#and that ford went through a horrifying experience

[coldbronzemoon]

To Extend Our Reach to the Stars Above

A one-shot based off of @nropay's superhero au concept :). Featuring Mabel and Dipper as a pair of magical girls (magical pre-teens, more like) and Stan and Ford as a retired villain and not-quite-retired hero who are horrified to realize what their niece and nephew are getting themselves into.

Yes, the title is taken from the Team Rocket motto.

The more Dipper read through the mysterious Journal 3 he’d found, the more he was convinced that he had discovered a gold mine. There were so many cool things in there—zombies, ghosts, magical springs that transformed you, living fire, a dozen other strange and magical mysteries!

Mabel was less interested in the whole thing, so Dipper was hunting through the book for cool things she’d get excited about as she flipped through tv channels in their Grunkle’s living room.

"Look at this," Dipper exclaimed, scooting closer to his sister on the recliner and angling the book so she could see it better. He began reading off the cursive. "I've recently uncovered a spell meant to magically infuse those who recite it with incredible power! By placing candles within a circle of the zodiac and reciting the following incantation, one should be gifted powers from a higher plane.”

“Hold on,” Mabel said, her eyes shining as she sat up and started skimming the page with him. She looked more enthused about the Journal than she had all day. “Can we get ourselves some real magic?”

Dipper continued on. “I attempted the spell, but it produced no observable effects..."

"Awww," Mabel groaned, deflating.

"No, no, hold on. But this may be due to my established connection to another source of magic. Perhaps I can experiment by having others perform the ritual..."

"Oooh," she said, immediately perking up again. "So it will turn us into witches or something?"

"Maybe," Dipper said. "Or whoever wrote this is just crazy. Or the spell is real, but it will just drive us mad or curse us forever or something."

There was a beat of silence. Mabel and Dipper looked at each other, their eyes both narrowed in contemplation.

Then: "So we're totally gonna try this, right?"

"Yup! What else are we gonna do? Ask Grunkle Stan for more chores?"

They burst into laughter at the very idea, jumping up at the same time so they could search for candles and Mabel's washable markers. There was no time like the present when it came to committing dubious magical rituals to gain power.

"No glitter!" Dipper shouted to Mabel as he went to the kitchen. He was pretty sure there had been a bunch of those plain, thin candles below the sink.

He had no idea why Grunkle Stan would have those candles—maybe some sort of apocalypse-prepper thing like the cans of brown meat?—but he was grateful for them. If he had time to go to the store to get some, he might have time to back out and Mabel would tease him for it endlessly.

They met back up in their bedroom, dumping their ritual supplies on the floor. Dipper had gotten the candles, some paper plates for the candles so they didn’t have to scrape wax off the floor, and a knife, because he assumed most arcane rituals would include a knife somehow. Mabel procured a rainbow’s worth of chalk instead of the washable markers. 

“Good thinking,” he told her. It’d be easier to wipe away the chalk, and he was pretty sure most ritual circles were done in chalk anyway.

Mabel flashed him a smug smile. They got to work recreating the one sketched out in the Journal onto the wooden floor of their bedroom. Mabel’s skill at creating perfect circles came in handy as Dipper focused on the smaller, strange symbols near the middle.

The ritual circle was comprised of three layers: the largest held the symbols of the Western Zodiac. Below that was a secondary ring of more puzzling symbols, like glasses and a fish and a bag of ice, and then in the very middle was a small circle with a set of six strange pronged lines springing out from equal sides of it.

Mabel insisted all the symbols be different colors, and Dipper obliged her. He didn’t see how that could mess the ritual up or anything.

Once they had the circle set up, they retreated out of it to consult the incantation in the Journal. Dipper was pleased to see that he was right and that they did need a knife for the ritual, as it required a bit of blood from them.

First, though, they read the incantation together a couple times to try and remember it, eventually agreeing to just put the book in the circle to read from once it became clear that Latin they didn’t actually understand was pretty hard to remember.

Mabel donated her pig plushie Waddles to the effort, setting him against the Journal so it stayed open on the ritual page even if their cool magic chanting ended up generating some wind or something. That left Dipper holding the paring knife he had taken from the kitchen.

“Should we, like, cut our palms or something?” Dipper said.

He kind of wanted to cut his palm. It was what everyone in every type of media always seemed to do while invoking an arcane ritual, and they always looked so cool doing it.

“How are we going to do anything with a cut palm?” Mabel said, adjusting Waddles. “I don’t wanna wait weeks for that to heal, Dip-dop. We only need a little blood.”

That was an unfortunately good point, Dipper had to admit. 

They settled for each pricking a spot on their arms and using their fingers to smear it on the wood floor, which was probably fine for the ritual. If whatever god they were going to call to didn’t like it, that god could get over itself.

With the blood added and the book in place, there was little else to do but actually do the spell.

They stepped into the symbol together, standing on either side of the smallest circle. Dipper’s palms were getting sweaty from a mix of nerves and pure excitement. They were about to do an actual magical ritual!

Mabel grabbed his hands.

“Uh,” said Dipper, a little baffled.

“It’s a ritual thingy, isn’t it?” she said. “Don’t they always have people holding hands in a circle and stuff?”

The entry in the Journal hadn’t said anything about having to hold hands while summoning whatever crazy magical deity was going to give them sick superpowers, but just as he opened his mouth to tell her that, he actually looked at her. Her eyes were a little tight even as she grinned, and the grip she had on his hands was equally as tight.

Oh, he thought with clarity. She’s a little scared too.

That wasn’t going to stop either of them from doing this, of course. But he lifted his arms up so that it was easier for Mabel to hold on.

“You’re right.”

Her grin widened, looking more genuine. “Doi! I’m always right.”

They snickered together. Then Dipper tipped his head down to the Journal where it laid between their feet so it was still visible to read. It was upside-down for him, but that was fine, he read upside-down really well. He could tell by the way her hair fell from the corner of his eye that Mabel was mimicking him.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” she hummed.

“Okay. Go.”

They took matching deep breaths and began to recite.

“Volumus nitidis astra supernis;

Nos inter mare nigrum vocamus;

Deprecamur lacte lunae.”

Without meaning to or even noticing, Dipper’s eyes slipped closed. He could hear Mabel reciting clearly next to him, could feel her fingers squeezing his clammy palms, and that was all he needed. The Journal lay forgotten.

“O, superi numina! Imperator supra!

Est in hoc humili mundo malum,

Et pereamus ad mortem!”

Their voices both got louder, feeding into each other. Behind his eyelids, the warm light of their bedroom’s desk lantern receded away until he was seeing only darkness. He didn’t notice. His focus was on the feeling of the spell as he spoke it, the strange, faint press of cold.

He didn’t quite feel like he was standing on the floor anymore.

“Imperator, ad imaginem cosmi reficis!

Imperator omnium, cupimus te!”

Their voices both rose even further into a cry:

“AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL, AXOLOTL!

LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA, LTOLOXA!”

They opened their eyes in perfect sync as though they had been commanded to.

The first thing Dipper saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair floated around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and almost scared. She could feel it too, he knew—the perfect, vast emptiness around them. The lack of any sensation.

All he could feel was the way her fingers dug into his palms, the bump on her left ring finger from holding pencils and pens and markers, the nick on the side of her palm from a pair of dull scissors. 

He turned his head. She did too.

The second thing Dipper saw was THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL was colossal, bigger than anything Dipper had ever seen. Bigger than the Earth, than the Sun, than the whole galaxy. THE AXOLOTL was beyond anything. They floated in front of one of THE AXOLOTL’S huge dark eyes, eyes held all the size and power of a black hole itself. A thousand nebulae gleamed in that eye.

Dipper could almost feel something in his brain crack trying to understand what he was looking at. He clutched at Mabel’s hands like she was the harbor he was desperately trying to find amid the endless sea, and she clung right back.

Then, as the two of them stared out at THE AXOLOTL in pure mute awe, THE AXOLOTL looked back.

THE AXOLOTL shrank. From one moment to the next THE AXOLOTL was filling up all of reality, and then the riotous color of the stars and the inky black of space between them took up the place THE AXOLOTL once filled. THE AXOLOTL became the size of an Earth axolotl, swimming up to them with a placid smile on a pink face. Frills swayed in a non-existent breeze.

HELLO, CHILDREN.

THE AXOLOTL’S voice was not really a voice. Dipper found that he didn’t hear THE AXOLOTL speak so much he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying something, an old memory so faded it was a reproduction of a reproduction, communicating nothing of the voice’s quality or sound.

Even at a new size, THE AXOLOTL’S mere presence was almost too much. Dipper found his mouth glued shut.

Mabel managed to speak first, her voice weak and hollow in the vacuum of space as she dazedly muttered, “You’re… you’re adorable.”

In any other circumstance, Dipper would’ve laughed out of pure shock. He stared at THE AXOLOTL.

SO I AM.

Dipper’s mouth finally un-stuck itself. The thought that had been ringing in his head since his first look at THE AXOLOTL broke through.

“I’ve… we’ve met you before.”

The memory wasn’t there, more a hole in his head where something should be, but he knew it. He knew that it was a memory of THE AXOLOTL.

THE AXOLOTL’S head tilted.

I HAVE MET EVERYONE, AND EVERYONE HAS MET ME, MASON.

I AM THERE FOR THEIR BEGINNING, THEIR ENDING, AND THEIR MOMENTS OF TRANSFORMATION.

I KNOW YOU. I KNOW WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME. 

WHAT YOU COULD HAVE BECOME. WHAT YOU MAY YET BECOME.

THE AXOLOTL swam closer to float in between their faces, in between their linked hands forming a circle. Infinitely deep black eyes peered down at their hands.

Dipper knew that it was those clasped hands—the circle, the endless loop, the cycle of return and movement—that had brought THE AXOLOTL to them more than anything else. He knew it like a baby knew what it meant to cry, like a seed knew what it meant to sprout.

I WILL GIVE YOU A GIFT: THE MAGIC OF THE GALAXIES.

YOU WILL HELP UNMAKE A BEING WHO DOES ONLY AS HE WOULD PLEASE.

Dipper could feel that this moment was ending. Just before, though, he remembered THE AXOLOTL saying one last thing. A parting remark, a careless promise.

I HAVE ALWAYS LIKED TWINS.

Dipper and Mabel fell. THE AXOLOTL passed from between their arms. They could only watch as THE AXOLOTL shrunk once more, this time due to the pink form receding away from them as their bodies rushed downwards. As much as downwards counted for anything in space.

The stars bloomed around them, light racing to be seen, to find and caress the edge of the universe. Thousands upon thousands, millions, billions, numbers beyond reach, all of them bright eternal eyes of THE AXOLOTL.

All of those stars watched them fall. Their light was racing towards them, arms reaching to catch. 

Like the endless arc of a comet, Dipper and Mabel fell to Earth.

They woke up collapsed on the floor of their bedroom, still holding hands as they both righted themselves into a sitting position. A glow bounced off of the walls, filling the whole space. He could tell from the vivid red of his closed eyelids.

Dipper opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Mabel’s face. Her hair was floating around her head like they were underwater. Her eyes were wide and luminous and burning a bright white. So was her hair. 

Dipper opened his mouth and screamed in shock.

—

“This is your fault. This is your fucking fault, Sixer.”

Stan’s brother let out a groan in response, his face still pressed against the greasy tabletop of Greasy’s Diner. He was definitely getting syrup in his graying hair. The place lived up to its name. Stan would’ve laughed at him if he wasn’t too busy being pissed off.

“They were hidden,” Ford bemoaned. 

“Not well enough!”

Ford tilted his head to glare at Stan with one eye. “They stayed hidden for thirty years straight, Stanley. I would call that a good record.”

“And now one of them isn’t hidden,” Stan said, thoroughly unimpressed. He shoved his plate of eggs and bacon aside to lean over the table and prod Ford in the temple with his fork. “You are so, so fucking lucky they didn’t find the one with the ritual for Bill instead.”

Stan got to watch Ford pale as the reality of that risk occurred to him in real time. He prodded at him with the fork some more just to add to his twin’s misery. It was deserved misery.

Ford eventually straightened back up, smacking Stan’s hand away. He turned to look at the source of their hushed argument with a grimace.

A newspaper, the front page dedicated to the two newest heroes on the block: a pair of young twins with star power. There was a large, impressively clear picture of the pair before the article.

Stan and Ford had recognized them instantly. 

Sure, the glowing white hair and eyes made them look a little different, and the flashy outfits drew the eye away from the face, but those faces were completely uncovered. Of course they recognized their own niece and nephew.

There was only one way for the kids to get cosmic power from what Stan and Ford knew of. Ford’s own Journals, the third of which contained a ritual to call upon the stars for power.

Ford hadn’t made it work; he was already bound to an interdimensional being when he tried it. That was the theory he gave Stan when mentioning his attempt once, at least.

But Dipper and Mabel…

Stan told his brother, “Once we have a plan and we’re out of the public eye, I’m kicking your ass.”

Ford sighed. “I’ll deserve it. But I won’t go down without a fight.”

They finished their food. It was quicker than attempting to flag Susan down to get them a pair of to-go boxes, and Stan refused to let them pay for the food and then leave it behind. He might’ve been a supremely rich criminal now, but he wasn’t going to pay for shit he wasn’t going to eat.

Leaving a tip at Ford’s insistence—chronic goody-two-shoes—they made their way back to Stan’s El Diablo where they could actually talk openly. 

“We most likely can’t outright remove their magic,” Ford said, tipping his head back against the headrest. “If the magical being gave them their power, it wants them to have it. And trying to convince a god to take back their decision is…risky, at best.”

“And trying to ban them from going out and taking names won’t work either,” Stan grouched.

The kids were Pines—they already couldn’t be stopped from doing what they wanted in the first place. The second eyes weren’t on them, Dipper and Mabel could vanish from thin air and return in thirty minutes having gotten into a fist-fight with gnomes or video game characters come to life or other such fantastical issues that plagued the area.

And now those kids had magical powers. What little capacity Stan and Ford had to corral them had shrunk even further. The only ways Stan could imagine stopping the younger twins involved essentially imprisoning them and ruining their trust in him and Ford forever.

He rode the tail of the car in front of him just to make himself feel better. The driver rolled down her window and flipped him the bird, which did get a laugh out of him.

Ford was too busy massaging his temples to scold him. “No, it won’t. They’ll be worse than us at twelve.”

A terrifying notion. They had been absolute hellions at twelve, all without fancy new magical powers.

Stan drummed his fingers on the wheel, his mind turning over every possibility. He knew the scene and he knew those kids. Give them a week and they’d be going up against the biggest assholes on the block just because they couldn’t help but stick their noses into everything. 

If only they could learn on some easy targets, someone who wouldn’t really hurt them… but Stan couldn’t trust anyone to do that, now could he?

Anyone except—

“Hey, Ford,” he said slowly. “If we can’t stop them, we’ve gotta prepare them. How ‘bout we give them a practice round? Some two-bit villain to fight against and learn the ropes on?”

Ford picked up his head from his hands. “And who exactly do you suggest—”

He stopped and sighed, and Stan knew they were on the same page.

“I think it’s time for the Piranha to start swimming his old waters again,” Stan said, grinning. “And maybe Six-Shooter can show up out of the woodwork too, since one of his old heels is back in action. Maybe give some tips to the new heroes.”

He waited for Ford to shoot the idea down immediately.

Ford only looked out the windshield with a thoughtful frown tugging at his lips. “...I think that might be our best option at the moment. We could keep tabs on them like that—but we’re going to have to work double-time to keep all of this from them both in and out of the masks.”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, we’ve managed it so far. Can’t be too hard.”

He would come to regret those words. But for now, he believed them.

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

I’m still celebrating a little unofficial Théodred Week, with some specific thoughts on his personal bravery. In Unfinished Tales, we get this assessment of the situation at the battle where Théodred was slain:

“It was clearly seen in Rohan, when the true accounts of the battles at the Fords were known, that Saruman had given special orders that Théodred should at all costs be slain. At the first battle all his fiercest warriors were engaged in reckless assaults upon Théodred and his guard, disregarding other events of the battle, which might otherwise have resulted in a much more damaging defeat for the Rohirrim. When Théodred was at last slain Saruman’s commander (no doubt under orders) seemed satisfied…”.

Have we all sat with the thought of how HORRIFYING that realization must have been??? You’re expecting something like a “normal” battle experience, but all the sudden you notice that enemies are running right past vulnerable soldiers and other obvious and valuable targets because they’re not here for a normal battle. They’re here FOR YOU. How helpless and vulnerable would you feel to discover that your death is their sole objective? How panicked? How confused?

AND YET….he didn’t yield!!! He could have tried to disguise himself as someone other than who he was. He could have run. He could have left his marshals and captains to contest the Fords while he retreated to relative safety, and he could have done that with the legitimate excuse that it was critical to protect himself as the heir to the throne (especially since his father was in such poor condition and Théodred himself had no heir!).

But instead, he did almost the exact opposite. He climbed to the top of a hill, the highest and most visible ground there was. He thundered out a rallying cry to his riders — “To me, Eorlingas!” — as loudly as he could. He might as well have screamed, “Come and get me, motherf*#@ers!” while waving a big sign that said, “I’m right here!” And then he went down swinging, first taking a gruesome, fatal injury and then enduring some horrific fighting over possession of his body in order to pass on his epic last words to Elfhelm and Grimbold (discussed yesterday!).

LOTR is obviously chock full of instances of the greatest and most extreme courage across a whole range of situations and contexts. But in terms of traditional battlefield heroism and bravery, specifically, this is right up there with some of the most impressive examples. And it’s wonderfully in keeping with the familial trait of courage that runs all through the House of Eorl, from Théoden riding out to meet his apparent doom and make an end worthy of song at Helm’s Deep to Éowyn taking on the Witch King himself or Éomer charging headlong into a marauding army with screams of “Death!” Unfinished Tales makes very clear that Théodred stands on equal footing with any of his family when it comes to valor, even if his great deeds aren’t well known within the main story. In fact, when Théoden is dying on the Pelennor Fields and invokes “his fathers,” in whose “mighty company [he] shall not now be ashamed,” he might more appropriately have invoked HIS SON because there is no mightier company he could possibly have by his side.

@sotwk @celeluwhenfics

[fantasblog]

Chapter 1: A Shift in Reality

The atmosphere in the once-bright dimension was dark now, weighed down by loss and destruction. Bill Cipher, the once chaotic trickster of the multiverse, found himself pacing in a sterile, brightly lit laboratory. His once vibrant yellow glow had dimmed slightly, his sharp edges softened by the burden of time. But the most glaring change was the glasses resting on his triangular face, a subtle reminder of the scientist he had become. Bill wore a black necktie and a white scientist's cloak, symbolizing his shift in purpose. This was not the reckless, wild Bill who had delighted in chaos. This was a man—or rather, a being—trying to make sense of a world that had fallen apart long ago.

Bill had fled his home dimension after the Euclidean Massacre, the day everything changed. He had survived, but his parents—once proud, powerful entities—had succumbed to madness. They had become ruthless, embodying everything Bill feared he might become. The carnage had been swift, and when it ended, Bill was left standing amidst the destruction. His parents had vanished, but they were no longer his concern. He fled, leaving his past behind, hoping for something better.

That something better came in the form of a strange human scientist—Stanford Pines. In Stanford, Bill found an unlikely companion, a man obsessed with the mysteries of the universe just like he once had been. Together, they sought knowledge and understanding. But as the years went on, cracks began to form in their research partnership, worsened by Stanford’s assistant, Fiddleford McGucket.

---

Stanford Pines stormed out of the lab in frustration, his mind racing with anger after yet another argument with Fiddleford. Their work had become tense, too many disagreements over the ethics of their experiments. The cool air of Gravity Falls stung his face as he walked through the woods. It was dusk, and the stars were just beginning to emerge. He found a small comfort in the quiet of the forest, but something weighed heavily on his mind.

As Stanford reached the road, he heard the familiar rumble of an engine. His twin brother, Stanley, was driving down the narrow path. Despite their complicated relationship, Stanford felt a pang of relief seeing Stanley. Perhaps they could talk, maybe even resolve some of their long-standing issues.

But as he stepped onto the road, everything happened too quickly. Stanley hadn’t seen him, and the car struck Stanford with full force. The world spun as the impact sent him crashing onto the pavement. The last thing he heard before everything went black was Stanley's horrified scream.

---

Back at the lab, Fiddleford was working on some calculations when Bill Cipher suddenly appeared before him, sensing something was wrong.

"Something's happened to Ford," Bill said, his voice uncharacteristically strained.

Fiddleford looked up, panic flashing across his features. "W-what do you mean? Is he—"

Bill didn’t respond, but they both knew what he was implying. Without another word, the two rushed to the scene, Fiddleford driving, Bill hovering alongside. When they arrived, the sight was devastating: Stanley kneeling beside Stanford's broken body, his hands covered in blood, tears streaming down his face.

"No, no, no, no! Ford! Ford, don’t leave me!" Stanley sobbed, clutching his brother's lifeless form.

Fiddleford’s eyes widened in horror as he approached, but Bill was quiet, his mind already racing. He didn’t have the luxury of grief, not like Stanley. He could see the raw emotion tearing Stanley apart, but Bill’s mind had shifted into cold calculation. Stanford couldn’t just die. Not like this. There had to be a way to fix it.

