Stanford wasn't in the house anymore. Whatever had driven him to the extent of paranoia the cabin displayed had later driven him to run from it, out somewhere Stan couldn't follow. Stan hadn't seen a car, so maybe... but then, he hadn't looked around the cabin too thoroughly, so there was a chance there was a car here he hadn't noticed.

Two: Stanford was here in the house somewhere, and had forgotten it was Stan that was coming and hid himself away once the knocking started. It was cold and dark because Stanford wanted to make it seem like there was no one here.

Option two was the one that gave Stan anything to do, so he chose to believe that one. He just had to find where Stanford had holed himself up, coax him out, and then start a game plan for dealing with whoever had frightened his brother so much he resorted to barbed wire and eight locks on the door.

And then... then they'd go from there. Stan had spent too much of the drive imagining that this was finally Stanford reaching out to him so they could be proper brothers again, but that thought wasn't important anymore. Stan didn't need reconciliation right now. Knowing Stanford was safe would do.

He crept further into the house after giving the first room a cursory once-over. All he found were more weird things in glassy containers, reams of messy papers, and machines and tools with purposes he couldn't divine. He hadn't really expected to find Stanford there.

Taking a bat he found among the stuff for an emergency weapon, he took on the hallway. It was as dark and cold as the front of the cabin, random things strewn around. There were a lot of post-it notes stuck up on the wall, and when he used his lighter to read them, he found a confusing mix between written codes and demands for someone to stop talking.

Unnerved, he stopped pausing to read them. Stanford could explain them when Stan found him.

Beyond that was a room that was maybe a living room before tons of junk had been shoved into it, or maybe it used to be some sort of study. Either way, Stan called out that it was him and sifted through the stuff until he was satisfied that Stanford wasn't crammed behind a desk or something.

The kitchen was refreshingly kitchen-like, as long as he ignored the stupid arrangement of the furniture and the masses of dirty plates and cups. There was even something shattered on the ground and a huge dark stain on the wooden floor and smeared along the wall. Stan chose to believe it was coffee Stanford hadn't cleaned up and moved on. There was nowhere for someone to hide in there.

The wind outside continued to howl and wail as he worked through the dark interior. Snow was driving against the windows. Soon enough it wouldn't matter if Stanford was hiding in this house; Stan would be stuck until the snow melted.

He pushed that thought away and made for another door. A bathroom, this time. The sight of it stopped him in his tracks. The smell was worse. It was the metallic rot of blood, and it was easy to see why. The tiles of the room were splattered with the stuff, rolls of soiled bandages chucked into the small trash can, a bloody six-fingered hand print left on the cracked mirror.

Stan's breath seized in his chest. What the hell had happened here? How had Stanford gotten this injured?

Was there a reason Stanford hadn't come to investigate who was in his house yet...?

No. Stan forced himself to look the blood over again. It was old, having at least a day to dry. Maybe more. If Stanford had been attacked, he survived it well enough to fix himself up and later replace the bandages multiple times and trash them.

All this meant was that Stanford had good reason to give his door eight locks. Someone did want him hurt. But that didn't mean they'd done him in.

The plan still remained the same. Find Stanford, figure out what was going on, get rid of whoever made his brother so frantic and paranoid. Whoever had hurt him.

Stan backed out of the bathroom. He needed to be anywhere else before the room started to really get to him. He didn't want to get lost in thoughts of exactly what kinds of wounds his twin had gotten.

He stepped through the hallway, calling out to Stanford. He was pretty sure his voice was close enough to what it was ten years ago that Stanford would recognize it. He was getting a bit sick of having to search every nook and cranny.

No response but the creaking of the cabin. Stan twitched at every sound, sure it was either Stanford coming out of his hiding place or someone returning to finish the job.

Another door. He creaked it open, expecting another room full of junk.

Not this one. It was eerily open compared to the clutter of the rest of the house, even with all of the papers stacked around. It took him a moment to register the calendar on the wall and the fact that the couch in here had blankets thrown over it.

Stanford used to jokingly claim that couches were infinitely more comfortable to sleep in than beds, and that if he ever got his own room he'd insist on a couch to sleep on. Was this his room?

Stan nudged his way in, surveying the papers from what little he could make out in the long shadows of the night. Maybe there'd be something useful here, notes that helped explain who was after Stanford. It was worth a look.

He took his lighter out and got a better look around. Papers, papers, more papers—

And something else in the very back of the room. A dark lump. Stan had seen too many weird shapes in this house to jump, but he didn't like that he couldn't tell what it was all the same. He stepped over the papers to get a look.

It was the right size...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The fabric that his lighter revealed didn't look like upholstery...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

The smell of blood was heavy in his room as well...

Stan didn't let himself think that.

"Sixer," he said into the cold air. His voice was hoarse. "Stanford. What are you doing? Get up."

There was a dark patch on the wall in front of his brother.

"Stanford. This isn't fucking funny. I'm tryin' to help you."

The shape on the floor didn't move. Stan's breaths were coming heavy now, more gasps than anything, and he didn't know why, he refused to know why. He dropped the bat.