"Stanley…" Bill's voice was calm, too calm for the moment. "There’s a way to bring him back."

Stanley looked up, tears still streaming down his face. "What are you talking about, Bill? He's gone! He's dead!"

"No," Bill replied, his triangular form floating closer, eyes glowing faintly behind his glasses. "Not if we act fast. We can create a body, a vessel… We can bring him back."

Fiddleford looked at Bill, a flicker of fear crossing his features. "You mean… like the experiments we've been working on?"

Bill nodded. "We have the technology. We can rebuild him. It won’t be the same, but he’ll still be Stanford. A version of him, at least."

Stanley hesitated, looking down at his brother. The thought of losing Ford forever was unbearable. And while Bill’s idea sounded insane, it was also his only hope.

"Do it," Stanley said, his voice shaking but resolute. "Bring him back."

---

The next few weeks were a blur of frenzied work. Fiddleford and Bill worked day and night in the lab, stitching together the pieces of what would soon become "Frankenford." Bill’s genius, combined with Fiddleford’s engineering expertise, allowed them to craft a body—one that was strong, durable, and capable of holding Stanford's consciousness.

The process wasn’t perfect, of course. The Stanford that emerged from the operating table wasn’t exactly the same man they had known. His eyes held a strange, eerie glow, and there was something mechanical in the way he moved. But he was alive, or at least, as close to alive as he could be.

And with that, the world of Gravity Falls shifted once again. The years passed, and the town grew accustomed to the oddities that came with it. Frankenford lived, a shadow of the man he once was, but he served as a reminder of the lengths Bill would go to protect those he cared for—those who had become his new family.

Thirty years later, Dipper and Mabel Pines arrived in Gravity Falls, their summer vacation pulling them into a web of mysteries they could never have anticipated. The Mystery Shack, now run by their Great Uncle Stanley, had become a hub of supernatural activity. Stanley, now an older, grizzled man in his 60s, did his best to protect the twins from the darker secrets of the town. But Bill—now affectionately called "Grunkle Bill" by Dipper and Mabel—watched over them as well.

For Bill, the twins were a new opportunity, a new adventure in a world where so much had been lost. He had once been a destroyer, a trickster, but now, in this fractured reality, he had found something worth protecting.

But the past never truly dies, and as the twins dug deeper into the mysteries of Gravity Falls, they would soon uncover secrets that even Bill couldn’t hide forever.

The question lingered: How long could they keep Stanford’s resurrection a secret? And what would happen if the truth ever came out?

Bill’s glasses glinted in the low light of the lab as he watched Dipper and Mabel explore the Shack, a sense of foreboding settling over him. The game had only just begun.

Stanley Pines wiped the sweat from his brow as he stood behind the counter of the Mystery Shack, listening to the incessant chatter of customers. The summer sun poured through the windows, illuminating the eclectic collection of oddities and curiosities that filled the shop. His face bore the marks of time—a few more wrinkles and a little less hair than he’d had decades ago—but his spirit remained indomitable. Stanley prided himself on running a successful business, even if it was in a town riddled with the supernatural.

“So, you want a bottle of Mermando’s Tears, do ya?” Stan said to a wide-eyed tourist, his salesman charm in full effect. “Best thing for a broken heart! Or your money back!” He flashed a grin that could sell ice to a penguin.

As he engaged the customers, Soos and Tate McGucket were hard at work nearby. Soos, the lovable handyman and assistant to Stan, was sweeping the floor, while Tate—Fiddleford’s son—helped by collecting trash and organizing the clutter. Tate had taken on the role of the Shack’s handyman, learning from the best and applying his own flair to the mix.

“Hey, Soos, you ever think about how many weird things are in this place?” Tate asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

“Dude, every day! I mean, look at that—” Soos gestured toward a shelf full of peculiar items. “I still can’t believe we have a jar of eyeballs in here.”

Wendy Corduroy entered from the back, rolling her eyes but smiling at the boys. “You two are gonna give Stan a heart attack if you keep asking questions about the weird stuff,” she joked. “Just keep sweeping, and try not to break anything.”

As the trio continued their tasks, Bill Cipher and Fiddleford McGucket were buried deep in their scientific work in the lab, which was a cacophony of beeping machines and swirling lights. The air was thick with tension and anticipation as they fine-tuned the details of their latest creation: Frankenford.

In the other room, Dipper Pines had found himself captivated by the journal he had been reading, the cryptic notes from the mysterious author sparking his curiosity. Mabel sat beside him, flipping through her own stack of colorful papers, occasionally glancing up at her brother, trying to see what caught his attention.

“What’s it say, Dipper?” Mabel asked, peering over his shoulder, her enthusiasm palpable.

“Just some notes about the strange occurrences in Gravity Falls,” Dipper replied, his brow furrowed in concentration. “It seems like there’s a lot we don’t know about this place and—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Mabel’s finger accidentally grazed a bright red button on the control panel in the corner of the lab. A low hum reverberated through the air, and suddenly, the ground seemed to shake.

“Mabel, what did you do?” Dipper exclaimed, his eyes wide with alarm.

“I don’t know! I thought it was a light switch!” she said, her voice rising in pitch.

With a resounding clang, the massive metal doors of the lab slid open, and the dim light inside flickered violently. An electric surge filled the air, followed by a low growl that echoed through the Shack. The shadows danced as a figure began to emerge from the darkness.

Frankenford—standing at a towering 8 feet tall—opened his eyes for the first time, the glow of his gaze piercing through the lab’s haze. The towering figure loomed over Dipper and Mabel, who stood frozen in awe and fear, clutching the journal tightly. His body was a grotesque patchwork of machinery and flesh, cobbled together from the remnants of Stanford Pines’ original form.

Frankenford looked down at the twins, his expression unreadable. Despite the monstrous visage, there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Memories surged through him, flooding his mind with flashes of a life he could barely remember—the car accident, the pain, the feeling of loss.

“Who… are you?” Frankenford asked, his voice deep and resonant, tinged with confusion and curiosity.

Dipper swallowed hard, trying to find his voice. “We’re… we’re Dipper and Mabel Pines. Your… your grandnephews,” he stammered, glancing nervously at Mabel.

“Grandnephews?” Frankenford repeated, the words hanging in the air. His towering frame seemed to shimmer with a strange energy. “Stan…ley…”

Suddenly, a look of horror crossed his face as fragmented memories collided in his mind. He could see Stanley’s car, feel the impact, the jarring pain. He was acutely aware of the presence of his brother, the guilt, the love, and the anger.

“Stanley…” he murmured again, a wave of realization crashing over him. “Is he… is he alive?”

Mabel, sensing the turmoil within the creature before her, stepped forward cautiously. “Yeah, Grunkle Stan is still around. He runs the Mystery Shack now!” she said, her voice softening. “He’s really worried about you.”

Frankenford’s mechanical eyes flickered as he processed the information. “Worried… about me?” His voice wavered, a hint of vulnerability breaking through the monstrous exterior.

Dipper nodded, his heart racing. “Yeah. We all are. We want to help you. You’re still Stanford, right? You’re not just… a monster.”

Frankenford’s mind raced. In that moment, he wasn’t just a collection of parts or a failed experiment; he was a person, a brother, a part of a family. Memories of laughter, arguments, and shared moments with Stanley flooded back, bringing with them the hope that maybe—just maybe—he could find his way back.

“Stanley…” he repeated, feeling a surge of determination. “Take me to him.”

---

Meanwhile, in the shop, Stanley had finished with the customer, his attention drawn to the commotion coming from the lab. He frowned, sensing that something was off.

“Hey, what’s going on in there?” he shouted, making his way toward the sounds of chaos. He pushed the door open, the sight before him causing his heart to race.

Standing in the lab was the giant form of Frankenford, towering over Dipper and Mabel, his eyes locked onto Stan’s face. Time seemed to freeze as they stood there, both brothers finally facing each other after so many years apart.

“Ford?” Stan breathed, disbelief coloring his voice.

Frankenford turned his gaze to Stanley, a mix of longing and confusion swirling in the air between them. “Stanley,” he said, his voice trembling, echoing with the weight of lost years. “It’s me.”

Stanley’s heart swelled with a mixture of joy and sorrow. “Ford, I thought I lost you…”

In that moment, the years of separation, regret, and pain faded away, leaving only the bond of brotherhood—one that transcended life and death, science and madness. It was the beginning of a new chapter, and as they stood together, the world around them faded, leaving only the promise of reunion and healing in their wake.

Frankenford’s towering figure loomed over Stanley, who stood rooted to the spot, his heart pounding in his chest. There was a moment of silence between them, each brother grappling with the profound implications of their reunion.

Frankenford broke the stillness, his voice steady but filled with uncertainty. “Where… where are we, Stanley? What year is it?” His brow furrowed, the patchwork of his face shifting as he spoke, struggling to comprehend his situation.

Stanley took a deep breath, attempting to steady the flood of emotions crashing over him. “It’s… it’s 2013, Ford,” he said slowly. “We’ve been apart for decades. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Frankenford blinked, processing the information. “2013…” He looked around the lab, taking in the strange machines, the brightly colored gadgets, and the frantic energy of the place. “And you—” he continued, eyes narrowing slightly, “you’ve aged, Stan. You’re old.”

“Yeah, well, time hasn’t been exactly kind,” Stan replied, attempting to deflect the emotional weight of the moment with humor, though his eyes shimmered with tears. “I missed you, brother. I thought I had lost you that day… in the accident.”

Frankenford nodded slowly, memories flooding back—snippets of laughter, arguments about the silliest things, and finally, the crash that had torn them apart. His gaze shifted toward the lab, where Bill Cipher and Fiddleford McGucket were standing nearby, both of them watching the reunion with a mix of intrigue and caution.

“Bill…” Frankenford said, recognition dawning on him as he recalled the name. “You’re Bill Cipher. What are you doing here?”

Bill, standing with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, shrugged, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Well, let’s just say I’ve made a few… adjustments to my career path. Can’t let a good brain go to waste, right?” His voice held a playful tone, but there was a hint of something deeper beneath it—a flicker of respect for the science that had resurrected Stanford.

Fiddleford stepped forward, his old eyes glinting with excitement. “We’ve been working together for years, Ford! You were… well, you were a little different when we put you back together, but we always knew you were in there. We just had to figure out how to bring you back.”

Frankenford’s gaze shifted between Bill and Fiddleford, realization washing over him. “So you’re both responsible for… this?” He gestured to his body, a mixture of flesh and machinery, still struggling to reconcile the sight of himself with the memories of who he once was.

Bill nodded, his tone becoming serious. “We needed to get you back, Stanford. You were one of the brightest minds I’d ever encountered. Losing you wasn’t an option for me.”

Frankenford’s mind raced. “But why? Why go through all of this?”

Stanley interjected, a protective edge in his voice. “Because he cared, Ford! Bill may be a trickster, but he’s also… well, he’s family now, in a way. We’ve all been through so much together.”

A flicker of understanding crossed Frankenford’s features. “Family…” he repeated, glancing at the twins and then back to Bill and Fiddleford. “All of you… you’ve built something here. A new family.”

“Yes,” Bill said, his tone softening slightly. “In a way, we’re all a bit broken, but we’ve learned to piece ourselves back together.”

Frankenford took a moment to absorb this, the weight of his new reality settling in. “But I don’t understand. If it’s 2013, what happened in the years I was gone? What have I missed?”

Stanley’s expression grew solemn. “So much, Ford. The world changed while you were… away. Gravity Falls became a hotbed for supernatural events, mysteries piled on top of mysteries. But more than that, our family… it’s changed. You’ll need to get to know everyone again.”

Dipper and Mabel exchanged glances, sensing the gravity of the moment. “We’re here to help you remember, Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said, her voice full of determination. “We want to hear your stories, to learn about your life before… well, before everything happened.”

Frankenford nodded slowly, feeling a warmth spreading in his chest at the kindness of the twins. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I may not remember everything right now, but I want to understand. I want to be part of this family.”

“Good,” Stan said, a proud smile breaking through the worry etched on his face. “Because we need you, Ford. And it’s time we faced whatever else is lurking out there together.”

Just then, the lights in the lab flickered ominously, drawing everyone’s attention. Bill’s expression shifted as he sensed a disturbance. “Uh-oh,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Seems like the universe isn’t quite done with us yet.”

The atmosphere thickened with tension, a familiar unease creeping into the room. Fiddleford grabbed his tools, ready for anything. “What do you mean, Bill?”

Bill’s eyes narrowed, a glimmer of mischief returning to his demeanor. “Let’s just say we may have a few… old friends coming to visit. And they won’t be bringing gifts.”

Frankenford straightened, newfound determination igniting within him. “Then let’s face them together,” he declared, the edges of his patched body humming with energy. “If I’m going to be back in this world, I’ll protect my family. I won’t let anything tear us apart again.”

Dipper and Mabel nodded in unison, their excitement bubbling over. “We’ve got your back, Grunkle Ford!”

Stanley clasped his brother’s shoulder, a gesture of solidarity. “We’ll figure this out, Ford. Together.”

As the lab hummed with energy and the promise of the challenges ahead, the Pines family—now expanded to include Bill, Fiddleford, and the twins—stood united, ready to face whatever mysteries Gravity Falls had in store for them.

With a final nod, Frankenford stepped forward, a sense of purpose igniting his spirit. The chaos that awaited them felt less daunting with the strength of their newfound family beside him. Together, they would embrace the unknown and reclaim what had been lost.

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

[gravityskittles]

Chapter 14: Shadows of the Things That Were

There was a recurring dream that Stan had had since the day he  broke the perpetual motion machine. In it, he would watch the events of that night play out over again. He would curse and hit the table. Popping off the grate on the machine. Ruining two futures in one reckless action.

Except here, the dream would twist away from the reality of that night. Stan would watch as Ford appeared at the back of the auditorium. He would run towards Stan, shoving him to the ground and reaching for the project, cursing at him the whole time.

Then Ford would touch the machine, and the dream would fracture and bend. The perpetual motion machine would grow gigantic, trapping Ford within it, caught in a maze of grates and levers.

No matter how close Stan got to saving him in these dreams, he always broke something along the way, and after the machine was broken, Ford would vanish before Stan had the chance to apologize.

After those dreams, he would always scrounge around for quarters and drive to the nearest payphone. He’d dig out the scrap of paper he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket and painstakingly put in the same number every time. He never actually mustered up the courage to talk to Ford, but just hearing his voice at the other end of the phone was enough to remind him his brother was safe. Enough to prove that Ford was happy and better off without him.

After the portal incident, these dreams had become a lot more straightforward, swapping out one broken science experiment for another. When he had woken from those dreams however, startling awake in Ford’s drafty, empty house, there had been no one left to call.

Stan hung in darkness. He felt panic, knew he should be fighting back against whatever had just happened to him, but he couldn’t seem to move. He realized faintly, as light started to glow around him, that he didn’t even seem to have a body anymore. His body stood beneath him, drowning in the long shadow of the machine that was slowly being revealed as the world settled. He stared in horror at it. It was a monster of twisted metal and cable. The perpetual motion machine from his nightmares melded into the portal of his reality.

For a horrifying second, he wondered if he was being possessed somehow. He remembered Dipper describing floating outside of his body while Bill puppeted him around. But, as he watched two versions of Ford walk out from around the sides of the machine, and watched his body stumble back in poorly hidden fear, he realized while it was him down there, it wasn’t him. The body below him was still young, still seventeen, still on the precipice of what the next 40 years were going to bring. The small amount of relief he felt at the understanding that he wasn’t being possessed, was immediately overshadowed by the renewed panic that he didn’t know what was happening, and no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t move. Then he felt his awareness split, and the nightmare started up around him.

He stumbled backwards, staring up in horror at the machine above him as two separate versions of Ford screamed at him for help. He launched himself forward, but their fingers didn’t quite reach his in time as they were pulled away into a maze of steel and wire.

For a while he ran, panicked, through the machines, screaming Ford’s name as he went. Eventually, despite his best efforts, he tripped, slamming his shoulder into a panel. The glass around it shattered and wires inside sparked briefly before the entire machine flickered into darkness. He stared at it in horror. He had broken it again. Both Fords were gone.

Stan stumbled, defeated, through the machinery’s wreckage. As he walked, the edges of his vision began to fuzz out slowly, like a TV with bad reception. His awareness blurred steadily, and piece by piece, he slipped away into the darkness of his own mind, as though being pulled by invisible hands.

Stan didn’t remember.

And there was something about that which felt familiar.

He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it. But lying there, in the dark, shivering uncontrollably, he couldn’t remember anything.

He rolled onto his side, and then everything came back in a rush, as he opened his eyes to the scuffed leather seats of his car. His home.

No, that isn’t right. Something itched in the back of his skull. Alongside a voice he almost thought he recognized. Something about this whole situation is wrong.

But it wasn’t wrong. He’d screwed up. Again. He should have known better than to try stealing from such a small store, but he was so cold. He hadn’t realized they would send the cops after him for a blanket and a can of soup. Stupid. He was always so stupid. He couldn’t even go back to New Jersey now, and of course the very next state he had tried he was already screwing up.

He watched the snow pile up outside. He was pulled up on the side of a highway, miles away from anywhere he could have stayed the night. If he’d even had money to stay the night. No one would find him in this. No one would want to anyway. Less than a year after getting kicked out and he was going to freeze to death in his car and Ford wouldn’t even—

Ford.

The itch in the back of his mind intensified. He shook his head, blowing carefully on his hands to try to warm them up. He didn’t want to think about Ford. It hurt too much.

‘This isn’t how it happened.’ The small, insistent voice at the back of his brain piped up as the stinging cold began to worm its way into his bones. He blinked, confused. This had never happened before. ‘But this isn’t how it happened. You remember this—You have to remember—'

 He remembered driving through the blizzard, remembered sliding across the roads, remembered the semi that had almost flattened him as it fishtailed across the highway. He remembered helping the man in the cab out of the truck, offering him a ride to the nearest gas station. He remembered cash being pressed into his hands. A hotel, a hot shower. Hope.

‘You survived this.’ He remembered surviving this. He remembered Ford, he—the itching suddenly became painful. A blinding ache that sent spots swimming across his vision. He felt himself lose consciousness. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

He didn’t have time to reflect on why that felt familiar before he was slammed up against a wall outside of a pool hall.

Two men, both taller than him, each one built like a slab of muscle, had him pinned up against the rough bricks.

He knew what he had done. He’d hustled the wrong guy. ‘Like always.’ He’d been hustling the tables at this establishment for over a week. Had almost enough money to send some of it home.

Always in envelopes with no return address. As much as he could spare. Often more than he could spare. He remembered that it was never enough, never enough to go home.

‘You didn’t stop until Pa died—'

Pa wasn’t dead. He knew that. It had only been a few years; he talked to Ma when he could. She would have told him, she would have—

A punch to the gut knocked the wind out of him and he curled in on himself as much as he was able. He tried futilely to protect himself as the men beside him held him firm. A third man had appeared, the man who had punched him. He wore a crisp white suit and a disappointed smile. ‘Rico.’ The voice in the back of his head supplied, although he knew he had never met this man before.

‘You’ll wish you had never met this man at all.’

The man smoothed his suit jacket carefully. He shook out his hands like he was flicking water off of them and delicately began to slide off each of his heavy gold rings, before reaching for Stan.

The voice in the back of his head was screaming now. Stan may not know this man, but the voice knew that motion. He knew that motion. The little ritual Rico had. Rings were always left on for a beating, acting as his own twisted form of brass knuckles. But he always took his rings off before he killed someone. Before he killed someone—

Rico’s hand grabbed Stan’s hair, roughly yanking his head up so he was forced to meet his gaze. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rico’s other hand pull out a shining, wickedly sharp knife from his jacket pocket.

‘Rico always did like things personal.’

He knew with certainty he was going to die. He’d seen Rico kill before. He knew just how efficient this man was, knew that he would walk away leaving Stan gutted like a fish, bleeding out in the filthy alleyway, without a single drop of blood on his suit.

His brain screeched to a halt as he watched the blade come nearer.

The itch at the back of his head had started up again. ‘This is wrong.’

 If Rico had killed him now, he’d never know all of this. If Rico had killed him now, he never would have ended up in the car trunk, never would have ended up in prison in Columbia, never would have ended up in Tijuana, never would have ended up in Gravity Falls.

Gravity Falls.

The knife swung towards him and pain erupted in his skull as the voice in the back of his head desperately tried to hang on to the ghost of a memory. There was a blue, glowing light at the corners of his vision. And then everything went black. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

He was getting tired of this.

‘You’ve been tired of it since the first time it happened.’ But—this hadn’t happened before. He would remember if he had been in this situation before.

He could feel rough rope digging into his wrists and ankles. Blood trickled slowly into his eye from a stinging cut on his scalp and the pounding pain in his skull told him he probably had a concussion. ‘Definitely have a concussion.’

Wherever he was it was dark and small.

He’d always hated small spaces after this, even the cabin on the boat was difficult sometimes. He hadn’t been able to open his car trunk for months afterwards.

Car—

Fuck. He felt the rough carpet under him now, and the steady thrum of the engine and the wheels beneath him. For a while, he struggled, trying to get his foot around to kick out the tail-light, but they had him tied in a way where he could barely move. After an eternity, an eternity that felt horribly familiar, the car stopped.

He held his breath, listened as doors slammed and footsteps crunched on the ground outside. He heard muffled voices speaking rapid fire Spanish above him and allowed himself to hope that they were going to let him out. That this was just one of Rico’s ‘lessons’. The voice in the back of his head told him that ‘They aren’t. And it isn’t.’

It sounded resigned in a way he hadn’t heard the voice sound before.

He’d never heard this voice before. Right? His head swam with the heat and pain as he listened to the footsteps grow fainter and the sound of another car speeding off, away from him.

Tears pricked his eyes. He was going to die in here.

‘Fuck.’

It was getting hotter and hotter in the trunk. He remembered this as well. Remembered burning his arms on the hot metal at the end but first—

First—

His jaw ached and he realized with horror he could taste blood in his mouth. ‘You haven’t even started chewing on the ropes yet.’ He hadn’t even thought he was going to do that. Surely there was another way out. Surely there was—

‘No.’

He remembered this. He remembered the blood, the feeling of breaking his teeth.

He hated this, hated the resigned way the voice was speaking. Hated that somewhere deep inside of himself he knew it was right. He didn’t want to remember this. The other times he had remembered. The other times with the blizzard and with Rico. They hadn’t happened like he had thought they would. They had been different. They had been. Better.

‘Not this one.’ The voice shook slightly. ‘Not this one.’

It took him another eternity. He felt every excruciating part of it. He wished he hadn’t.

Three times of living through this felt like too many.

Eventually, after the thick bloodied rope, and the shattered glass of the tail-light, and the twisted broken lock of the trunk. He lay on the sand, blood dripping slowly from his ruined mouth and raw fingers. He knew he needed to get up, needed to hotwire the car and get away before the adrenaline wore off and the muted pain became sharp and real and overwhelming. But he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but his teeth. Or where his teeth had been. Fuck. He was going to need dentures. Dentures at the age of 24. He glanced blearily down at his wrist where his cheap blood-spattered watch was still glowing faintly. It was past midnight.

He began to laugh wildly. A high, broken, wheeze that went on until they turned into shuddering sobs which he tried desperately to stifle against his hands. Dentures at the age of 25. Happy birthday Ford.

‘Happy Birthday.’ Images flashed through his head of two small children and a bright pink cake with far too much glitter on top of it. Huh he hadn’t been able to remember them before.

He tried to focus on the images, tried to pull names out from the fuzzy blankness of his memory but the pain in his mouth and hands steadily grew unbearable, and he felt himself fade away. Again.

Stan didn’t remember.

At least. He didn’t think he did. The voice in the back of his head felt closer somehow. The familiarity of it was on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t quite—

He shivered violently and opened his eyes. Above him, the light of a naked bulb flickered weakly. He could tell it had originally had some sort of light fixture surrounding it but now it just dangled loosely from the pale, yellowed ceiling. He stared up at it, watching the walls swim gently around him. He was cold, but his mind was pleasantly detached. It felt like floating. It felt like—'No.’

 No, he was clean now, had been since the last stint in prison. He knew he hadn’t—so why? He blinked trying to clear the fog away and peered around him. There was a cracked sink, rusted faucet dripping water in irregular brown colored drops, a closed door made of cheap wood veneer which was peeling and cracking in dusty strips.

He was in a bathroom. ‘Oh.’

More specifically he was in a bathtub. ‘Oh no.’

He struggled to sit up, feeling cold water slosh around him. What was happening, why didn’t he remember? He did remember. Oh Moses, he remembered too well.

He turned to look at himself, at the pink tinged bathwater, and the ice cubes scattered around. His vision swam again, sending the room spinning. He gripped the sides of the bathtub for support, a motion that pulled at his skin.

There was a pain in his side.

He looked down.

‘NO! No, not again, no I don’t want to live this again I don’t I—'

The voice in his head was drowned out by his own screams which echoed off the walls, bouncing back around him in a hideous cacophony of fear.

There was a wound on his side. A curved cut like a smile that stretched up from his left hip to just below his ribcage. It was stitched up. Something that would be a small mercy if the bastards had bothered to do it correctly. Instead, the thread was loose in some places, leaving the wound lethargically seeping blood into the dirty bath water, and far too tight in others, cutting into the skin around the incision.

Someone had taken his fucking kidney.

He remembered walking back to the hotel he was staying at in New Mexico. A seedy long-term place he’d finally been able to actually afford for a month or two. He’d been working as a mechanic downtown; he’d finally been good at something. Finally, been able to save money for the first time in ages. He almost had enough to start looking for an apartment nearby. He almost had enough to finally put down roots somewhere for the first time in almost ten years.

Then he had noticed the men following him. He’d tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself he was just being paranoid. He hadn’t done anything to warrant being chased out of New Mexico yet, he hadn’t even stolen anything other than some shoplifted gas-station sandwiches a few weeks back. Then he heard a small snippet of Spanish, and his blood froze as he flashed back to Columbia, to Rico. To the man he had still crawled back to after the goddamn trunk because where else was he supposed to go. To the man who had finally asked him to cross a line he wouldn’t. To the man who he owed more money than he owed his own fucking father.

He had tried to run. But they had grabbed him before he got very far, and the prick of a needle against his arm had stopped any chance he’d ever had of fighting his way out.

Stan sat shivering on the bathroom floor, hunched around himself like a wounded animal. In one hand he clutched the note Rico’s men had left for him. It was simple. What had been paid and what was still owed. The former amount seemed laughably small for what had been done to him, and the latter far too large to ever dream of paying back. The note told him he had 72 hours.

In his other hand he was holding a needle and thread, which he had dug out of his bag after crawling out of the tub and into the hotel room. They had taken all his money from his job, and anything else he owned that they had deemed valuable enough to steal. He had thanked whatever gods existed that they had left him his car, and his poor excuse for a first aid kit.

He leaned his head back against the cold tile. This was it. There was nothing he could do. Sure, he could stitch himself up properly, but he couldn’t get Rico’s money in 72 hours. He had finally reached the end of the road. After everything he had done, every failed business idea, every failed scheme, every deal gone bad, it was finally catching up with him. He realized now he was never going to get to go home. Never going to make that million dollars to earn his way back.

‘You never should have had to earn a family.’

He was going to die here in this hotel and not a single person would care.

‘That’s not true.’

The voice was getting angrier. He ignored it. He deserved this, he always had.

‘No. You didn’t. I didn’t. We never deserved any of this.’

The itch in the back of his mind burned. And then something snapped inside of him, and he felt someone grab his hands. You survived this.

The blackness crashed over him. Again.

Stan Didn’t Remember

And he was tired of this.

His shoulder was consumed with a sick heat. Every time he shifted it stung and burned, the skin cracking open over what he knew was an infected wound.

He stood up unsteadily from the couch he had been lying on, immediately overwhelmed by the sharp tug of the stitches in his side as he stretched slightly too far. He gasped and doubled over, prodding softly at the space around the stitches. He couldn’t afford two infected wounds. Hell, he couldn’t even afford one but. He had to get Ford back. He had to. He couldn’t wait for his shoulder to heal. He couldn’t wait for the stitches to heal. The stitches he had ripped out a second time in his fight with Ford. The fight where he had killed his brother.

‘You didn’t kill him.’  

Stan jumped. The familiar voice sounded like it had come from directly behind him. He spun around, still doubled over in pain. For a half second, he could have sworn he saw Pa standing next to him but then he was gone, and Stan saw nothing except an empty couch and a worn red journal lying mockingly on the floor beside it.

He cursed in every language he knew as he slowly straightened up. It couldn’t have been Pa. Hell, he hadn’t seen Pa since the night he was kicked out, and he knew Ford hadn’t been home since college. That thought made bitterness bubble up in the back of his throat. Ford had literally had the one thing Stan had always wanted and had thrown it away the second he could.

‘Eh. He had his reasons.’

Stan flinched again, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as he grabbed for Ford’s crossbow. He brandished it wildly around the room, catching sight of himself in the window’s reflection. He looked terrible. It had been a week since Ford had fallen through the portal and in that time, he had barely slept or eaten. Even in the wavy glass of the reflection he could see the bags under his eyes and the unhealthy paleness of his face. He had refused to change into Ford’s clothes, so he was still wearing the ratty burned jacket which was now covered in patches of dried blood.

Then the window shimmered slightly and there was a figure standing next to him. He yelped and brandished the weapon again but there was nothing there. He glanced back to the window. The old man standing beside him was almost Pa but not quite. He looked softer than Pa ever had. His rough edges smoothed over underneath a dark blue sweater and a red beanie. He had a sad smile on his face and kind eyes that had the barest ghost of the same hunted look in them as his own did. Realization stole over him.

“You’re Ford. Oh god I’m so sorry I—”

‘Nah. Five fingers see?’

The figure raised his hand and waved at him slowly.

“You’re—”

‘Stanley Pines, at your service.’

“I get old?”

The man’s smile grew slightly sadder.

You are old. He said softly. This already happened, a long time ago. And you need to remember now. Because we need to wake up.

Remember.

Stan ignored the faint itch at the back of his skull. He stared at the reflection in the window. He looked at the sweater and the knit hat and the glasses he knew he needed but always refused. He looked at this man who was claiming to be him and he tried to slot his present and his, apparent, future together.

He remembered the portal; he remembered night after night of calculus and physics and math he had no business learning. He remembered taking his car apart over and over again before he worked up the nerve to try taking apart the portal’s engine. He remembered the townsfolk and the Murder Hut—no—the Mystery Shack. He remembered years and years of time slipping by him in this sleepy little town. Winters and summers and decades of time.

He watched himself in the reflection, watched himself heal and grow and change. Watched himself age.

He remembered Soos and Wendy and then the twins and then the portal and then Ford and the end of the world. He remembered remembering nothing at all and the years that came after it.

He remembered a phone call and a rage he hadn’t felt since he punched that triangle out of existence. He remembered a parking lot and a horse that wasn’t a horse and the worst memories he had playing out in a sick nightmarish loop.

He blinked and the identical men in the reflection became one man.

“I remember” He said softly.

…

Stan startled awake on the asphalt next to his car. The word ‘Ford’ was echoing in his ears and he wasn’t sure if he had actually yelled it or not. His head spun as he tried to force himself up off the ground and so he allowed himself a moment to breathe.

He gently ran his hand over his shoulder, even though the pain was nothing more than a dream now, fading as he tried to focus on it. The scar was there, deep and gnarled and exactly as it had been. The scar on his stomach was the same, and gently prodding with fingers that were absolutely only shaking from the cold revealed his dentures firmly in place over long healed gums. He took a deep breath and screamed out every curse he could think of into the frigid air.

Then he laughed.

He laughed for a long time, until his chest hurt, and his face was wet with quickly freezing tears. He was here, he was okay. He had survived everything up until this moment and he would survive everything after it. He didn’t know what those things were, but they’d need to try a lot harder than that if they wanted to break him. His laughter subsided slowly into ragged breathing, and he glanced up at the sky.

The moon certainly hadn’t been that high when they had pulled into this motel. It was odd that Ford hadn’t come looking for him yet.

That thought jolted him to his feet before he had even processed that he was moving.

“FORD!?”

He looked around wildly, before catching sight of the door to what was supposed to have been their room. It stood slightly ajar and, for a moment, he could have sworn he saw one of the Not-Horses standing just inside the doorway before it vanished.

He stumbled over to the door, tripping slightly on his numb legs, and threw the door open. Inside one of the Not-Horses was standing over the crumpled form of his brother. Ford was moaning softly in his sleep the way he did when he was having a particularly nasty nightmare.

“Get off of him!” Stan roared, throwing himself at the thing, fists raised to meet it.

It vanished and he toppled onto the carpet next to Ford.

He swore and glanced around but it was gone. That was fine, he could deal with it later. He just had to wake Ford up and then they could deal with it together. He fumbled for his brother, intending to shake him gently out of whatever magical nonsense he was trapped in, but the second his hand brushed Ford’s shoulder he knew he had made a mistake.

He pitched forward into darkness, the last coherent thought ringing through his head was “Not again.”

…

As his eyes opened to a sea of white, Stan thought he was back in his car at the beginning of his own nightmare loop again. Then he realized that this time he was outside, and this time there was only one version of him. Also, he had all his memories, which he figured meant whatever was happening right now wasn’t targeting him. Probably he had somehow gotten himself caught in Ford’s nightmare prison. Figures. Although, he was surprised Ford hadn’t broken out of it yet. Surely, he would have figured it out faster than Stan had. After all, Ford had decades more experience with things like this than he did.

He looked around at the snow, wondering idly where Ford was, when he heard a familiar scream echoing through the trees. Shit.

He ran, slipping in the deep snow, until he came to the edge of a clearing. He stopped short, staring at the Mystery Shack. Well. What would become the Mystery Shack. Currently with all the barbed wire and keep out signs, it was clear this version of the shack still belonged to Ford.

Stan walked towards the house cautiously. He wasn’t sure exactly what Ford was currently re-living. He knew very little about what had happened to Ford after Bill’s betrayal. He had picked up on some things from what he found in the house after the portal incident, and some more things from the puckered scars on Ford’s hands. But it was something Ford had never wanted to talk about with him. Just like he had never wanted to talk about the portal with him. Deep down, Stan resented this. He wanted to know about Ford’s past—the good and the horrible. He wanted to know what his brother had been through so that he could help, so that he could get it on at least some level. But, as his eyes found a crumpled body on the ground in front of the house, he realized that he wanted to know these things because Ford was ready to tell him, not because he had snooped on them by breaking into his mind.

He had to try and wake Ford up as soon as possible.

He walked cautiously towards the body, doing his best to ignore the sick feeling rising in his throat as he watched the bright red stain on the snow around it spreading. He knelt next to Ford. He could tell by the odd angles of his limbs that most of Ford’s bones were broken. He opened his mouth but the words died on his lips. He knew without asking that Ford was gone, there was too much blood for him not to be. Then, the body shimmered and vanished, and above him there was a scuffling noise.

He shot to his feet and looked up at the roof. He could see Ford dragging himself across it, limbs jerky and stiff, and, when he squinted he could see the yellow glint in his brother’s eyes. Bill. The breath caught in his chest. He knew it was only a memory—not even a true one at that. He knew Ford obviously hadn’t died and, given the lack of broken bones during their fight, he probably hadn’t even ended up falling off the roof. But the idea that at least some of this was true, that that fucking corn chip had dragged his brother up here to threaten him, filled him with rage.

He watched Bill walk Ford’s body right up to the edge. He saw the moment when Bill let him go, watched as Ford’s shoulders slumped. Ford hung in the air, arms wheeling as he tried to catch himself, tried to grab the edge of the icy roof. Stan watched in silence as Ford fell backwards with a scream. He looked away before Ford hit the ground, wondering how many times Ford had been forced to live this twisted memory.

When he looked back, he saw that Ford was lying in the same position he had found him in before but the twitching of his fingers and the shallow rise and fall of his chest meant that this time he was still alive. Stan dropped back down next to his brother and carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping that he wasn’t adding to the pain Ford had to be feeling right now. To his shock, his hand phased through Ford as though he himself was made of air. Okay, so he couldn’t touch him but he could talk to him, that would have to do.

“Hey Six, listen to me. This didn’t happen, okay? You’re dreamin’, you have to wake up now.”

Ford’s eyes remained unfocused and glassy, blood dripping lethargically out of one of them. But he opened his mouth weakly, slurring out, “Stan ‘m srry.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything, you just need to wake up.”

Ford’s eyes glazed over and Stan watched in horror as his limbs fell slack. Around them the scene twisted into darkness.

Ford Was Gone

Okay, that hadn’t gone nearly as well as Stan had hoped. He wasn’t even convinced that Ford had really known it was him. He was fairly certain that he hadn’t heard most of what Stan had been trying to tell him. But he still wasn’t sure why Ford seemed so much more stuck in here than Stan had been. Even from the first memory he had known that something was wrong, and his younger self hadn’t really listened to him, but he’d at least seemed able to hear him.

The darkness began to fade and Stan readied himself.

When he opened his eyes, he was once again standing in front of Ford’s house. Snow was still covering the ground, but this time there was no sign of Ford on the roof. Hopefully that meant this was going to be a different memory, maybe one where Ford would be able to listen to him.

As he watched, a familiar car pulled into the driveway next to the house and a younger version of himself clambered out, duffle bag in hand. He winced watching the careful way that this version of Stan held himself, and the way he kept checking over his shoulder to see if anyone had followed him. Stan’s hand strayed down to his own stomach, reminding himself again as he brushed his fingers over his scar that this was in the past and he and Ford were both fine now.

He watched Stan knock on the door and watched as Ford threw the door open, crossbow in hand. Stan was just thinking that he probably could try and grab Ford if he followed them down to the portal room, when he heard a harsh ka-chunk noise followed by both twins giving startled yells. 

Stan had assumed this memory was going to end with Ford getting sucked into the portal. Surely that, and whatever had happened immediately afterwards, had to be the stuff of nightmares for his brother. Instead, he was staring at his own body, crumpled in the snow, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his neck. Ford threw himself down the stairs, hands fluttering above the bolt as though he could somehow undo it, as though he could somehow fix this.

Stan watched with a grimace as he bled out into the snow. Part of him had always assumed the crossbow was just for show. No rational person would keep a real loaded crossbow by their front door. He didn’t love knowing how close he had come to dying that day.

Ford was pressing his hands against the bolt, begging Stan to stay with him as blood bubbled between his fingers, spilling over into the snow.

Stan could tell that his counterpart was already gone. He silently willed Ford to figure it out, to see the nightmare for what it really was. Instead, he watched as Ford tugged the other Stan’s body up into his arms. He was sobbing now, alternating between broken apologies and begging Stan to wake up.

“Ford. Ford, listen to me, this didn’t happen.” He walked over, kneeling in the snow next to his brother, trying very hard not to look at his own slack, blood spattered face. “Ford please you have to wake up now, this isn’t how it happened.”

Ford stared through him, unseeing. “Stanley, I’m sorry. Stanley, please please, wake up, I promise I’m sorry, I promise I didn’t mean to. Please, I can’t do this without you, I can’t I. Please I can’t I’m sorry.”

Stan grabbed at his shoulders, trying to gently force Ford to look at him, but, just like last time, his fingers sank insubstantially through Ford’s body. “Ford this isn’t real, ya didn’t hurt me, I promise, you just need to wake up.”

Ford let his head drop against dream Stan’s body, words now a stream of broken muttering that Stan couldn’t quite hear. He tried again to grab Ford’s shoulder, focusing all of his energy on making himself solid and real, but just as he felt his fingers make contact, the darkness pressed in again.

Ford Was Gone

“I’m getting tired of this!” He shouted. Ford’s consciousness had to be around here somewhere, suspended in the dark the way Stan’s had been. He just had to get through to him somehow. “Ford none of this is real, c’mon you know your own memories, I know you do, you weren’t the one who got shot by the memory gun!”

Okay, maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

The scene had changed again. He had been anticipating something from the portal this time, assuming that the nightmares were taking place in order. Instead, he was in a high vaulted room, staring at two men in a glowing blue cage. They were having an argument. He knew how this went. He remembered the defeat in Ford’s eyes when he had realized he couldn’t talk Stan out of this. Stan hadn’t understood why back then. He’d still believed Ford hated him at that point, still genuinely believed that his life just wasn’t worth as much as the rest of theirs. He still believed that, but now he accepted that it didn’t matter what his life was worth to him, because it was worth a whole lot to his family.

He watched them switch clothes, watched Ford’s eyes widen at the scars on Stan’s torso. He remembered hissing at Ford that there wasn’t time to explain, as Ford had pointed wordlessly at the surgical scar on his side. He watched himself place the fez on Ford’s head, straightening it out as Bill stalked back into the room.

When the dream twisted, Stan was ready for it at least. That didn’t make it any more pleasant to see Bill’s eye flash towards Ford’s six fingers wrapped around the bars of the cage. Stan forced himself to keep watching as Bill pulled his hand back from the deal and disintegrated Dipper and Mabel on the spot. The screams from this memory’s version of himself were cut off with a choking noise as Bill grabbed him and threw his body roughly against the wall. Bill was saying something to his soon-to-be corpse, but Stan ignored him, running up to the edge of the cage where his brother was staring vacantly at the scorch marks where the twins had been standing moments before.

“Ford, listen to me. You have to wake up, this isn’t real Poindexter!”

The cage disappeared and glowing blue chains appeared around Ford’s neck, wrists, and ankles. Bill hoisted Ford up off the ground and Stan could only stare at him in horror as Bill coursed electricity through the chains. He watched Ford's body seize and contort but there was nothing Stan could do to free him now. The electricity paused and Bill began to laugh, pulling down one of the tapestries and slowly setting it alight in front of Ford’s eyes. Stan tried not to look, he didn’t want to know who Bill was burning to death. He told himself that it didn’t matter, he knew that none of this was real, he just wished Ford knew that too.

He squared his shoulders. If this wasn’t real then Bill couldn’t hurt him anyway, so it didn’t matter if he was noticed or not. “FORD! Please you gotta listen to me!” His shout echoed through the fearamid. 