He stooped down and grabbed Stanford's shoulder, forcing him up into a kneeling position from where he'd been folded over himself.

"Get up, Stanford. I'm serious," he said.

But Stanford wasn't listening. His eyes were wide and wild and unblinking. One of his temples was bloody and caved in like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Dark lines of blood trailed down one of his eyes, out of his nose. He wasn't breathing.

Stanford was dead.

Stan's heaving gasps filled the room. He couldn't hear the wind anymore. He couldn't hear anything.

Stanford was dead.

That was impossible. Between the two of them, Stan should've been the one to die first. He had always known that in the back of his mind. Stan was the drifter, the criminal, the one who got himself tangled up with all the wrong people. He was the one who should've died with no one caring to check on him. Not Stanford.

He should've known, somehow. He should've felt it as he drove up to the cabin.

The blood was still tacky. When had Ford died? It had to have been recently. Had it been today?

Could Stan have gotten here before it happened? If he had driven faster—had jumped into his car the minute he saw the card, not leaving time to pack his meager possessions—if he had rustled up the money for a plane ride—if he'd bitten the bullet months ago, years ago, and just said something after calling Stanford in a moment of weakness—

Then his brother might not be dead.

"Stanford," he croaked. A denial. A plea. "Ford, Ford, Ford—"

His brother didn't answer, merely staring up at the ceiling where his tipped-back head directed him to look. For the first time, Stan noticed the red cover of a book cradled in Ford's stiff arms, a piece of paper crinkled in his hold as well. It was almost like Ford was just looking up at the ceiling in thought after reading another science textbook Stan couldn't hope to understand.

The bloody indent on Ford's head refused him that daydream. Stan couldn't bear to keep looking at it. He looked down at the book and paper instead.

On the paper was the word 'STAN'. He almost let Ford drop down against the floor in his haste to tug it out of his cold hands. There was a note written there, one in their old secret language he still remembered after all this time. That Ford still remembered after all this time.

Stanley Pines didn't cry. He hadn't since he was a child. Crying was useless. But sitting there in the dark with the cold corpse of his own twin brother, he came dangerously close. Perhaps he really did cry.

There was no one else in the house to see it happen, after all.

He held the note bearing his name tightly in his hands.

Later, when he finally mustered up the courage to read the note, it read: IF YOU HAVE THIS, I'M DEAD. MY BODY IS AT RISK OF POSSESSION--THE DEMON SEEKING MY BODY CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO USE IT. PLEASE LOCATE THE NECROMANCY BOOK I'VE STORED BEHIND THE SHIP AND FOLLOW DIRECTIONS TO BAR HIM FROM ME.

Stan read the note at least three times. He came to an easy decision.

He didn't give a damn about any demons. If there was a book on necromancy in this house, he was using it for one thing and one thing only.

Bringing his brother back to life.

[crypticmushroom]

Been sitting on these since December waiting until I made an intro to the AU but screw it. Frankenford AU. I have Lore but I'll talk about that uh Later.

Feat a traditional page I did that I kinda hate that I'm gonna redraw (it's below the cut)

[crypticmushroom]

We have Shifty, shifter Stan, shifter Wendy, and shifter Soos. Now get ready for for SHIFTER FORD!!!!! (You know this was bound to happen)

This got crazy long, so here it is under the cut.

Ford hatches early in the hospital, before Stan is born, and it messes up his shift so he has an extra finger, and unfortunately the human doctors notice before Maurice can fix the issue, so now Ford has to keep up having his extra finger while Maurice scrambles to make sure each one of his hospital visits as a baby go smoothly, as Ford doesn't actually have bones to look at.

Ford hates his extra finger, as he sees it as him messing up his humanness. Everyone tells him he's a freak and picks on him about it, and every day he's terrified somethings gonna notice him and take him away.

So Stan, who similar to canon takes the role of his protector, is a life saver in his eyes. Ford feels safe with his human twin there draw all the attention and looking out for and comforting him. Ford decides he'll help Stan by being the 'smart' twin and helping him pass school, as he notices Stan struggles with a lot of the material.

Then he notices people like him more as he gets better and better grades. Specifically Filbrick and his teachers, who praise him in one breath and put Stan down in the next. The older he gets, the more he realizes being human is pretty easy! All he has to do is be the smartest and no one pays attention to his extra finger! So he doesn't have to drag Stan into a dangerous life style boating around! They can stay with people and be safe!

Ford never tells Stan he's a Shifter, and doesn't tell him the change of plans. This also means he's not as versatile as shifter!Stan, as hes too busy schooling to practice.

So they still have the science fair incident, and Stan gets kicked out, and Ford is furious.

With Stan.

This was Fords big chance! He's been doing so well as a human! People noticed him and he was going to go places and nothing would ever put him in danger because he'd be too important! And Stan ruined it! Stan doesn't have the same problems fitting in like Ford! He doesn't need the extra layers of blending in and the fear being taken away! What does Stan have to be upset about!