Finally, Ford looked down at him, and Stan sighed with relief. Ford could finally see him. Now he just had to wake up and all of this could stop.

“It’s all my fault Stanley. I did this. All of this, I failed you and the kids. I deserve this.”

The darkness swept over them before Stan could reply.

Ford Was Gone

As he waited for whatever was about to come, Stan thought about Ford’s words. He knew that Ford had genuinely seen him. But he hadn’t wanted to wake up. Or he still didn’t realize that he could.

Something about what Ford had said was bothering him. It sounded just like what the dream version of himself had said during the memory of his uh, impromptu surgery. Which. Hadn’t that been the nightmare where he had finally been able to take control again? He hummed to himself trying to fit all the pieces together. As the darkness faded, he figured it out. He knew what he had to do.

He was surprised to find himself on the Stan O’ War II. Whatever memory this was pulling from had to be fairly recent because he recognized their anomaly chart on the wall which placed them firmly around Alaska instead of the Arctic. For a second, he was worried it was going to be another nightmare involving the kids, but the calendar on the wall above the stove told him it was sometime in November. Just a few months ago.

He tried to think back to what it might be, he didn’t remember anything specific happening in November, at least nothing he had been aware of. There was a muttering noise coming from the office. Something about the whole scene was sending his anxiety into overdrive, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then, the door to the office opened, and Ford walked out. Except it wasn’t Ford. Stan didn’t even have to look at the eyes this time to recognize the jerky movements and overwide smile as Bill inside his brother’s body.

He stumbled back against the counter, panic coursing through him in a way that froze him to the spot. Bill stumbled into the sleeping cabin and Stan heard himself begin to scream from beyond the door. He tried to get his breathing under control. This hadn’t happened. Obviously it hadn’t happened. He had killed Bill himself, it was the most satisfying memory he had. He squeezed his eyes shut against the screaming. He’d heard himself scream enough for a lifetime today. He was really getting tired of this.

After what felt like hours, Bill stumbled back out of the room and into the office. Stan tried not to stare at the blood on the floor. He didn’t need to know what lay beyond the door. He watched blankly as Ford startled back to himself at his desk. His brother brought a shaking hand up to his right eye, which had begun to weep a moderately alarming amount of blood. He drew his hand away and stared at the blood for a long time.

“No. No that can’t. STAN!” Ford shot to his feet, and Stan decided he was done.

He was done with whatever sick, twisted games this creature was trying to play with them. It was one thing to have to relive his own memories, but at least he had known when this thing was trying to mess with him. His own memories were gruesome, but at least he’d never killed Ford, at least he’d never had to feel himself die. Ford didn’t know that this wasn’t real, he believed he had killed Stan multiple times, he had felt himself die at least twice that Stan had seen, probably many more times before he had been able to get into Ford’s head. Worst of all, in the hazy moments of lucidity that Ford had, he seemed to genuinely believe that he deserved all of this for some reason.

That didn’t sit right with Stan. Only one person was allowed to guilt trip Ford and that was him. Besides, Ford didn’t deserve this, none of these things had actually happened. Things were supposed to be okay now. It didn’t matter how long it took, Stan was going to make Ford believe that.

He stepped forward, blocking the door to the cabin, seething with anger. “Ford stop. This isn’t your fault.”

Ford paused, then shook his head and tried to walk through Stan.

“You don’t deserve this Ford. You never did.”

He felt Ford bump into him and freeze. Slowly, Stan reached up a hand to wipe the blood away from Ford’s eye. To his satisfaction, his hand made contact.

“You deserve a happy ending. You always have.”

He took Ford by the shoulders and stared into his eyes.

“Wake up.”

…

The motel floor was not any more comfortable the second time that Stan became aware he was lying on it. He rolled over and sat up, rubbing at his head with one hand. He was definitely going to have bruises in the morning. He was too old to be falling onto the floor.

Ford blinked and pushed himself up against the wall, staring silently into space. That wasn’t good. Stan got up shakily and pushed the motel door shut, noticing as he did so that the sign outside now read Motel 9 instead of The Sobbing Stag. He sighed.

“Hey Sixer, next time you pick the Motel, can we make sure it exists first?”

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him and he cursed silently. Using that nickname had definitely been a mistake. “Sorry Ford, that was my bad. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He turned around. Ford had one hand tangled tightly in his hair and was breathing far too quickly to be healthy. Stan sat down next to him, being careful not to touch him yet. They had a routine for nightmares.

He glanced over, Ford was wiping repeatedly at his right eye, pressing harder and harder against his face with each pass. Stan gently reached out, trying to tug his hand down. Ford flinched away with a shout. 

“No! Stanley, no get away, I’m not safe get away from me please--”

“Ford, Stanford.” Stan raised his hands slowly away from his brother, angling his body so that Ford could see he had no weapons on him, while also keeping the closed door in Ford’s line of sight. “Listen to me. It’s okay. We’re awake now. You’re safe.”

Ford shook his head frantically, jamming himself into the corner between the wall and side of the motel dresser. One hand was still tugging sharply at his own hair, the other hand was resting on the handle of his blaster. 

Stan took a deep breath, at least Ford knew who he was this time. There had been nightmares in the past where that had not been true. “Okay, I understand. I’m going to sit right here okay? I want you to try and match your breathing to mine. Do you think you can do that Ford?” He took another deep breath. Ford’s eyes flicked frantically around the room, searching for whatever danger he seemed sure was coming for them. Stan kept his eyes fixed on Ford, watching as his breathing grew more and more erratic. This approach wasn’t working. 

“So uh. I thought that metal plate in your head was supposed to stop things from gettin’ in there. Seems like you should demand a refund. The fucked up horses got in just fine. Hmmm. That name is too long.” He grinned. Sometimes silence worked best with Ford, but most of the time the best way to jar him out of a panic spiral was plain old annoyance. “Whaddya think about Night Mares? Get it? Like horses? Night Mares? Admit it. I’m hilarious!”

“Stanley…”

Ford’s voice was hoarse, and Stan noticed his eyes brow bright with tears. He stared up at the ceiling, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

“I wish you hadn’t been there.”

“Well. I mean I can’t say it was a pleasant experience, but I think ya’d probably still be stuck there if I hadn’t seen it.”

Ford thunked his head back against the wall and scrubbed roughly at his face with both hands.

 Stan thought about his next words. He knew he could leave it alone. Pretend it hadn’t happened and move on with his life. But he didn’t want to. He was tired of Ford constantly hiding his past from him, he wanted to understand and painful as it might end up being, this was going to be one of the only chances he got to talk about it. “Ford, why couldn’t you get out? You had to have figured out that stuff wasn’t real.”

Ford laughed in a strangled, painful way that made Stan’s chest tighten. “How exactly was I supposed to do that, Stan?”

“Well, I mean I did.”

“Yes well seeing as you haven’t had a dream demon in your head editing your memories and brain functions before, I think that—”

“He did what.” Stan’s voice was low and dangerous.

“Um. It doesn’t matter, Stanley its—”

“What did he do to you, Ford? Don’t fucking lie to me. Not right now. Not after what I just watched you go through.”

Ford flinched again, but didn’t answer.

“Stanford, please.”

Ford yanked his flask out of his coat and unscrewed it roughly, taking a swig and glaring at Stan as though daring him to say something. Stan didn’t comment, tonight Ford could drink as much as he wanted for all he cared. So long as he got answers, he could make peace with that.

Ford opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. This happened a few more times before he finally seemed to find the words. “There was a point where I was. Foolish enough to try and force Bill out of my head.” He shuddered, taking another drink before continuing. “At the time, I thought he was bound by more rules, I didn’t realize how much power over me our deal had truly given him.”

He met Stan’s eyes tiredly and raised one hand, showing off the scarred mess across his knuckles. “You know that he started hurting me physically when he took over, but he also derived a sick pleasure in toying with my mind.”

Ford took a deep breath, and his next words were so quiet Stan had to strain to hear them. “He made me forget my own name once, just to prove that he could. While I was disoriented, trying to force myself to remember what it was, he made it so all the nerves in my body signaled at once. The pain was…” He trailed off. 

Stan hesitantly reached out for him but Ford shook his head, forcing himself to continue. “Another time he deleted my memories of him torturing me so when I woke up I thought we were still…friends. By the time you came to see me I no longer knew what memories were real and what memories Cipher had twisted. Sometimes, I’m still not sure.”

Stan allowed himself to fantasize briefly about tracking down a Time Agent so he could go back in time and kill the evil little corn chip a second time. Ford took another swig from his flask.

“I didn’t know.” He said quietly.

“Of course you didn’t, how could you? I’ve never told you anything about it.” He murmured bitterly. 

“Why, Ford?”

“I’m supposed to help you first. That’s the system.”

“What system?”

“The system where you protected me when we were young so I protect you now, because I wasn’t there when I should have been, and so I have to be there now, I have to make up for it all.”

“That’s a stupid system.”

Ford stared at him.

“It’s a stupid system, and if I’d realized that’s what you were up to this whole time I would have put a stop to it years ago. Ford look. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m okay.”

Ford snorted, “Of course, Stan. I’m sure your experience with the Night Mares was completely fine.”

Stan shrugged. “Honestly. Yeah. I'm okay. Cause look, Ford. I have bad days, bad shit happened to me and sometimes it ‘haunts me’ or whatever. In my opinion it makes me more interestin’. But for the most part, hot chocolate and you and the twins makes it better. Sure, I needed help immediately after the apocalypse, and I appreciate all you did for me, Stanford. I genuinely don’t think I would have my memories back without you.”

“You wouldn’t have lost them without me either.” Ford muttered bitterly. 

Stan fixed him with an ‘I’m still talking’ glare. “You gave me the happy ending I always dreamed of. But what you can’t seem to get through your stupid metal skull is that the happy ending isn’t worth anythin’ if you’re miserable. Tonight, I relived some terrible shit. But you’re right, I’ve never had a dream demon mess with my memories. I’ve never had to question what’s real in my own head. The second those horses started trying to twist things I was able to start pullin’ myself out of it.”

“You died.” Ford said quietly. “You watched yourself go through the worst moments from your past and then you came to rescue me and you had to watch yourself die. I killed you.”

“Nope.” He reached out and carefully pulled Ford’s hand out of his hair to place it lightly on his chest. “I’m doin’ jus’ fine see? You never killed me Stanford.”

“I could have.”

“You didn’t, and the cops can’t getcha’ for crimes you didn’t commit.”

For a moment, he saw the ghost of a smile on Ford’s face, but then it slipped away again. 

 “I thought things were supposed to be better by now.”

“I mean, it’s been like ten minutes since we got out of that shit. It takes you longer than this to recover from a normal nightmare, much less whatever that was.”

Ford looked away, staring up at the ceiling, but Stan held onto his hand tighter, refusing to let him pull away again. “I mean in general Stanley. I thought things were supposed to be better in general. I shouldn’t be flinching when you call me my childhood nickname, I shouldn’t have flashbacks to freezing on my roof when I see snow, I shouldn’t be pulling out a weapon when someone startles me. Logically, I am supposed to be okay now, I’ve run every test I can think of and I know Cipher is gone from our dimension for good. So, why am I not fixed?”

Stan couldn’t remember the last time Ford had been this vulnerable with him. He shifted closer until they were leaning on each other.

“You’re doin’ better.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Yeah well, tough shit. You are doin’ better. You don’t constantly carry your blaster around with you anymore. You hadn’t had a severe nightmare for months leading up to all this. An’ I know I yelled at you about it las’ night, but before all this you weren’t actually drinking all that much either.”

“Right but now I’m right back where I started. I’m not fixable.”

“Nope.”

“You can’t just say nope as a response Stanley.”

“I can and I did. You aren’t back where you started, you’re just having a bad time right now. And stop tellin’ me you need to be fixed. You aren’t one of your machines, Stanford, you’re a person.”

“But why are things so much worse than they were?”

“Let’s see,” He held up his free hand and sardonically started checking things off on his fingers. “Because for the first time in four years your family is in danger, your routine has been disrupted, you went back to the house you haven’t been in in the winter since you were being physically and psychologically tortured by a sadistic little shape, and you just had to live through all your greatest fears on repeat.”

“Oh.” Ford said quietly, and for the first time Stan heard genuine realization in his voice.

“Yeah, oh.”

Ford slowly leaned into him, letting his head rest on Stan’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Stanley.”

“For what?”

“I realize now that it might have been not the wisest course of action for me to decide that I no longer needed anyone's help.”

“Yeah well. Once we get the kids back we all should think about going back to therapy.”

Ford groaned into his shoulder, sounding achingly like he had when they were kids. “Do we have to?”

“You know Mabel is going to make us the second she finds out we stopped going last year.”

Ford groaned again, louder. And Stan laughed.

“Stan, I’m sorry I killed you.”

“You didn’t knucklehead. I’m right here.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Hey, listen Ford, I meant what I said in your head. You didn’t deserve any of that. You never deserved anything he did to you.”

“I appreciate the sentiment Stanley but,” He sighed and gently screwed the cap back onto his flask. “I’m not sure that’s something I will ever be able to truly believe.”

“I know,” Stan said, pulling himself up off the floor and holding out a hand to Ford. “I’ll keep believing it for you ‘til ya figure it out though.”

Ford let out a wet laugh and let himself be pulled upright.

“We should probably get to bed.”

Stan shrugged, the phantom pains starting up in his side and his shoulder meant he definitely wasn’t getting anymore sleep tonight. But he could spend the rest of the night making sure Ford woke up if he started having any more nightmares. “Yeah, we probably should.”

Ford paused awkwardly, staring at him for a moment. “Thank you Stanley. For everything.” 

Stan pulled him carefully into a hug, waiting a moment until he felt Ford melt into it, hugging him back fiercely.

“Anytime Poindexter.”

As Ford pulled away and headed for the bathroom, Stan felt something drop into his jacket pocket. He slipped his fingers in, surprised and pleased to feel the smooth metal of Ford’s flask. There was still a lot of work they both needed to do, but this, at least, felt like progress.

[princess-schez]

Fic: Sweet Dreams, Beautiful Nightmare - Chapter 5

Fic: Sweet Dreams, Beautiful Nightmare - Chapter 5 Rating: M  Genre: Bill Cipher/Reader fanfic Summary: The Reader has been plagued by violent nightmares for as long as she can remember. Deciding to move to Oregon for a simpler pace of life, it is there she meets the dream demon himself and begins to unravel a mystery connecting them both. **Bill Cipher has entered the chat**

Fic under cut below.

Chapter 5. Throwing open the front door, you saw the rest of the Pines family downstairs and surrounding Stan, who was holding onto the wall for support, an ashen color on his face. They saw you enter, noticing the slightly freaked expression on your face. "Are you okay?" you asked, as Ford helped his brother into the kitchen to sit at the table. Tentatively, you followed behind. "I feel like my head just exploded," Stan replied, rubbing his face. "But the pain seems to be going away now." "Maybe we should take you to the hospital?" Ford asked, to which Stan waved away the idea. "I'm fine," he grumbled. "Besides, quacks work there. I'm not letting some quack near me." Mabel giggled softly, before turning to face you now, worry quickly replacing the tiny bit of joy she felt. "Are you okay? Where did you go?" "I just... Honestly, I don't know. I just went for a walk as it looked so nice outside that I wanted to take it in, you know. Growing up in the city, I never really got to experience much of nature. Not up close at least, and then I saw the strangest thing there. There was this statue of a triangle with one eye just, like, buried halfway into the ground and..." You stopped when you noticed the horrified looks of the people sitting around the table. Everything got eerily quiet, except for the rumbling storm outside. Not even an audible breath escaped from the four people around you. "You didn't... touch the statue, did you?" Ford asked nervously, eyebrows raised, a hint of worry in his voice. "Uh," you thought, thinking back to how harmless it seemed. "Maybe? I mean, like, I kinda did and..." The family shot a nervous glance at one another, obviously knowing something you didn't. A weird feeling of dread nestled in the pit of your stomach for what was already the second time this day. "Why?" you asked, unsure of what was going on. "Did—did I do something?" Dipper looked up, rubbing the back of his neck anxiously. He opened his mouth to reply when a quick burst of lightning outside caused the lights inside the house to flicker ominously; the power waning off and on as a burst of loud, maniacal laughter filled the room. Filled the entire house. "Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, this is a surprise I must admit," came the voice, changing tone and echoing around the room from all directions. You looked around, wondering where it came from. It had a unique drawl to it, and one that didn't belong to any of the Pines family. In the middle of the room, a large eye appeared, followed by three lines that connected the top and bottom, forming a triangular shape. You gasped, as the image before you turned into that of the statue you had seen in the forest. A yellow body with a design that looked like bricks near the bottom; complete with the top hat that unnaturally floated atop the point. The thing—whatever it was—hovered midair as it eyed the family with malice so potent you could feel it pouring off it in droves. You stared at whatever it was, unblinking, unsure if this had something to do with your accident the night before; some kind of delayed reaction that only now was manifesting. Then again, if the Pines family saw it too, then it must've been one collective hallucination. That had to be it. The triangle’s pupil moved to stare at you now, a surge of fear and something else you couldn’t quite pinpoint, coursing through you. You sat, unable to move, as the thing stared at you. It was unnerving, creepy even, how its eye almost penetrated your very being. Its eye changed from white with a vertical pupil, to a multitude of colors, shapes, images... you saw the same things in your mind's eye. You forgot where you were; the images became your new surroundings, swirling, blending, as though they transported you to another level of existence... before everything was consumed by fire... and screaming. The image of the deer-headed woman was the last thing you saw… The images stopped, and you were back in the Pines' dining room, the wind having felt like it was knocked out of you. Your eyes still locked onto the creature's, but now his eye was opened wider, as though in shock just as much as you. "You," he whispered. Now your own eyes widened in surprise, unsure what this thing was talking about. Yet you couldn't ponder it more as the thing quickly extended its black hand to you. "Always a pleasure to meet you, beautiful," it said. "Putt'er there." You stared at his outstretched hand. Nothing about this whole scenario making any sense anymore. Life itself was not making sense right now. "Don't be shy, you already took my hand once," the triangle said with a sing-song tone in its voice. You could have sworn it was smiling, noting the way its eye curved. "Don't shake his hand!" Dipper yelled, breaking you from your trance-like state. "It's a trick!" "Ah, Pine Tree, always the optimist," it said, snapping its fingers as Dipper's mouth sealed shut, but his eye never left your face. "Name's Bill Cipher, beautiful. But I know yours," he continued, that same look on his—well, you weren't sure if 'face' was the right word—but there it was, eye curved like he was smiling. "H—how do you know mine?" you asked, slightly panicked. The triangle clapped its hands together in amusement. "I know everything. Master of the mind, dreams, and all that. Like I can tell you the exact date, time, age, and location that Pine Tree here dies. Or better yet, when Grumpy and Grumpier over here kick the bucket." It pointed its thumb back over at the two older Pines men. "Maybe they would look better with their insides worn on the outside?" "Knock it off, Cipher," Ford growled. "How did you get back here, anyway?" "Hell if I know," Bill said, with a sarcastic tone to his voice. "But now that I'm free, again, I'll be around keeping my eye on things. Especially you, beautiful." He tipped his hat toward you as he vanished into thin air. _____ Chapter 4 / Chapter 6 AO3 / Wattpad

[fallen-gravity]

awaken the stars, ‘cause they’re all around you

Stanford Pines never really believed in soulmates.

He can't imagine the idea that there's one person out there for him in the multiverse who would stop at nothing to love him for who he is, despite everything he is and everything he's done. He can't imagine that someone out there is meant for him, someone who will stand by his side until the end of time.

Or maybe he'd just been looking at it from the wrong angle.

Notes: 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @stariousfalls!!!!! I can't believe we've been friends for upwards of five years now?? You've been a huge inspiration of mine from my first day in the gravity falls fandom back in late 2014, and now you're one of my closest friends. I've been spending the last week and a half working on this behind your back, because I wanted to surprise you with a gift I thought you'd love!!

7.5k words of fluff was....not my original plan, but fluff brain wanted to go feral for you, I guess.

Huge, huge shoutout to @ariasofelegance  for helping me keep my mouth shut about this, I absolutely would've internally combusted without your help & support

AO3

Ford never saw the appeal of romantic relationships.

One night when he and Stan were kids, they snuck downstairs in the middle of the night after their parents were asleep to dig through Pa’s “Secret stash” of movies he thought he was good at keeping a secret. They’d thought for sure they’d be coming across bootleg cuts of action movies that were still playing in theaters, or documentaries about how all of the politicians in power were secretly aliens. 

What they actually found was much more…sensual. They were both horrified, to say the least, but each time Ford had to turn away to prevent himself from gagging, he’d hear Stan beside him struggling not to laugh. 

For years, Ford was convinced coming across those tapes before he was old enough to fully comprehend what was happening in them is what had turned him off to relationships altogether. It certainly didn’t help that he was never able to experience romantic relationships firsthand, as every time he tried asking someone out in high school he’d just be laughed at or called a freak.

Though college was another story entirely, his feelings towards romantic relationships never seemed to change. He went out with a girl from his dungeons, dungeons, and more dungeons club for a few weeks, a guy from his advanced physics class for almost two months, and even tried going out with Fiddleford for upwards of nine months, but he never felt that deeper connection with any of them, no matter how much he wanted to feel that connection. 

It’d be forty more years before he learned the term aromantic, but when he was still in college he would brush off his parents’ questions about his relationship status by telling them he was too busy working on his thesis, which technically wasn’t all that far from the truth anyway.

Still, the faint sense of yearning never seemed to leave him be. Whenever he found gaps in his schedule, he would spend hours in his university library reading up on the science of relationships and their place in society. Though he no longer remembers most of the papers he read, one scientific study that’s always stuck with him was a dissertation written entirely on the concept of soulmates.

Everyone has a soulmate, the paper claimed. Though it may be decades until you properly meet, your path always leads to the moment that you and your soulmate are finally united. Once finally together, not a single force on earth can tear you apart. Even if you are apart physically, the stars will always align to bring you together. Weirdest of all, the paper mentioned soulmarks, which were described as “the phenomenon that a person’s very soul is marked with a piece that belongs to their soulmate, which may appear as a physical anomaly on a person’s body, such as an oddly-shaped birthmark”. 

Ford had thought for sure that somebody must’ve moved a romance novel into the sociology section of the library as a joke. The only sort of anomaly he had going for him was his polydactyly, and thinking too much about how that could connect him to a single person who was destined to love him gave him a headache. 

Nowadays, though, Ford tries not to give it much thought. He’s perfectly happy right where he is, watching the sunrise from the deck of the Stan O’ War II through the steam visibly rising from his coffee mug. 

He sighs contently. 

“Mornin’” Stan’s voice sounds beside him, gruff with sleep. When Ford turns to look at him, he’s rubbing at his eyes with one hand while he holds a steaming cup of coffee in his other. He’s already donning one of the sweaters Mabel mailed to him, a deep blue with a tropical island and a treasure chest stitched across the chest.

Ford smirks. “You’re up early” 

Stan cocks an eyebrow as he sips from his coffee. “A’course I am. I always get up early when we’re docking to see the kids”

Ford blinks, the teasing smirk on his face melting into a gentle smile. “That’s today?” 

“Haven’t you checked the calendar lately?” Stan tosses a second handmade sweater at Ford. This one’s the same shade of maroon as his journal covers, and pictures an angry cycloptopus squirting ink towards the bottom left corner of the sweater. “The kids are on spring break. They talked to their parents about letting us have ‘em all week” 

Ford is quick to pull the warm sweater over his head. “All week?” 

He can’t help sounding like a broken record, but it’s been months since the last time he saw the kids face to face. Sure, they talk over video at least once a week, but nothing beats seeing their smiling faces and having them nearly tackle him to the ground in a hug in-person. 

“Heh, you miss em too, Sixer?” 

As little as two years ago, Ford would’ve flinched at the nickname. But Bill is gone for good, and Ford knows that Bill is gone for good, and Stan made a promise to do anything in his power to help him reclaim the nickname. He brings his mug close to his face without taking a sip, allowing himself to take in the warmth in his hands and the steam in his face.

“Not as much as you, clearly” Ford smirks, and Stan crosses his arms over his chest.

“You bet I missed them more than you. I’d been taking care of them all summer before you showed up and fell in love with them in half that time”

Ford smirks as he finishes up his coffee and heads into the navigation room to set their course. “By that logic, wouldn’t that mean that I miss them more, since I had less time with them?”

“Hey!” Stan groans as he follows him into the room. “It does not. It means that you don’t know them like I know them, genius. Everyone knows that it’s all about how much time you’ve spent with a person that determines how close you are with them” 

Ford laughs as he enters the coordinates they need to get to the seaport they were meeting the young twins at. From the looks of it, it’d be three hours before they arrived. 

“Mm, and who put that study together? Was it you?” 

Stan doesn’t reply with words, just a noise that sounds halfway between disgruntled and baffled. It makes Ford laugh even harder, and he wipes at his eyes with a wrist. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Stan’s overdramatic pout melt away until he’s laughing too. 

The sight of it makes the smile on Ford’s face widen. It’d been decades since the two of them were able to just be like this. It’d been so long since the last time Ford heard Stan’s genuine laugh that he’d gone and forgotten what it sounded like altogether. When he was still traveling the multiverse, he searched far and wide for a shred of hope, something to keep his anxieties and nightmares from catching up to him.

What a fool he’d been to ignore his childhood memories of home. 

The trip is a quiet but familiar one. Ford can’t talk much when he’s steering because he needs to be on constant lookout, but Stan remains in the room to talk at him and keep him company anyway. The sun is well over the horizon by the time they reach the seaport, and call it instincts, intuition, or something else entirely, because Ford spots the kids sitting on a bench in the near distance the moment he and Stan step foot onto the dock. 

They’re squished closely together, watching a video on Mabel’s phone. Whether they’re aware of it or not, they’re swaying their legs back and forth underneath the bench in perfect unison. On the ground beside them are their backpacks, overstuffed with so many things that both of them are popping open. 

Most importantly, neither of them have noticed that Ford and Stan are approaching them. 

Ford exchanges an amused glance with Stan, and clears his throat to catch their attention. 

The phone nearly stumbles out of their hands in shock when they look up and meet their eyes.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel squeals, standing to sprint past Ford to knock Stan off of his feet. Ford chuckles at the sight, but not quickly enough to hear Dipper’s “Great Uncle Ford!”, and before he knows it he’s hitting the floor too. The young twins are laughing messes, and stumble over each other as they try to stand to their feet and help their Grunkles up. 

Mabel spits out the hair that stuck to her mouth, and pulls a hair tie seemingly out of thin air to tie her hair up into a ponytail. It’s only now that Ford realizes that she and Dipper are also both wearing sweaters, and if Ford had to guess, it looks like Mabel made both of these sweaters as well. Mabel’s is a galaxy print with actual twinkling stars, and Ford makes a mental note to ask her later what she did to make it glow like that. Dipper’s is also space themed, though his pictures the big dipper splotched across a black night sky with a bright orange meteor shooting through the center.

“You have to tell us about everything you’ve encountered”, Dipper beams, once Stan finishes brushing himself off. 

Stan cocks an eyebrow. “Two years’ worth is a lot to get through, kiddo”

“Exactly!” Mabel beams, turning to pick up her backpack and put it on. “Which is exactly why you can tell us on the way to the hotel!” 

“Hotel?” Ford and Stan ask in unison.

“Surprise?” Dipper giggles. “Our parents rented us a hotel room for the week cause they figured you’d appreciate some time away from the boat” 

“It’ll be like our summer in Gravity Falls all over again!” Mabel grins. “But in reverse! You’re in our territory now” 

Stan laughs. “You’re the boss, kiddo”

“You bet I am!” She beams, and hands Dipper his backpack. “Now c’mon! If you tell us all of the horrors you’ve encountered out at sea, we’ll tell you about all the horrors we’ve encountered in high school!”

“I...think I remember those horrors pretty well already, thank you” Ford smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses. “But we’d be more than glad to tell you some of our own stories”

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, but Ford honestly wouldn’t mind if they walked all the way to the hotel on foot if it meant an extra half an hour with the kids. They’re just as eccentric as he remembers, attached at the hip but still wildly different people all on their own. Dipper’s still hanging on to every word he’s saying, and Mabel’s still skipping along like she’s in her own world. 

Once they reach the hotel and check in, Dipper collapses face first onto one of the beds the moment he steps into the room, groaning. 

Stan smiles. “Something bothering you, kiddo?” 

He turns on his side to look Stan in the eye, his face smushing into the pillow. “Mabel didn’t let me get any sleep last night. She insisted on getting to the seaport three whole hours early because she insisted that she had this gut feeling that you guys would have the same idea and we’d magically show up at the same time” 

Mabel pouts, and sits on the bed besides him. “Well it’s not my fault you stayed up late reading that dumb book of yours. Plus, would you rather have kept them waiting for three hours?” 

Dipper removes his hat and places it on the table beside him, exposing just enough of his forehead through his hair to reveal his birthmark. It has the same faint glow to it as Mabel’s sweater, and Ford wonders how the two could possibly reflect off of each other. 

“Their boat has beds and a fully stocked kitchen, Mabel. They can afford to wait. All we had were those strawberry pop tarts that you ate five minutes after we got there”

Ford can’t help but smile softly at their banter. He missed them so, so, much more than he could’ve ever imagined. He’s got half a mind to stow them away on the boat at the end of the week and homeschool them both himself so he never has to be apart from them again.

Apart. The word still feels like a knife twisted into his chest. There’s nothing he regrets more than trying to separate the young twins from each other two summers ago because he’d been so caught up in projecting his own fears onto the pair. He’d tried apologizing to Mabel over the whole ordeal, but she stopped him before he could even start to tell him he had nothing to worry about.

He only wishes he could learn to forgive himself as easily as she did.

“...Can we, Grunkle Ford?”

He blushes. Had he just said all of that out loud?

“Can we...what?” 

“Take the boat out! Not right now, since Dips is being a grumpy-grump and insists on wasting precious time with a nap, but we’ve been talking about it all week”

From across the room, Stan snorts. “Let me get this straight,” he takes his jacket off and hangs it up in the closet. At this point Ford swears his eyes must be playing tricks on him, because Stan’s old burn scar is glowing just as Mabel’s sweater and Dipper’s birthmark are. “All the time you spent groaning and complaining about fishing every time I took you in Gravity Falls, and now you’re asking to go fishing?” 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a joy ride,” Dipper yawns from under the covers. “But if agreeing to go fishing is what gets you to say yes, then sure” 

He’s smirking under the covers, Ford can tell, because he inherited that expression from Stan.

Stan’s about to bite back, but Dipper must not have been exaggerating about how long he and Mabel were waiting for them at the dock, because he’s already out cold. Stan smiles at him, gently ruffling up his hair before he takes a seat on the adjacent bed, kicking his shoes off so he can kick his feet up on the bed and relax. Ford sits beside Stan, and Stan slings his arms behind him to support his head in his hands as he glances over at Ford. 

“They make you wanna retire the whole ‘treasure hunting’ thing and move into the city to be closer to ‘em too?”

Ford chuckles. “I’ve already considered hiding them away on the boat twice today already.” He taps at his chin. “Though I suppose that moving in with them would go over better with their parents then taking them away to live on a boat” 

“Hmm…” Stan taps at his chin as well. “Being stuck in the same stuffy high school for four years, or living on a boat traveling all over the world whenever they feel like it? I dunno about you, Sixer, but I have a pretty good idea on what the kids would prefer”

“Grunkle Stan? Grunkle Ford?” Mabel’s voice suddenly chimes in, and Ford blushes, wondering how much of that she just heard. 

“What’s on your mind, pumpkin?” Stan asks. 

“Well, uh, Dipper was right about us only eating once really early this morning, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to, uh” She twirls her hair between her fingers. “Cook something for us? For old time’s sake?”

Okay, it’s settled, Ford’s never letting these kids go again. 

“Sure, kiddo. Soon as your brother’s up we’ll head right back up, okay?” 

“Okay!” she beams, and crawls back into her side of the bed, staring at Dipper like she can will him into waking up on command. 

Though Ford would’ve been okay if they’d had to wait hours for him, it’s really only about twenty minutes before Dipper opens his eyes again and nearly shrieks in surprise at Mabel’s face hovering three inches from his own. He smacks his hand into her face to shove her away, and she giggles as she rolls off the bed and onto the floor. 

Beside Ford, Stan smirks. “Better get up before we leave without you and all our food goes to Mabel, kiddo. You’ve got plenty of time to crash in Ford’s bed on the ship, since he never seems to use it anyway”

Dipper yawns, rubbing at his eyes as he kicks the covers off. “I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep”

“I didn’t realize you were even capable of sleep, bro-bro” Mabel punches him in the shoulder as she walks past him to put her shoes on. He glares at her wordlessly, and Ford has to cover up his snicker with a fake cough. 

This time, the bus ride and the walk back to the ship are a quiet one. Ford never really lets himself let his guard down and relax for an extended period of the time, so he cherishes any moment he can get where he finally feels like he doesn’t constantly feel the need to check over his shoulder for signs of danger. Most of the time, if you asked him about his heightened senses, he’d call them a curse. But on days like these, when he can hear the birds chirping and the waves smacking gently against the boats in the seaport, he’d almost go as far as calling it a blessing. 

The kids take a seat at the dining table as soon as they enter the kitchen, and Stan grins at them from over his shoulder as he clicks the stove on. “Whaddya say, Stancakes?” 

Dipper and Mabel grimace in unison. “Ewwww, Grunkle Stan, you promised lunch!” Mabel scrunches her nose, and Stan’s grin only widens. 

“Ah, ah, you said like old times. That means I get to decide what to make, and you have to eat it because I’m your legal guardian”.

“Well I wasn’t even awake when you were talking about old times, so I’d say that cancels out” Dipper crosses his arms over his chest, and Ford can’t help but smile warmly at the three of them as he reaches into the cupboard for his favorite coffee mug. The younger twins clearly had just gotten two copies of the same mug, but crossed both of them out so they’d say #1 GRUNKLES on them instead of #1 UNCLE. Stan has the other one, of course, but he keeps it on his bedside to hold small treasures and keepsakes because it’s, in his own words, “Too special to waste on something as ordinary as coffee”.

Ford sits himself in the seat between the younger twins at their okay, and after some back and forth banter between the four of them, they end up settling for burgers. Truth be told, this is the first time Ford’s eaten a meal in a group larger than two since the last time he and Stan visited the young twins in the winter, and he can’t help but smile into his food at the thought. The closest he’d come even remotely close to eating with others in his research years was his very, very brief time at the truck stop diner, and the experience had soured his view of...well, other people for near decades.

Now, though, he’d burn his own research dozens of times over before he’d even consider eating alone.

Stan’s chair scraping across the floor as he stands pops Ford out of his bubble of serenity. 

“Now that that’s taken care of,” Stan cracks his knuckles, smiling mischievously at Dipper and Mabel. “I think I remember a couple of kiddos finally promising their Grunkle Stan he could take them fishing”

“Promise is a strong word-” Dipper starts as he stands to place his plate in the sink, but Stan’s already placing a fishing hat on his head before he can finish his sentence. 

“Course you did! You wanna take our baby for a joyride, you gotta earn it first”

Dipper turns to Ford, like he’s expecting him to back him up.

Ford chuckles. “I don’t know, Dipper. That sounds perfectly reasonable to me”.

Dipper scoffs, sitting back down at the table. Mabel laughs. 

“Aww, C’mon, Dipper! Aren’t you all about the supernatural? For all we know, Grunkle Stan and Grunkle Ford could be harboring magical glowing bait that only attracts, like, magical talking fish men, or something!” 

Dipper raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you just receive a bottle message from Mermando last week?”

“Exactly!” Mabel flashes a grin. “That must mean that he’s in the area!”

Stan laughs. “You tellin’ me you only agreed to go fishing so you could kiss and make-up with your long-distance fish boyfriend?”

“Grunkle Stan, what kind of person do you take me for?” she gasps. “He’s married! You know I would never want to break apart such a loving couple!”

Ford’s smile only warms. Where else could he partake in such a conversation that doesn’t turn heads and result in judgmental whispers? Where else can he just be like this, surrounded by loved ones who are just as weird, just as out of the ordinary as himself? In his younger years he thought for sure his place would be among the monsters and cryptids everyone in his childhood made him out to be, but even in the weirdness capital of the country he felt more alone than ever. 

“...Don’t think you’re immune, Sixer” Stan’s voice cuts into his thoughts, and before Ford can ask what he means Stan is smacking a homemade fishing cap on his head. “It may ruin your badass image when we’re monster hunting, or whatever, but we’re fishing with the kids.” Stan gestures to them with his thumb. They’re already outside, leaning over the railing to look out at the water in a perfect mirror of each other.  “If they have to embarrass themselves by humoring me for a few hours, so do you” 

Ford waits for Stan to join the kids outside before he takes his hat off to admire the stitch work. It’s not perfect, and nowhere near the fancy embroidery he and Stan have found in various markets across their world travels. But it’s personalized, and Ford knows it comes from a place in Stan’s mind that’s been stuck behind lock and key since he was seventeen.

Ford runs his hands along each individual letter, which reads POINDEXTER, before placing it back on his head to join the others outside. 

Stan has, miraculously, already pulled out his joke book. Stan’s laughing too hard at his own joke for Ford to really make out what the punchline is, but the younger twins’ collective groans is all he needs to know about it. When Mabel notices him stepping out of the doorway, though, her expression shifts entirely. 

“So…” she draws out, stepping towards him. “Is there a trick for attracting merpeople to your boat? I mean, asides from being super cute, obviously” 

Ford chuckles, taking a glance behind her to make sure that Stan is out of earshot. “Stan’ll kill me if I tell you this, but they’re really attracted towards shiny things. If you tied one of his gold necklaces around a fishing pole and dangled it into the water, the boat’ll be surrounded in minutes” 

Mabel offers up her pinkie finger. “I won’t tell him if you won’t”

Ford interlocks his pinkie with hers, smiling. “I think he’ll notice when a whole family of merpeople show up”

“Hmmm…” Mabel taps at her chin with her free hand, visibly mouthing a plan to herself. “Oh! I know! Come with me,” she beams, and before Ford can even open his mouth to respond she’s already dragging him back into the kitchen. She kneels down on the floor and opens the cupboard below the sink. “Got any empty bottles I can use?”

Ford blinks. “Empty....bottles”

“Yeah!” Mabel pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of her skirt. “If I can send out my response letter the same time we throw Stan’s necklace over, he’ll never be able to tell the difference!”

“Wait, wait” Ford shakes his head. “You really are dating a merperson?”

“Listening skills, Grunkle Ford” she taps at her forehead, folding the letter back into her pocket as she continues to dig through the cupboards. “Used to date. We met at the Gravity Falls Public Pool, where he was stuck, but then I drove him to the lake in a golf cart I stole from the pool grounds because he really missed his family, and then he was my first kiss, and then we were in a long-distance relationship for like, two months, and I kept every single bottle he sent me, but then we had to break up because he was arranged to marry to prevent a big undersea war.” She picks up a bottle, shakes it, and puts it back when it’s too full for her liking. “I know it sounds, like, super complicated, but it’s all okay, because we’re still pen pals!” 

Ford laughs, shaking his head. “No, Mabel, I had to ask because I, uh…” his cheeks warm, and he clears his throat. “Before I...came to term with my orientation, I...dated a merperson too” 

The bottles in the cupboard rattle as Mabel’s head smacks against the doorframe. She’s rubbing the spot where her head hit, but there are stars in her eyes. “Really?” 

Ford’s cheeks burn even hotter. “Yes,” he whispers, and takes a knee so he can get at her eye level. “Technically he was a siren, but yes, we dated for about a month. He promised me he wouldn’t entice anyone else while we were together, but I guess there wasn’t anything...there.” He turns to help her shuffle through the cupboard, and finds a near-empty bottle of olive oil that’s definitely been sitting down there for at least a year. He hands it off to Mabel, smiling. “I’m glad that things worked out with you, though” 

To his surprise, Mabel drops the bottle and throws her arms around him in a hug. “I can’t wait to introduce you! He’s gonna love you”

Ford huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls her close as he winds his arms around her as well. The hug only lasts for a few brief moments, but it feels to Ford in those moments that time itself had stopped. Mabel stands, taking the bottle in one hand and offering to help Ford up in her other. 

Mabel places the bottle in the sink and turns the water on to rinse it out before she turns back towards Ford, stretching her arms up in the air as if she were warming up for an exercise. “Alright, here’s the plan. You tell me where Grunkle Stan keeps all of his jewelry, and I’ll sneak in and take his necklace while you distract him. Got it?”

Ford smiles. “Got it”.

As Mabel splits away for Stan’s bedroom, Ford heads back out to the deck. Dipper’s leaning over the side of the boat pointing at something jumping out of the water, rambling excitedly to Stan beside him. He’s holding his fishing hat in his hand to stop it from blowing into the water, and his hair is bouncing in the breeze. It’s just enough for the edge of his birthmark to poke through his bangs, and even in broad daylight it seems to be emitting a faint glow.

“I found it!” Mabel cheers, bounding up from behind him. She’s wearing the chain around her neck, and for some reason the gold seems much dimmer in contrast to her sweater. She takes it off and hands it to him. “You wanna do the honors while I go and throw this overboard?”

Ford smiles, ruffling her hair. “Sure thing.” He walks over to where Stan and Dipper are chatting and picks up one of the extra fishing rods. Making sure that Stan’s too engrossed with his conversation to notice, Ford starts wrapping the chain along the line, and at the signal from Mabel, he tosses his line as far from the boat as he can manage.

Five minutes pass before Mabel squeals so loud that Ford’s afraid his glasses might shatter. He reaches for the gun he knows he’s got stashed in his pants pocket, but when he turns to run to her aid she’s leaning halfway over the boat wrapping her arms around a young merman in a tight hug.

“...so good to see you again!” She’s beaming. “I didn’t think you’d be able to find us so quickly!”

“Yes, well, you were easy to track down after we figured out the coordinates to the seaport” the young man says in a thick Spanish accent. “It is good to see you too! My family was so excited to meet you”

“Your family?” she gasps. “Did they all come with you?” 