Everything gets worse when Maurice drags him to boot camp, and Ford stubbornly still goes to college at the same time. Now he's juggling human classes with Maurices criminal classes and he hates it. He doesn't want to be a criminal! That's Stan's thing >:( he wants to do science and be a proper human person! Unfortunately Maurice is right in that they do have things Ford needs to know, like who to trust and shapeshifter secret languages and such.

So after a year he finally graduates boot camp and can focus on his studies, and get down to what he really wants to do, which is become a famous scientist.

And track down and spy on Stan of course. Stan's his base, and he needs to make sure nothing tries to kidnap him to get to Ford. Obviously Stan's out there having the time of his life or something, but Ford still cares about him even if he's angry. Surely Stan's living it up somewhere! Stan's a human, he has it easy in this world!

Except Ford can't find Stan. He sees commercials sometimes with Stan using different names, but by the time he tracks them down Stan's long gone and disappeared again. Ford doesn't have a huge web of connections to rely on, because he didn't care to make a lot during boot camp since he wasn't going to become a criminal, so he's mostly relying on himself.

In the end the pressure of school and stress of trying to find Stan get to him and he has breakdown. Fiddleford is there, and now he knows Fords a shapeshifter because Ford is having a panic attack and can't stop melting. They both freak out before Ford explains everything and calms Fiddleford down as he explained there is no shapeshifter plot to take over and enslave humans or whatever he'd been babbling about.

Fiddleford agrees to help him track down Stan, doubling the search party and taking some of the load off of Fords shoulders.

For max angst they don't track him down until the trunk incident, finally figuring out he was last seen in some town in Arizona or something. At this point it's been years (canon doesn't say when the trunk happened, so now I get to decide) and Fords just moved up to Gravity Falls (because theres less influence from outside organizations that might want to kidnap him). Ford has just graduated and had to put his plan of studying other supernatural creatures on hold (to know their weaknesses and expose them so they can't ever be a threat to him again) and blames Stan for pushing back all his plans >:(.

Fiddlefords too busy moving to Cali with his fiance at this point to come with, but he demands Ford introduce them at some point.

Ford rolls up into whatever town Stan was in, irritated and hot and sweaty, realizes Stan's gone, again, and is furious.

Except he finds Stan's car So Stan must be around somewhere. Searches the town and sneaks around and overhears a conversation where some people are laughing about the guy they drove out to the desert in a trunk and left to die, wondering how long he'll last. That can't be Stan of course, why would anyone try to kill Stan?

That's what Ford tells himself on repeat as be drives out to rescue the person, because he's not about to leave someone to die in a trunk.

It's Stan of course, already working on chewing himself out and looking terrible and covered in blood and hey Fords here! Stan must be dead or hallucinating if Fords here! Starts babbling to Ford while his mouth is full of blood and Ford is desperately trying to drag him to his car and not cry as Stan basically apologizes for being born and is delirious. Drives the next closest town and calls Maurice (who in a move very similar to Stan, he's called so often Maurice sorta cares about him. Except in Fords case he calls to ask about if theyve found anything on Stan and to brag about all his college accomplishments. Not because he's lonely or anything, he's just proving to his spawner how successful he is without being a criminal).Ford can't take Stan to a hospital, because hospitals are Bad and obviously Ford can take care of his own brother!

Maurice shows up, sees Ford crying and covered in Stans blood and makes them go to a hosptial. Cue more angst as the doctor lists how terrible Stans doing and Stan breaks out the moment he becomes conscious and Ford has to hunt him down (again!!). Stans somehow made it back to his car to find Maurice, who was in the middle of stealing it for Ford. Maurice drugs hum with something and calls Ford to come pick him up, already done with this whole mess.

Then more angst as Ford drags him back to his house in Gravity Falls (which is still under construction) and yells at him the whole time about how hard Fords been looking for him and how stressed he is, etc, while Stans just 🥺 about Ford caring and also high on pain killers and whatever Maurice gave him.

Ford is now convinced that it's his job to keep track of Stan actually. The human worlds only dangerous to humans or something and now Stan's just gonna have to live with him forever so nothing else tries to kill him. And he's gonna go get a medical degree once he has some free time, can't trust those hospitals, they lost Stan. Also Ford cannot deal with the stress of hunting Stan down a second time. It's a full time job keeping up with him when he's on the move and Ford does not have the time.

Stan still doesn't know Fords a shapeshifter. Whatever minor shifting Ford does to get Stan in and out of the car he just waves away as drug filled hallucinations. Still isn't even sure he's alive.

I can't decide how Stan would learn about it. I think the funniest way would be him waking up in the motel Fords been staying at while he's waiting for his house to be finished, and sees Ford doing his Shifter stretching. Ford, too used to being alone or with fiddleford, didn't even think to do this somewhere more private and turns around to see Stan watching him. Instead of freaking out Stan's just convinced he's dead and this is the afterlife actually. Or in a coma and his brains playing death visions or something. Doesnt tell ford this of course, just nonchalantly accepts Shifter Ford for months before Ford realizes Stan doesn't think this is real.

Cue more angst.