“Of course!” he grins. “We merpeople are very family oriented. Wherever we go, we go together” 

Ford winces at the uncanny familiarity of the statement. Mabel must recognize the statement too, because she responds with “Oh, that reminds me! There’s someone I want you guys to meet! Wait right here,” she says, and comes bouncing back over to Ford. Taking his hand in her own, she starts to drag him back to where she’d just been leaning. “C’mon! He’s the one I was just talking about!”

Three more merpeople emerge from the water when she gently knocks on the side of the boat again. “Grunkle Ford, this is Mermando!” she grins, gesturing to the young merman she’d just been conversing with. “He’s the one I helped reunite with his family after they were separated by tragic circumstances.” She wraps her arms around Ford in a side-hug. “Mermando, this is my Grunkle Ford! He was also separated from his family by tragic circumstances, but I helped with that too!” 

Mermando laughs. “Even when you think it’s the end, family always finds its way, doesn’t it?”

Ford laughs, shaking his hand. “It always seems that way to me”

“Awwww!” Mabel squeals. “I knew you’d get along!” She grins, and turns her attention back towards Mermando. “Before I forget, though, did you see where Grunkle Ford threw that gold necklace? If I don’t get it back my Grunkle Stan’s gonna kill me”

Mermando laughs again. “I was wondering if that belonged to any of you!” He takes off his shell necklace to reveal that he’d put Stan’s necklace on around his neck. He takes that off, too, and offers it to Ford. “I much prefer this one, anyway” he clicks his shell necklace open, revealing it to be a locket with a picture of his family inside.

Ford takes the gold necklace back, and he means to thank him, but a bell ringing from elsewhere in the port interrupts him before he can open his mouth. Mermando turns to Mabel, taking her hands in his own. “We must go. I’m so sorry we have to leave so soon, but we merpeople recognize the sounds of fishing boats very easily. We’ll try to come back later this week” He opens his arms for her once more, and Mabel wraps his arms around him in a quick hug before she watches him and his family swim away. 

“I am so glad that all you were doing was hugging,” Dipper shudders as he and Stan approach Ford and Mabel. “I’m not sure my stomach could handle witnessing you two kissing a second time” 

“Awww,” Mabel punches him playfully in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous that I had a boyfriend before you did!” 

Dipper cringes. “If you having a boyfriend before I do means I didn’t have to be the one dating a fish, then I’m glad you were the one who got stuck with him first” He punches her back, and gestures at Stan over his shoulder with his thumb. “But anyways, I came over here because Grunkle Stan says he wants to get out on the open water before everyone else gets the idea, or something”.

Ford pockets Stan’s necklace and makes a mental note to put it away sometime later tonight when Stan is too distracted to notice. “Tell Stan I’m going to untie the rope from the edge of the dock, and when he sees me back on board we’re all set to go.”

Nodding, Dipper bounds off towards the navigation room where Stan must be waiting, and Ford steps off of the boat to take care of everything else. On the way to the bow, he traces a hand along the white painted STAN O’ WAR II, and a feeling of warmth sprouts in his chest. Once back on board, he waves to Stan as he passes besides the navigation room once more, and takes a seat on one of the beach chairs they liked to keep aboard. 

Most days, Ford prefers to be the one at the wheel. But every once in a while he just wants to be. All he wants to do is lean back in one of their beach chairs and let the sun warm his face. It’s a good kind of warm, the same way spending time with the kids and heavy rain hitting his bedroom window and planning new escapades with Stan feel warm. After so, so long of only knowing unbearable burns, it feels indescribable to have a constant back in his life that heals, rather than hurts. 

“Mind if we join you?” Dipper asks, and Ford glances over to see both of the young twins dragging a chair behind them.

Speaking of healing constants.

“Sure,” Ford says, and can’t help the warmth spilling through his tone. They pull their chairs up on either side of him, and curl up to enjoy the warm breeze. Dipper places his hat on his lap to let the wind blow through his hair, and Mabel stretches her arms out behind her head to act as her own pillow. Ford chuckles silently at the pair, and closes his eyes to let himself relax.

All is quiet when Stan finally finds them a spot out on the open water without a single other boat in sight. The water is nearly still, save for the occasional small wave that gently sways the boat. The sun is at its afternoon high, turning the water beautiful shades of teal and aqua. Fishing is tedious, but it’s careful work, and gives Ford something to put all of his focus into. Two whole hours pass before any of them catch a thing, and Stan laughs himself to tears when it’s Dipper who pulls up a single sardine. 

Typically Ford prefers much more immersive activities, but right now there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. The sun is starting to set before they realize they aren’t going to have much luck catching anything, and instead decide to take the boat for another ride around the harbor to look for a better place to eventually watch the stars. 

“...Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper approaches him shyly once they’ve anchored the boat.

“Yes?”

He tugs shyly at the edge of his sweater. “I…” he starts. “I know you’ve told me that the multiverse was dangerous, and all, but...was there ever anything you enjoyed about it?” He pauses. “What were the sunsets like?”

Ford chuckles, patting at the seat beside him, and Dipper’s eyes light up as he sits down.

“You’re right,” Ford starts, folding his hands together. “I wouldn’t wish what I went through on even my worst enemies, Dipper. It was practically impossible to get any decent amount of sleep and even harder to find food digestible by human kind. I lost some of my best years to the multiverse when I could’ve gone on to become the most renowned scientist in the world.” Ford turns his gaze away from the sun setting on the horizon to meet Dipper’s eyes, but he’s frowning, eyes cast downwards towards the deck of the ship.

“But,” Ford adds before the poor kid can get too lost in his own head, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “It definitely had its perks.” He smiles. “The sun in Dimension 18.2 would emit a sound that mimicked a lullaby every night as it set. Dimension 47’23 had three moons that would shift phases before your very eyes. I haven’t told Mabel because I’m afraid she’ll try activating a portal of her own and run away, but in Dimension 25-12, everyone and everything looks like a watercolor painting. There’s danger in the multiverse, but there’s beauty in equal measure”

“Do you ever miss it?” Dipper fiddles with his hands, like he’s trying real hard not to say the wrong thing. “I mean, I know you don’t miss being lost, or having no idea if you’re ever going to see home again, but...is there any dimension...where you could’ve seen yourself staying, if you thought you couldn’t make it back?” 

Ford shifts in his chair so he doesn’t have to twist his neck so much to look directly at his nephew. “Occasionally,” he muses. “I met the most friendly faces in Dimension 52, so my mind does tend to wander there from time to time” he smiles. “But rest assured, there is something in this dimension that makes it my favorite”

“Oh yeah?” Dipper’s eyes light up. “Over every other dimension you’ve passed through? What is it?”

Ford gently nudges Dipper’s shoulder. “You and your sister”

Dipper’s cheeks turn bright red, and he looks as though he’s struggling not to bury his face into the collar of his sweater and disappear. “Really?” his voice squeaks.

Ford nods. “Everything I had in those other dimensions were fleeting, Dipper. At a moment’s notice everything I grew to love could disappear in the blink of an eye. The very thing happened to me in Dimension 52. When I fell asleep, I woke up in a new dimension I didn’t recognize. Things may have been more advanced, and there may have been dimensions crafted to give you your greatest desires, but in the end nothing ever lasted.” 

Now it’s Ford’s turn to divert Dipper’s eyes, gaze casting towards the floor. “Stan was cut from my life completely in the dimension that claimed to be a perfect world. I had nobody. Even in dimensions that actively worked towards my happiness, I was all alone” Ford shakes his head, and turns his gaze once more out on the horizon. The sun is still touching the horizon, but it’s dipped just low enough that some of the stars are beginning to show in the sky. 

“But...here, at home, everything is consistent. I don’t have to worry about waking up in the morning to find that everyone I love is gone. I can keep everyone in arm’s lengths, even when Stan and I can only communicate with you and your sister over a video call. I’m…” Ford gently squeezes his hands to reassure himself that this is real and now. “...happy. Happier than I’ve been in decades” 

Beside him, Dipper yawns, and when Ford spares a glance over at him he’s smiling at him sleepily.  “We’re really happy you’re here too, Grunkle Ford” he murmurs, and his eyes slip closed. Ford’s cheeks flush pink, and he has to choke back a laugh because that’s one of the first times Dipper’s felt comfortable enough to call him Grunkle. 

Ford stands, so as not to wake Dipper from his nap. A small glance to his right and he catches a glimpse of Stan and Mabel leaning against the side of the boat watching the sunset just outside of earshot of his current conversation with Dipper.

“You finally bore him to sleep with all your nerdy science talk?” Stan asks as he approaches, sparing a glance behind him at Dipper. “Was starting to think that the poor kid would never get a nap in” 

“Yes, well,” Ford smirks. “I’m sure it helped plenty that you bored him to death by taking him fishing first”

Stan gasps in mock offense, and slugs him in the shoulder. “Hey, at least I’m engaging them in something they can actually interact with, unlike your kooky alien stories, or whatever”

Ford can’t help the laugh that escapes him. “Bold statement coming from the man who dedicated thirty years of his life rescuing me from said kooky aliens” he says, returning with a punch of his own. Stan opens his mouth to argue back, realizes he has nothing to say, and closes his mouth. The sight of it makes Ford laugh even harder, keeling over and slapping a hand on Stan’s shoulder to support himself. It must be contagious, because it’s not long before Stan is laughing too.

Ford removes his glasses to wipe the tears from his eyes, and cleans off the lenses with the edge of his sweater. Once his eyes adjust after he puts them back on, his throat nearly catches in his throat when he glances back out towards the water. He’s just able to catch a shooting star before it disappears over the horizon, and the boat’s just far out enough on the water that there isn’t an ounce of light pollution obscuring the rest of the stars in the sky.  He takes a few steps back so he can look up and admire more of them at once, and if he looks close enough he can see them twinkling. 

Before he can ask the others if they’re seeing the same thing, a bright flash of light coming from somewhere on the boat cuts into his thoughts. He turns, to make sure that none of the lights in any of the rooms are on, but no, they’d turned those off when they’d started fishing. Scratching at his head, he turns to Stan and Mabel to ask if they have any idea where the light is coming from, but that question catches in its throat as quickly as it formulated.

They’re the ones emitting light.

Or, rather, Mabel’s sweater and Stan’s shoulder, approximately where his burn scar should be. Those are emitting light. 

...Surely it must just be the reflection of the starlight on the water, right? That same bright light must have woken Dipper from his nap, yes? 

He turns heel to ask Dipper the same question, but freezes in his tracks before he can take a single step forward. Dipper’s forehead is glowing too, the same way it has since he and Stan docked the boat this morning. 

It...It can’t be, can it?

Gripping his forehead, Ford takes a number of steps backwards until his back hits the wall. Maybe...maybe he just needs to call it a night. He’s been awake since sunrise, maybe his vision is just blurring because he needs to lie down? 

He waves his hands in front of his face, but no, those don’t look any different. He squints, to make sure his hands aren’t shaking, but no, they’re perfectly still.

He squints at Stan and Mabel, just to try and see if his eyes are watering, and-

He gasps. 

Mabel’s sweater, Dipper’s forehead, Stan’s shoulder; they’re not glowing; they’re twinkling like the stars. It was hard to tell in broad daylight, but now that they’re surrounded by a thousand shining stars, the resemblance is unmistakable. 

But...that’s not possible. If he can see them twinkling, but none of them have said anything about it, that could only be if those were…

...soulmarks. 

Ford suddenly feels like he’s going to pass out. 

He slides to the floor.

Is...Is that even possible? Ford thought for sure that study he read years ago was nothing but a joke. Someone...who does everything in their power to bring you two together, no matter the cost? Someone who, even though you may not meet for decades, will feel as though you’ve known each other their entire lives? Someone who will do anything for you, no matter the personal expense?

Someone...someone like Stan, who spent a painstaking thirty years teaching himself quantum physics to rescue someone that anyone else would assume dead? The man who sacrificed his very mind, his very life, so he could be spared physical torture?

Or...someone like Mabel, the first friendly face he saw after emerging from the portal? The one who forgave him so easily after he tried to separate her from her brother? The one who insists on calling him a good person, despite all of those he knows he hurt? 

Or...Dipper? His kindred spirit in all things supernatural? The one who, alongside his sister, sacrificed himself as bait for the most dangerous being in the entire multiverse? Who saw memories of him at his very worst, and apologized to him for snooping?

After everything he’s been through...could things really work out that well in his favor? To not have one soulmate but three, and the guarantee that they’ll never leave, because they’ve already expressed how they love him so? 

There’s a tear streaming down his cheek at the thought, but he’s too distracted by a fourth light suddenly emitting from...himself to really notice.

He spares a cautious glance downward, and notices a pulsing light emerging from his chest in perfect time with his heartbeat. If he looks closely, he notices that the light travels down his arms and ties itself into a translucent bow around his fingers. If he looks closer still, the light looks as though it’s slinking faintly across the deck of the boat and reaching towards the gentle twinkling of Stan and Mabel’s marks.

Ford places a hand to his forehead, throws his head back, and laughs his throat dry, paying no mind to the tears pouring down his face.

[definingbillcipher]

Hello, I hope you are doing well. I know you have moved on to other Fandoms and more than likely will not update dbc (which is perfectly fine). Would it be possible that you spoil what you had planned for the last 9chs? I've been a fan of dbc since 2016, and it is honestly one of the best works I've read. Even though I've moved on in my life from Fanfiction, this is the one work I cant seem to let go (1)

Wow, thank you so much for sending me this message, it means so much to me. I’ve been wanting to make a post about DBC for ages, but it’s hard admitting you’re giving up on something to the people who’ve been supporting you for so long, even if you know they’d be understanding. As hard as that is, though, it isn’t right of me to ghost you guys, and I’m sorry for putting this off for so long. You guys deserve better. I’d be happy to share the outline of the remaining chapters with you, and I thank you for giving me this opportunity

So! The remainder of the story was going to focus on Dipper and Bill and their burgeoning romantic relationship. Dipper realized when he was at the convention that he was missing Bill in a “more than best friends” kind of way, and that all comes to a head. One of the chapters was going to be them going on a treasure hunt using the map Bill gave to Dipper for his birthday, and that was going to be their first date. The conflict would be Bill trying to rush the sexual aspect of their relationship, eager to experiment, but Dipper would set down some boundaries and they’d have a good talk about all that. Fun fact; this was the second “prophecy” from the possessed psychic in chapter 7, “You will go seeking in the woods, but will not be sought.” Calling out Bill's relationship troubles half a year in advance, ouch.

Eventually, Mabel would sit the boys down and say she wants to go back to California and go to school for an art degree. We tried to sprinkle this through the fic, but for the most part, Mabel’s felt she’s been missing out on a sociable school experience and networking opportunities, as the only reason she went with Dipper to the Mystery Shack was because she was afraid of them being separated. We had a good few chapters dedicated to this big “haunted museum Halloween arc” bit with Mabel and Bill while Dipper was still at the convention, and it picked at a lot of her insecurities (namely those flared by Mirror Mabel), and she decides she wants to give her career a proper shot.

Bill is reeling, as Mabel leaving would be the biggest, permanent change he’d experienced since getting his body. There’s a bit here where he has an amiable chat with the Mirror Bill through the mirror in the woods, and finds out the Mirror Twins are back with Mirror Stan and seem to have turned a new leaf. Call backs!

As Bill’s working through everything, with Dipper’s help, he has a dream. At first, it’s about anxieties of what the future holds. But then it changes. Bill’s been found by Her. She gives him a warning, that it’s only a matter of time before she finds his body. Bill wakes up, and he’s distraught. He’s been caught.

Her; or more properly, the Collection, is an eldritch horror who’s obsessed with gathering unique baubles from across dimensions. The more unique, the better. Back when Bill was still in his own dimension, he approached the Collection and said he’d work for her, gathering her objects of interest, in exchange for power. What objects of interest, exactly? Souls! “Great” souls, to be more specific. Bill had a great knack for finding them, and would hop from dimension to dimension and take the souls of people that would someday enact great change, but only before they did so. These were the Collection’s favorite trophies, and Bill was very good about delivering them. Until, one time, he tried to break out on his own. If he could get his pet project off the ground, Weirdmaggedon, then he’d be beyond the Collection’s influence. However, the Collection found him out, and put a stop to it. This is why in DBC, there’s the canon divergence of Bill never appearing again after Sock Opera.

The Collection was furious, and Bill felt it was only a matter of time before she punished him properly, thus he sought out the Pine twins for refuge. But there’s a catch as to why he sought out the twins. One of them was a great soul, and he was hoping if worse came to worst, he could offer one of them up to the Collection as a bargain in the event that she found him.

Present day, however, Bill pretty much accepts that he’s done for. The Collection is going to pluck him up eventually and that’ll be the end of it, soe tries to enjoy the unknown amount of time he has left. One chapter was going to be the Thanksgiving party with everyone coming by; Stan, Ford, Pacifica, Wendy, Dipper and Mabel’s parents, and all the interactions around that. Pacifica and Bill bicker affectionately (these two were really my favorite part of writing DBC) and Ford would discover that Dipper and Bill would be dating, and we’d deal with the drama of all that. Warm and funny and wholesome all around, though the calm before the storm.

So it’s properly winter now, and Bill and Mabel are chopping fire wood. Bill’s showing off how much better he’s gotten at it when the spectral form of the Collection appears. She takes Mabel, who’s revealed to be the great soul, and leaves. She could have taken Bill, but she chose not to probably due to sheer lack of interest, which must mean that Bill is off the hook. Bill is horrified.

He tells Dipper what happened and his whole history with the Collection. Dipper is furious that Bill had been lying to them this whole time and that he had always intended on throwing them into danger. Bill has no excuse, but says he’s still going to try and rescue Mabel. He doesn’t know how, but he needs to try something. They perform a ritual and enter the Collection’s domain together.

Bill offers up his journals and himself. The idea is, is that the Collection prizes unique things, and Bill argues that the journals are an account of an eldritch horror forgetting themselves and finding humanity, and that there’s nothing else like that anywhere. The Collection accepts his offer and takes his journals (his last remaining memory of his past self) and the last piece of his old soul, taking with it the last of his power. This is signified by his now having two eyes. Bill is now entirely human. (The third of the possessed psychic’s prophecy: “You will see the end of your troubles, but you will not make it out in one piece.)

There would be an epilogue a few months later and they’d be celebrating Bill’s first birthday. Bill’s memory of his past self had almost been completely erased; he just knows that it happened vaguely as a fact. He’s still working to repair his relationship with the twins and living with Dipper at the Shack. He looks forward to the remainder of his life.

The end!

[stanofwar2]

☠Heavy Metal Au☠

Okay so this is an au idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a couple of days now so I'm gonna share it with ya'll (caution its long)

Okay so after Stan gets kicked out and Ford goes off to collage Stan goes around desperately trying to get a job of any sort and luckily comes upon a small band at a bar. He joins them as a bassist/co-singer.

Years pass by and Ford is in Gravity Falls as per Canon reasons, he's met Bill and has gotten Fiddleford on his side as his assistant. But he has a secret. He's a huge Rock and Heavy Metal fan. No one knows this, not even Fiddleford(mainly because it doesn't really fit his personality and aesthetic) and if you asked him he would completely deny it. But he is and he's always scrounging around for new bands to listen to which what makes him happen upon one called Cryptid Blood. And he Loves them. He buys every album and every record he can get his hands on. But his favorite member of the band is the bassist, Grim (none of them goes by their real names, just creepy nicknames).

Hes not sure why but his songs in specific tend to hit Ford the most, like its about him, his life, and the things he's been through. So when he hears that they're going to be performing a literal state away, he cannot refuse the opportunity to go see them. He tells Fidds he's taking a break and he'll be back shortly.

So he goes, buys a brand new shirt from them and gets into the show, absolutely buzzing with excitement. The stage is set and the band comes out, wearing creepy marks that obscure their faces (apparently a normal thing they do) and they play HARD. Ford is living for it, dancing and singing along to every song. Only a few of the band members play their own songs, which includes Grim, bringing absolute joy to Fords heart.

Grim sings deep from his soul and Ford feels it, nearly in tears with how much he felt and understood Grims feelings and experiences. But the song is over soon enough, allowing the others to play and finish up with two more songs. The concert is over and the band thanks the audience as they cheer loudly. But they pull one final move for their audience as everyone except Ford screams in anticipation. He had no idea what was happening, but he was excited to see. The band members are announced one by one, each taking off their mask to reveal their faces to the audience. So when it gets to Grim Ford is not prepared to see that the man he admires and relates with is none other than his brother, Stanley Pines.

Ford watched in shock, absolutely taken back by this revelation, realization dropping on him like a boulder. No wonder he related so much with him, he was his own sibling!! He went through the same things he did, and apparently more of his own stuff than he knew. He couldn't believe it, his brother was a successful Heavy Metal artist!!

Once everything was over, and signings were done, Ford gathered the courage to go over to a few of the band members, introduce himself as Stans brother and ask them if they could let him to talk with Stan. They eagerly agree and lead him to Stans hotel room. Once inside Stan is shocked to see him and greets him defensively, making Ford feel even more guilty about what happened between them. But he pushes forward and catches up with Stan, which eases Stan down seeing that his brother isn't there to insult him or his lifestyle. They talk, argue, comfort, hug, and laugh together as they catch up on the last 7 years. Ford tells Stan he's proud of him and insists on him telling their Pa, proving to him that he isn't a failure. Stan tries to decline but soon agrees as to appease his twin.

And so they stay in touch after that. They usually just call and chat. But Stan started making a habit of visiting his brother for "creative vacations". He meets Fiddleford and immediately clicks with him, happy to see that his brother has a caring friend watching over him. Mystery Trio adventures ensue as the timeline moves along.

During the whole portal incident, Stan is on tour unable to contact neither Ford nor Fidds. After a month of silence from them he gets concerned and decides to leave, calling it a "family emergency ". He gets to Fidds place and sees him in the early stages of the memory erasing situation. He stops him and brings him back to solid ground, asking him desperately what happened. After several days of this Fidds is able to gather enough memory to tell Stan what had happened and what he saw in the portal. Stanley is horrified and tells Fidds that he'll talk to Ford and get him to shut down the Portal.

So he goes to his brothers place, finding it in disrepair and Ford sitting in a corner rocking back and forth, shaking like a leaf and clearly sleep deprived. Stan snaps him out of it and demands an explanation for what the hell happened, bringing up what Fidds had seen and if he knew about any of it. Ford admits that he does and that he knows what the portal is for. Stanley has to fight tooth and nail to convince Ford to dismantle the portal for good and get rid of the blue prints in his journals. Ford fights hard but gives in and does what Stan demands to be done.

Once their finished they return to Fiddleford who seemed to have been waiting for answers/results from Stan. He's releived to hear the portal is no more and that Ford is safe. They wipe Fords memories of Bill and remove any evidence of him from his Journals, home, and lab (with his permissions ofc)

Fiddleford decides he going to go home, wanting some time and space from Gravity Falls for a while. Stan is fine with that but after growing protective of his twin he doesn't want Ford to be by himself in this town, not after everything that happened. He convinces Ford to travel with him and he does for some time. Eventually he goes back and continues his research in peace. Stan eventually leaves the band once he feels like he wants to settle for a simpler life, so he goes to Gravity Falls, moves in with Ford and starts up the Mystery Shack with Ford as his co-owner. They live happily and nothing goes wrong.

BTW this is not Stancest, please do not tag it as such!!

[orikeepitasecret]

Fiddauthor ❝I love you, I love you, I love you!❞ but make it angst.

Y’all keep asking for angst and I have no clue if I’m writing it. Anyway, have this 3,271 word monstrosity. 

Prompt from here. Requests are open!

Read it on AO3

“I love you.” Ford whispers one night, when he and Fidds had drunk far too much. Fidds is sprawled across his lap. He was pretty sure Fiddleford was asleep, the only reason he said it, but there’s hands around his neck, lips crashing against his own, and it leaves Ford breathless.

“I love you too.” Fiddleford murmurs once he pulls away and promptly falls asleep for real.

~*~

“I love you.” Ford whispers, watching Fidds’s rusty old truck start and pull away from Backupsmore University for the last time, taking Fidds away to his future and far away from Ford. They had already decided to go their separate ways as just friends. Ford wonders for a second if he should of foughten to keep Fiddleford a more permanent fixture in his life. The way Fidds’s face had fallen for just a second made him think, now, that he should have. It was too late though. Fiddleford was on his way home to Tennessee and Ford was crossing the country to study anomalies in Oregon. He slips into his own car and turns out of the parking lot he considers following Fidds, but he swallows back his tears and turns right. Ad astra per aspera! He thinks but it feels hollow. 15 minutes later, he has to pull over to cry.

~*~

But I love you, Ford thinks as he holds Fiddleford’s wedding invitation in his hands. There’s a note asking to call him when he receives so he does.

“Ford! It’s so good to hear from you! It’s been to long!” Fidds says brightly when he answers and has been. Ford thinks that the last time they talked had been both left Backupsmore.

“Indeed,” Ford says. “What did you need to talk to me about, buddy? You said it was urgent.”

“Oh, right to the point as ever, Stanford.” Fidds replies and Ford wonders if Fidds is dying as much as he is. “Well then, I was hoping you would be my best man! Say you will, Ford, please?”

“I would be honored, Fiddleford.” Ford says and scrubs away the tears trickling his face. Fiddleford keeps him on the line until there’s a crash in the kitchen and Ford begs off to investigate (it’s those damn gnomes again). Fiddleford wrangles a promise out of him to keep in better touch. He doubts he’ll keep it.

~*~

I still love you Ford thinks as he stands beside Fiddleford and watches Emma Mae walk down the aisle. It’s been burning the back of his throat since he arrived, but his time with Fiddleford had passed and if Fiddleford even wanted to hear him say it he hadn’t given Ford any inclination. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

“You couldn’t ask for a better person to spend your life.” Ford tells Emma Mae in his speech. And it’s true. Fiddleford smiles at him, that special smile that even now is just his and it says I love you too.

~*~

“His name’s Tater Cerium.” Fiddleford tells him proudly and Ford carefully accepts the sleeping baby from him.

“Oh.” Ford murmurs. He had once offhandedly told Fiddleford that Cerium was his favorite element. Fiddleford looks mighty pleased with himself when Ford looks at him with recognition and tears in his eyes. He glances away, down to the baby in his arms. The one that Fidds had named after his favorite element.

“We were hoping you would be his godfather.” Emma Mae says and Ford has to scrub the tears off his face.

“I would be delighted.” Ford says after a long pause. The McGuckets both smile and Ford bounces the baby in his arms, just like he used to bounce Sherman’s baby.

“I love you.” He whispers to Tater, tells him like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And he is.

~*~

He comes back from the store (from the next town over that was larger) with Fiddleford’s banjo strings and microchips, and other necessary provisions, only to find that Fidds had set about cleaning up his house. Fidds grins when he sees him.

“Yer back earlier than I was expectin’, Stanford.” Fiddleford tells him, his eyes gleaming.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Ford tells him and places the grocery bags he’s carrying on the newly clean counters, suddenly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to clean up before his friend arrived.

“I wanted to.” Fidds tells him and smiles Ford’s smile and any embarrassment Ford feels melts away. He heads back outside to collect the rest of his groceries thinking I love you, I love you, I love you.

It’s nice to be sharing a living space with somebody again, especially when that person is Fiddleford.

~*~

“Why not publish now? Settle down somewhere with a nice girl and start a family?” Fidds asks, his eyes still trained on the stars. Ford doesn’t respond, not until Fiddleford turns and looks at him.

“You were the only one for me, Fidds.” Ford whispers, and he knows Fiddleford heard him. He clears his throat. “Besides, once Gravity Falls becomes mainstream knowledge surely a bunch of other scientists will move out here and one of them could discover the Unifying Theory of Weirdness instead of me and all my work will have been for nothing.”

They’re quiet for a long while, like they used to be in college while talking about plans for the future. Plans that had more thoroughly included them together.

“F, if I had asked you to go with me, would you have?” Ford finally asks. It’s a question that has been nagging at him for years. He hopes Fidds will say “no”, so he can have some closure and move on, even if he’ll never love romantically again. But Fiddleford doesn’t say no. He doesn't say yes either but they both know that's what his answer is. Ford's heart breaks all over again. Fiddleford had wanted him to ask him to come and he had been to much of a coward to make the request. It was far too late now, far, far to late.

“Oh Stanford…” Fiddleford whispers and pulls Ford into a tight hug. Ford doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing.

~*~

“I love you.” Ford whispers and presses his forehead against the door. He knows it doesn’t matter, that once again it’s too little, too late, and F is gone again. This time for good. The one good thing that's come out of Stan ruining his project and Ford had ruined it himself.

He pushes the door open. The room’s barren, without all of Fiddleford’s pet projects and knick knacks. He collapses on the bed, that’s been carefully made up, as if Fiddleford would be here any minute to go to sleep but he won’t be. Ford curls against Fidds’s pillow and cries. He hadn’t felt so alone since the night Stanley had been kicked out. It’s only the knowledge that he survived Stanley’s betrayal that allows him to survive Fidds’s abandonment. Still, he doesn’t do anything but mope for three days and only stops because he’s too hungry to lie in bed anymore. It’s another two weeks before he returns to the portal, but only after Fidds’s room is converted back into a thinking parlor.  The thought crosses his mind, when he returns to work, if this was how Stanley felt when Ford refused to help him. The thought crushes him. He doesn't get any proper work done that day, but Bill does.

~*~

Fiddleford was right, Ford thinks and thinks and thinks. It’s the only thing he thinks curled up in the bed of the bunker. He can’t remember the reason he came back here, not after seeing Fiddleford’s abandoned laptop and lab coat. They hadn’t come back her after Shif- Experiment #210 had attacked Fiddleford. He clears the dust off the laptop and opens it. An eight letter password, huh? He takes a couple guesses and is surprised to find the password is Stanford. Of course F had always been the sentimental sort and Ford was his first love.

He takes a deep breath and starts to plan. Maybe he can make up with Fidds, convince him to quit this Society of the Blind Eye stuff, once he’s defeated Bill. For now, the future of the world is more important than Fiddleford, even if he was the love of his life.

~*~

Ford gets up from where he landed after coming up on the other side of the portal. He’s not sure he didn’t pass out when he hit, though no time feels like it passed. He turns desperately hoping that the Portal will still be there, still be open so he can find a way to go back through and return home. Clean up the mess he and Stan just made.

It’s not there.

“No…”Ford whispers horrified.

“Stanley?”

There’s no answer.

“Fiddleford?”

There’s still no answer, not that Ford should expect one.

He’s not aware that he’s screaming, begging for Fiddleford or Stanley or anyone to come for him, until he senses the eyes, thousands and thousands of eyes boring into him. Is this what Fiddleford had experienced when he briefly went through? Ford shivers and runs.

~*~

Ford had a ritual at this point for when he was preparing to sleep, one that wasn’t dissimilar to the one he had in his home dimension. He carefully pulled two pictures out of his wearing wallet. One was of him and Fiddleford from college. They were both leaning against Ford’s bed, with Ford almost in Fidds’s lap and F kissing his cheek. It was one of Ford’s favorite pictures that they had taken together and he was glad he had slipped it in his wallet before Stan arrived. The second was an already aging photo of Stan and him on the Stan o’ War. The same one he had been carrying since college.

“I love you.” Ford would whisper and tuck them back away in his wallet. Those two were what gave him the strength to keep going, even though he doubted he would ever see you again.

~*~

Ford feels awful, feels like he's dying. He probably is, considering the amount of blood. He wonders vaguely if it wouldn't be for the best. The thought fizzles out quickly. If he dies here, he'll never stop Bill, never go home, or see Lee and Fidds again. That gives him new strength and slowly pulls himself to at least try to survive this.

~*~

“I don’t wanna go.” Ford admits softly. The Fiddleford of this dimension, the one that belongs in this better world unlike Ford, tusks softly and pulls Ford into a tight hug. It’s such a Fiddleford move, and Ford feels a familiar swell of affection for the man rise up his chest.

“I love you.” He murmurs against his shoulder. And it’s true: he loves him because he loves every Fiddleford that he’s encountered, for their own merits and because they reminded him so much of his own lost love.

“Did you ever tell him that?” This Fiddleford asks. Ford nods against his shoulder. Fidds sighs.

“Wasn’t the best at showing it though…” Ford sobs. Fidds squeezes him and holds him until the tears stop.

“Well go defeat Bill and then go home. Make it up to him. If he’s as much like me as you think he is… he’ll forgive you. I promise.” Fiddleford tells him. Ford grabs onto his words and clings to them. Fiddleford thinks he can defeat Bill and live. Defeat Bill and return home to Fiddleford who might possibly, insanely still love him enough to give him the second chance. Ford smiles faintly at the thought and musters the gun this Fiddleford had helped him construct, that if they’re right will be able to end Bill Cipher once and for all.

He doesn’t look back as he steps through the portal. For the first time in a long time, he’s looked ahead.

~*~

“Stanley, do you know what became of my research assistant? His name is Fiddleford McGucket.” Ford asks evenly, one evening over dinner. Stan and his nibilings exchange looks.

“No.” Stan tells him and even after forty years, his tell when lying to Ford is the same. It might have been slightly amusing if it hadn’t been so vexing.

“Stanley, I have a right to know.” Ford says in a raised voice, the I know you know hangs heavy in the air without him saying it.

“He doesn’t want anything to do with you.” Stan retorts, finally. “I would know.”

Ford’s face falls despite attempts to school it and he quickly excuses himself from the table. If Fiddleford doesn’t want anything to do with him, he’ll respect that for now. He waited thirty years what was a another couple of months. Surely it couldn’t take too long to at least dispose of the rift the Portal created? Bill himself might take more time but he could be excused for wanting to apologize to Fidds after the immediate threat is handled right?

~*~

Ford’s startled awake night to find Mable sitting on the couch by his feet.

“Are you awake, Grunkle Ford?” She whispers.

“Yes, dear.” Ford replies and sits up. “Is something the matter?”

“No. Well, kind of? It’s about Mr. McGucket.” Mable replies.

Ford sits up and flicks on the nearby lamp. He slips on his glasses and stares at his great niece expectedly.

“I think he doesn’t remember you. He founded this crazy cult that erased people’s memories when they saw weird things around here and he was using it on himself. He used it so much he couldn’t remember anything before 1982.” Mable says in a hushed voice, glancing anxiously over her shoulder occasionally.

“I see.” Ford says,

“He’s getting better! Dipper thought he might have been the Author! So we helped him get his memories back and he’s remembering more things! I don’t know if he remembers you yet though…” Mable says.

“Well that’s…  good. It was very nice of your brother and you to help him. Thank you.”

“You really care about him, huh, Grunkle Ford?”

“Yes, he was…” my ex-boyfriend that I am still deeply in love with, even after all this time “my best friend until we had our falling out. I want to make amends with him, or at very least apologize.”

“Well… he lives at the dump right now, if you ever wanna try and slip out to visit him.” Mable tells him. There’s a creek and a muffled groan from somewhere in the house that indicates that Stan is awake for some reason. “I have to go. Don’t tell Grunkle Stan or Dipper I told you, please? They didn’t want you to know.”

Without waiting for a reply, Mable scurries off, carrying a cup of water. Ford sighs as he watches her go and flicks off the lamp, leaving himself surrounded by the dark.

“Oh, Fiddleford…” He whispers. He doesn’t get back to sleep that night.

~*~

Stan seems to know that Ford knows about McGucket now and seems intent on keeping him from “visiting”, and no matter when Ford tries to leave or his best intentions to not allow Stan to draw him into a fight, he never manages to leave.

“Why is it so important that you go see him now? Weren’t you just spouting off about how dangerous it is to leave the Shack because of this Bill guy?” Stan asks when he catches Ford trying to leave his own house at two a’clock in the morning.

“I-” I love him is on the tip of his tongue, but Ford can’t bring himself to say it. He is unsure of how much time has changed here in the last  three decades or how Stan would react.

“I hurt Fiddleford a lot with my actions thirty years ago. I want him to at least now I regret it.”

Stan looks heartbroken for just a millisecond, but before Ford can try to process it, it’s gone, replaced by the quiet rage Stanley leverages against him when he doesn’t want the kids to know they’re fighting again. Ford doesn’t make it out of the house that night, and he doesn’t attempt going to see Fiddleford again.

~*~

“Fiddleford… I--I haven't seen you since we parted ways. You must hate me.” Ford murmurs to his friend once he finally sees him again. It’s hard to believe that this is his Fiddleford, even when he knew he’d been living out of the dump.

Fiddleford shakes his head and smiles, smiles that brilliant smile and Ford feels himself falling head over heels all over again. “I've tried forgettin'. Maybe I should try forgiving. Come here, old friend.”

Fiddleford pulls Ford into a tight hug. Ford can’t remember the last time he and Fiddleford had hugged (maybe upon his arrival in Gravity Falls?) or how good it felt. Tears sprung to his eyes and squeezed Fidds. The moment’s perfect, even if it takes place in Bill’s castle at the end of the world.

“Hey, good to see you too, bro. Now let's get outta here, huh?” Stan interrupts and the moment’s over.

~*~

Watching Fiddleford and the others is the most horrific thing he has ever seen. That’s his Fiddleford Bill’s hurting and it’s all Ford’s fault. In less than an hour, it shifted down to second. Nothing will ever haunt him as much as erasing Stan’s mind.

~*~

“I’m going up to the Arctic to investigate some anomalous reading I’ve been getting.” Ford tells his old friend. The “Come with me” doesn’t cross his lips. Not because he doesn’t want to ask, but him and Fiddleford needed time to recover from the last 30 years, from the things Ford had caused. And even if Fiddleford had any interest in studying anomalies, almost thirty of being homeless hadn’t been good for his health and it would be irresponsible to drag F into the Arctic. Fiddleford studied him from a long moment and set his glass of sweet down on his side table.

“You should ask Stanley to go with you.” Fidds says evenly.

“I will.” Ford promises.

“Good.”

Fiddleford doesn’t pick up his sweet tea again. Instead he gets up and collects his banjo from the other side of the room. Ford is breath taken to realize that it was the same one he had given him for their first anniversary so many years ago.

Fiddleford plays for hours and Ford watches silently, breath taken. Finally, long after the sun’s gone down, Tate troops into the room and tells Fiddleford he ought to go to bed.

“I’ll miss you.” Fiddleford says, in the same tone of voice he had used when they had parted ways at Backupsmore, at the door.

“I know. I’ll miss you too. But I’ll be back next summer.” Ford promises. F still seems upset, and without thinking, Ford leans down to kiss his cheek. He flushes before the actions even over and fleas through the door.

“Next summer, Stanford!” Fidds yells after him.

~*~

They of course see each other quite a few times again before Ford and Stan leave, but the promise shifted into something more with the kiss. It was a promise to try again, next summer.

~*~

Ford had barely made his way back onto solid ground before somebody had flung themselves onto him. Stan had to steady him to keep him from falling, but it was worth it.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.” Fiddleford whispers to him.

“I love you too.” Ford replies and it is one of the best moments of his life, especially when Stan and his nibilings join their hug.

[connorandersons-blog]

He Didn’t Miss

Rating: Explicit Word count: 6452  Ship: Convin (Connor/Gavin Reed)

Summary: Connor and Gavin are forced to work together on a serial killer case. Someone is killing androids with bat and doesn't seem to leave a trace. Can the two figure out who the murder is and somehow get along?

-----------------------------------

"You gotta be fucking with me," Gavin growled, crossing his arms. Connor stays standing behind the chair, looking between the Captain and Reed. 

"I am not. While Hank is away you two will work together. Connor is still not allowed to work alone and you're my next best detective." Fowler sighs, rubbing at his face.

Connor had guessed this was going to happen so he was already prepared for the news. Gavin turns and glares at Connor like this was his idea, which it wasn't. 

"Fuck, how long will Anderson be gone?" Gavin sighs. 

Connor cuts in before Fowler can answer. "He will be gone for two more weeks and three days." 

While Hank was gone he left the house and Sumo for Connor to take care of. Connor was happy to do so, and since he already practically lived there it wasn't much change. 

"Fuck. Fine, but don't expect us to get along." Gavin says. He doesn't wait for Fowler's dismissal before stomping out of the office. 

"Is there anything else, sir?" Connor asks. 

Fowler just shakes his head. "No. Well… Reed isn't so bad. Just try not to kill each other and you'll be fine. Now get out." 

Connor nodded and walked out, closing the door softly behind him. He went back to his desk, pulling up the case he and Reed would be working on. 

There had been four murders already and one that had just been found. They'd have to go to the crime scene soon, but Connor thought it best to let Reed cool down a bit. 

It took the detective exactly 28 minutes and 32 seconds before Gavin walked over to Connor's desk. "Let's get a fucking move on." 

Connor quickly stands, making sure his tie is tight before following Reed. He's half-expecting for them to get a cab or just use one of the cars the dpd has. Instead, Reed leads them to the parking lot and a red 1971 Ford Mustang Convertible. 

"This is an old car, 68 years old to be exact," Connor says, looking it over. It's clear that Gavin takes good care of it; the car is completely clean and polished. 

Reed glances at him, eyes widening before he scowls. "Yeah, what about it?" 

"I'm simply appreciating it." He tries to smile warmly but it probably comes off a bit awkward. 

Gavin furrows his brows before shaking his head and getting in. Connor follows suit, sliding into the passenger seat. The seatbelts are already buckled behind them so Connor just sits there while Gavin starts the car.

"Never gonna say goodbye

Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you"

Gavin's eyes went wide and he quickly turned the music off. "Shit! Uh, I…it was, I wasn't actually-" Gavin trailed off. "Don't you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me?" 

Connor quickly put his hands up. "I won't, though I don't see why you would be embarrassed about your song choice." 

He had experimented with every genre of music available, and listened to all the songs Hank deemed as 'classics'. 

"I'm not fucking embarrassed. Just-just shut the fuck up, ok?" Gavin said before pulling out of the parking lot. 

Connor stays quiet as requested for the rest of the drive, mentally going over what they already knew. There was very little available while also having too much. 

They get to the crime scene and Connor quickly leaves the car. The silence had been too heavy and too awkward for his liking.

The house looked like a cut out from Architects Today magazine. It was beautiful, but not in the olde-worlde quaint kind of way. Everything was geometric, which he guessed you could say about almost house with square windows, but on this house, he couldn't help but notice it. 

The roof was flat for a start and the door was wide as it was tall. The windows took up entire walls with only polished steel beams to break them into yet more rectangles. 

The look would have been entirely metallic like a mini downtown skyscraper had it not been for the cedar beams of the external porch and the matching raised plant beds that contained only white blooms. 

It was definitely crafted after the revolution and for androids. Markus had set up lots of funding for housing from money Carl had gifted him along with selling his own paintings. He would do his best to help any androids who wanted to buy their own homes instead of staying at Jericho. He also knew Carl Manfred donated most of his art to the cause as well. 

The door was already open and officers walked in and out. The floors were polished concrete and the furniture scandinavian in style. The only mess was the wet footprints the police tracked. That is until they reached the living room. 

The living room is decorated the same but now it also had blue blood everywhere. The humans couldn't see it, but he could and it sent a shiver down his spine. 

The android, an ST200, lies on the ground the body completely mutilated. She's stripped completely bare but that doesn't mean much at this point with how her body is. 

She's almost unrecognizable with how badly damaged she is. "Shit." Gavin grumbles and Connor nods numbly. 

He walks over, careful not to disturb any evidence before crouching down. He scans over the body making notes in his head of any important details. 

Her eyes are still open, staring lifelessly up at the ceiling. Connor reaches out and closes them, not being able to handle them open. He hated remembering Daniel's eyes just staring at him as he kneeled on that roof. 

There is no way this Chloe could be repaired. Her memories would be far too damaged to do so. Not to mention the amount of trauma she must have gone through.

Once he finds everything he can he slowly stands and looks around the room. There is a small shrine set up for rA9 near a window and Connor glances at it. He hadn't thought much about rA9 but it had become common to say 'oh rA9' like humans would with God.

There isn't an obvious murder weapon lying around so it's more likely that the killer had brought it with them. 

"I believe the killer brought a bat with them, so this could definitely be from the same killer as the other four," Connor said once he had looked through the rooms.

"Nah dip," Reed said, looking down at the body then grimacing. "So we got a serial killer who beats androids with a bat. Wonderful." 

"I don't agree, this isn't wonderful in any way." It was horrifying and gruesome. It made his stomach churn and he couldn't even get sick. 

Gavin snorts but quickly cuts it off. He looked around them before glaring at Connor. "I was being sarcastic." 

Connor slowly nodded, hiding his own grin. He knew Reed was being sarcastic, and his response got the reaction he was hoping for. Reed may not like him now, but he made it his mission to become at least on friendly terms by the time Hank gets back. 

He wasn't as clueless as many thought. Sure there were things he didn't instantly understand, but he had the entire internet in his head. Even then there were some things that he still didn't understand, but that was fine. Not knowing the answer to everything was a part of being alive. 

"Oh, I will try to remember that. Sorry for the misunderstanding, Detective." Connor nods. "I believe I may be able to get more information from the other bodies." 

There had to be some DNA evidence somewhere. The person may not be in the system, but the evidence would be used once they got a suspect. 

Gavin looks down at the body again before wincing. "Hopefully they aren't as bad as this one. I'm gonna take a look around the rest of the house." 

Connor follows along even after Gavin started bitching about 'stupid androids' and 'acting like a lost puppy'. Connor took it in stride, making small comments when Reed would say something particularly stupid. 

"You're the most annoying android I've ever met. Aren't you supposed to just obey and not talk back?" Gavin snaps at him. 

"Sarcasm is just one more service I offer. If you'd like to make a complaint I'm sure Cyberlife won't give a single fuck either." He grins. Then he's shoved back against the wall, and Gavin is glaring up at him. 

He almost feels satisfaction from getting Reed this worked up, but most of his attention is directed on how close they are. 

Gavin holds him against the wall even though Connor could easily get away if he wanted. They both knew who would win in a fight. "Shut the fuck up. I am your superior and you will not talk back to me while at work." 

Oh, he made it too easy. "So that means I get to talk back when we aren't working?" 

Gavin quickly pushed away, wiping down his clothes like he thought Connor had cooties. "Fuck off!"

"What a way with words, I'm so impressed." Connor deadpans. Messing with Reed was just too easy. "We have searched the whole house, I believe we should head back." 

Gavin clenched his fist before slowly relaxing it. "Fine. Let's go, Tincan." He hit his shoulder as he stomped away. 

Connor couldn't help but roll his eyes as he followed after. At least he had a good view from back here. 

He wouldn't deny Gavin being… aesthetically pleasing. He often hid behind baggy shirts or jackets, but Connor could tell he kept very good care of himself. 

He just didn't have the best of personalities. He was impulsive and crude. He made comments on basically everything he didn't agree with or disliked. Though, he seemed to lie a lot when it came to androids. 

Connor had yet to figure out why he lied or why he was so angry. There was a suspicious lack of background in his file, so perhaps something happened in the past. How he could completely cover something up was beyond him. He didn't have any hacking skills from what he saw. 

He had to find out what Gavin was hiding. Hank hadn't told him anything even with all his pushing. He couldn't ask Chris or Tina, he wasn't close enough to them to even bring it up. 

So that left asking Gavin. He'd either have to get him angry and frustrated enough or he could try to get closer. He'd prefer to later, but there was a very low success rate of that. 

He still wanted to try, though. He wanted to get to know Gavin. He wanted to become friends and have him to turn to if he needed help. Maybe they could be more, though that was laughable. 

If Gavin couldn't get over his prejudice then it would never work. He couldn't be close to someone who hated his people. He could try to change his mind slowly, but until then he couldn't let himself dream. 

The ride back was just as uncomfortable and awkwardly silent as the ride to the scene had been. Gavin never looked over at him as he drove, he didn't even turn on any music. 

Connor didn't try to make conversation. Small talk would just make things more uncomfortable. Connor pulls his coin out and rolls it across his fingers. 

Gavin jerks the car slightly and the coin drops to the ground. Connor glances over as he bends to grab his coin and sees a small smirk on Gavin's face. 

Connor goes back to doing his coin trick and having to pick it up whenever Gavin is a bit rougher with his driving. 

That lasted the entire way back and Connor had dropped his coin exactly seventeen times. Neither says anything as they get out of the car and go into the station. 

Connor goes to the evidence room while Gavin goes back to his desk. 

The android parts are no longer just hanging, but they now are treated similarly to humans. 

Connor goes over the bodies, taking samples when necessary. He's gotten good at compartmentalizing so he does his work without letting his emotions get in the way. 

That didn't mean it was hard to see. Anyone would have problems seeing their own people brutally murdered. 

From the looks of it, the androids had been alive when most of the damage was dealt. Their death didn't stop the killer from continuing to beat the bodies until they were unrecognizable. 

Whoever did this really hated them, and from what he could tell the only connection was that they were androids. 

He was on the last body and had very little hope left. He hadn't found one spec of DNA so this was looking more towards an android committing the crimes. Definitely wasn't the first time an android murdered, but it was odd to see this much rage directed at their own kind. 

He was about ready to give up until he saw something. A small spec of dried red blood. 

He pressed his finger against it, and then brought it to his lips. He found DNA. He could jump for joy, but he keeps his cool. There was no match in the system, but they needed this. 

He could find a lot out just from the blood, so that would narrow down their suspect pool. 

He stands there for a few seconds, analyzing the blood. Once that was done he quickly jogged out and to Gavin's desk. 

Gavin was sipping on coffee and talking to Officer Chen. He slowed his pace as he got closer. He didn't want to interrupt as that had a high chance of simply pissing Gavin off. 

Chen looked up and gave him a slight wave. "Connor, how has worked with grumpy pants been?" 

Connor walked up, leaning slightly against Gavin's desk. "Not the worst. I just found a break in the case. How have you been?" 

"Not bad on my end. This fucker won't stop whining about how sn-” she's cut off by a hand over her mouth. Gavin glares at her, and then quickly pulls his hand away. 

"Ugh, that's disgusting Tina. You're such a bitch." He sighed, wiping his hand onto Tina's arm. 

She squeals and jumps away, flipping him off. "But I'm your bitch. Talk to you boys later; don't get into any extra trouble." She laughs as she runs off, waving at Connor. 

Gavin sighs and shakes his head fondly. Then he turns his attention back to Connor and his expression quickly changes to one of irritation. "You found something?"  

"I did. I found a small drop of red blood on the body that most likely came from the killer." He starts. Gavin nods along, propping his feet up on his desk. "The blood belonged to a white man, 24 years old, with AB+ blood type." 

Gavin raised an eyebrow. "Anything else? Maybe you can get this man's name too." 

"The most common boy names born in 2014 in the US are Noah, Liam, Mason, Jacob, William, Ethan, Michael, Alexander, James, and Daniel. There is a chance that he would be named one of those." 

Gavin stared at him for a few seconds before slowly bring a hand up then slapping his own forehead. "Right. I shouldn't have said anything. Is there anything else you got?" 

"There is. The man appears to have had gastrointestinal cancer in the past." There couldn't be that many with all of those requirements. 

"Damn, that sucks. Doesn't give him the right to murder though." Gavin says, rubbing his face. 

Connor has to go over that again a few times to make sure he heard right. He'd never heard Gavin say an android's death was murder. He rarely even said they were killed. Now he had agreed they were murdered. 

He was quickly snapped out of his thoughts when a hand was waved in front of his face. "You still in there?" Gavin asks. 

Connor nods and quickly pushed Gavin's hand away. "I'm fine. I'm just simply shocked. You said they were murdered." 

Gavin freezes before shrugging nonchalantly. "And? That's what happened, isn't it? Beaten to death equals murder." 

"Right, of course. Do you have any leads?" He changes the subject. He didn't want to push Gavin too far with that line of questioning. 

Gavin nods and moves his feet off his desk, tapping on the computer until three files are pulled up. "This fucker is Jonathan Beek. He was arrested for assault using a bat. This one is Abby Willmore; she's works at the same hospital as the other androids. And this ugly fucker is Leon McKenny, he was just released from prison. He was busted for trying to drug androids. Though he may have something to do with it since he was cellmates with Beek." 

"Wait, the androids all worked at the same hospital?" He quickly moves to stand behind Gavin, leaning in to see the screen. 

Before Gavin can say anything he's interfacing with the computer and downloads all the information. He pulls his hand back, setting it down on the desk so he can lean on it. 

His fingers brush against Gavin and Gavin quickly pulls his hand away. Connor hadn't meant to do that, but it still sent a jolt down his systems. 

All of the androids had worked at Karmanos Cancer Institute and they all worked in the same area. This was definitely a lead. 

"Fucking hell, you didn't have to do that weird android thingy. I was gonna answer you." Gavin mumbles, standing up. 

"It's called interfacing, and it's faster that way." Connor points out. 

"I know what fucking interfacing is. God damn, how does Hank stand you? You must be really good in bed if he willingly keeps you around." Gavin snorts. 

Rage builds up and Connor grabs one of Gavin's arms while slamming his down into the desk. Gavin yelps but doesn't struggle in Connor's hold. 

He leans down slightly, tightening his hold. "I don't care what you say about me, but I will not stand for you disrespecting Hank." 

His relationship with the Lieutenant was purely platonic and he never even thought of him once in that manner. 

Gavin's face turns bright red, but from what Connor isn't sure. He shifts slightly, before letting Gavin go. Even then he stays still for a few seconds longer, staring wide-eyed at Connor. 

"He has some people we need to talk to. But I need to check on Sumo first. I can meet you at the hospital or you can join me." He smiles politely and Gavin finally stands back up on shaky legs. 

"I'll come with," Gavin mumbles, staring at the ground. The officers around them quickly turn away when they see Connor looking their way. 

Connor nods and turns on his heel, walking back out of the station. There were a few more hours until the change in the shift so they didn't have too much more time off they decided to end their day with everyone else. 

Neither had taken a lunch break, so Connor really needed to at least let Sumo out to potty before they could continue. 

Gavin followed after Connor, keeping his eyes trained onto the ground and hands shoved into his pockets. 

Gavin drives and doesn't even try to make Connor drop his coin this time. His eyes almost seem glazed over as he stares at the road. 

Connor doesn't question it, just like he doesn't question it when Gavin silently follows him into Hank's house. 

He drops to the ground to pet Sumo before letting him out back. He closes the door and slowly turns when he hears Gavin walking towards him. 

He's ready for whatever Gavin is going to say. What he isn't ready for is for Gavin to push himself against Connor, rolling his hips forward. 

"You think you can just do that and get away with it?" Gavin sneers, pushing Connor back against the wall. "You're a fucking prick. Do you know how much I hate you?" 

Connor stands there shocked for a few seconds. Out of everything Gavin could do—punching, yelling, shooting—grinding against him didn't seem like an obvious choice. 

"You are too perfect. You got this stupid puppy dog eyes, and you can never do wrong. Fuck that, and fuck you." Gavin growls out. 

Connor wasn't exactly opposed but he had hoped this would happen some other way. Maybe after Gavin finally got his head out of his ass. 

"Will doing this make you more agreeable?" Connor questions. He doesn't want to do this just because Gavin is angry. If he was simply pissed then he could go off and find someone else to sleep it. 

"Fuck off. Maybe. I don't know. Just don't slam me into any more desks." Oh, so that's why. 

It made sense, but Connor hadn't thought about that possibility when he had done it. Was it the slamming into a desk or that he did so publicly that got him excited. Perhaps it was both. 

Instead of answering out loud, he grabs Gavin and easily flips them around so Gavin is the one against the door. 

Then Connor pushes their lips together, grabbing him by the hips and one hand around Gavin's throat. He doesn't actually squeeze, but he does put enough pressure for Gavin to feel it a bit. 

Gavin gasps and Connor takes the opportunity. This was far from his first kiss, so he had no problem taking the lead. 

He had experimented after his deviancy and he had found what he liked. There was always more to explore, but that could wait. For now, he focused on kissing Gavin until his knees were weak. 

That goal was soon accomplished, and the main thing holding Gavin up was Connor's body pressed against him. 

So Connor broke the kiss to reach down and pull Gavin up. Gavin yelps and wraps his legs around Connor. 

He easily moves them to his own bedroom and dumps Gavin onto the bed, not even trying to be gentle. If Gavin liked it rough then that's what he was going to get. 

Connor pulled down Gavin's pants and underwear in one motion. He didn't even let Gavin take a breath before he took him in hand. 

Gavin moaned and gripped the blanket under him. "Fuck, Connor." 

Connor smirks at Gavin before leaning down and takes his cock in his mouth. Gavin bucks up into him, but Connor shoves his hips back down. 

Once he has Gavin full-on withering he sucks him to the base. Then he uses his throat and Gavin reaches down and grabs his hair, yanking on it hard. 

Connor hums and continues for a few seconds longer before pulling off with a pop. 

"When the fuck did you learn to do that?" Gavin pants, letting go of Connor's hair. 

Connor pulls his clothes off and throws them towards his hamper. Gavin sits up quickly and pulls his own shirt off before reaching out to touch Connor. 

He lets him explore his body before pulling Gavin into his lap. "Behind a bar." He mutters before nipping down Gavin's neck. 

Gavin drags his nails down Connor's back. He would have broken skin if Connor was a human. Sadly he wouldn't be able to leave a mark on Connor. Though, Connor could leave many marks on Gavin. 

He did try to keep them under where his shirt would be. 

"Fucking ass! Too fucking perfect." Gavin says, once again yanking on Connor's hair. He pulls Connor away from his neck to crash their lips together. 

It's far from gentle, and Connor bites Gavin's bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. In return, Gavin reaches down and grabs Connor's cock, roughly pumping his hand. 

"Didn't know you had one of these." Gavin manages to get out between kisses. 

"I thought you were being a dick to overcompensate, glad to see we were both wrong," Connor smirks before pushing Gavin to lie on his back. 

"Fuck you!" Gavin sneers but spreads his legs. Connor reaches over and opens the small drawer beside his bed. 

He didn't need lube for himself, but he kept it just in case he slept with a human. "I was planning on fucking you. You seem like the kind of slut to like that. You like to be used." 

Connor could relate, though. If he was bottoming then he loved that. He loved feeling used and worthy. He wouldn't judge Gavin for what he liked. 

"Yes! Fuck me. Please fuck me," Gavin begged, spreading his legs even wider. Connor opened the lube and spread some over his fingers. 

Without any warning, he pushed a finger all the way in. Gavin let out a shout but didn't ask for Connor to stop. 

He prepped him as fast as he could, adding fingers in without warning. Gavin didn't seem to mind, actually seemed to enjoy it quite a lot considering all the cursing and moaning that came out of him. 

"Fuck me already you piece of shit!" Gavin snapped and Connor pulled his fingers out. 

He was half tempted to slap Gavin's ass but he holds back. "So needy. You're such a slut for me." Connor murmurs as he lines himself up. 

Gavin half-heartedly glares up at him but his expression quickly changes to one of pain and pleasure as Connor pushes in. 

He only waits a few seconds before he starts to move. He'd instantly stop if Gavin asked him to, but that didn't seem to be happening any time soon. 

Connor grabbed Gavin's legs, pulling them so they were hooked over his shoulder. Gavin was babbling nonsense as he sped up, hitting his prostate with each thrust. 

Connor was so close to the edge, but he wanted Gavin to come first. That doesn't seem like that'll take much longer. 

Gavin comes with a shout, and Connor doesn't slow. He spends up just slightly and soon he's coming inside of Gavin. His hips keep rocking until he's completely spent. 

Gavin is completely limp on the bed, staring up at Connor through glazed eyes. 

Connor pulls out slowly and drops onto the bed beside him. His energies are far lower than he'd like. He hadn't thought he'd go through this much exercise and emotional strain so he hadn't actually gone into stasis for a few days. 

"I need to sleep for a few minutes to regain my energy. You can stay here if you'd like." Connor mumbles. A large part of him wants Gavin to stay. He wants to curl up and pull him to his chest. 

He doesn't get his answer before he falls asleep, but he doesn't feel Gavin leave the bed either. 

He's abruptly woken up by a wet, large tongue being dragged across his face. His internal clock tells him he had only slept for thirty minutes. 

He gently pushes Sumo away, wiping his face off before opening his eyes. 

The bed beside him is cold and Gavin's clothes are no longer on his floor. He must have let Sumo in at some point while Connor was asleep.

Connor climbs out of bed, grabbing his clothes and putting them in the hamper before pulling on clean ones. 

He walks out of the room, Sumo following along beside him. The house is completely silent and empty. 

Connor's heart sinks and he stares at the door. He should have expected Gavin to leave. He should have known this was just a way for him to get his frustration out. Yet he couldn't stop the tears that threaten to spill over. 

It wasn't like he hadn't had one night stands before, but this was different. He actually knew Gavin, at least somewhat. He thought there was the chance that Gavin really knew him, and wanted to be with him. 

But of course, he was wrong. Of course, Gavin didn't want him. Who would? He was only good for a quick fuck. Why had he thought this time was different? 

He slowly slides to the ground, tears running down his cheeks. How could he be so stupid? Why had he let himself think Gavin would have stayed? 

He buries his face in Sumo's fur, letting out choked sobs. It was like someone took a hammer to his chest and beat him with it until his thirium pump was in tiny shards all over the ground. If he moved he'd step on a shard and just cause him more pain.

He stays on the floor until he can finally pull in a breath. He stumbles back into his room and curls up on the bed. Sumo jumps up and lies at his feet, laying his head on Connor's legs. 

He closes his eyes and slowly drifts off into sleep. 

 He drags himself out of bed in the morning. He goes through the motions with limbs that feel as heavy as lead, but he has to work. They still have a case to solve, no matter how much it's going to hurt to be around Gavin. 

He'd be completely professional. No snark, no sass. He could do this. He just had to solve this case and hopefully, Hank would be back early. 

Then he could eat all the thirium ice cream he wants, while curled up on the couch rewatching Finding Nemo for the hundredth time. Hank would sit with him and Connor wouldn't even scold him for the beer he would drink or the pizza he would order.

He made sure Sumo was well taken care of before calling a cab. Part of him wants the cab to get in some accident so he doesn't have to face Gavin. 

Sadly the ride goes quickly and smoothly. He gets to the precinct in record time which makes him just want to smash his head into the cab. 

Instead, he climbs out and makes his way in. He doesn't even look at Gavin's desk, heading straight to his own. He had nothing to apologize for. Gavin hadn't given him any indication to stop, and he definitely would have if Gavin had. 

Gavin didn't really have anything to apologize for either. It wasn't like he was required to stay afterward. He didn't have to at least wait until Connor woke up to leave. 

Yet Connor wanted to wake up with Gavin lying beside him. He had done exactly what he didn't want to do until Gavin stopped hating his kind. 

He hadn't even thought of that when they kissed. He hadn't even thought to really think if he was honest. So if there was anyone to blame it was himself. 

He sat down at his desk and clocked in. He'd have to question people at the hospital but for now, he simply logs all the information they had already gathered. 

He goes over the victims and finds some interesting information. The first one to die was an android made specifically to help patients with cancer. The android–Goa–had continued to work as a doctor even after the revolution. 

Another one–Sierra– had been a consulting doctor that often helped Goa after the revolution. 

The other two had been nurses while the ST200 had been a receptionist. Perhaps a human had been angry about being cared for by androids. 

It seemed a bit excessive to beat the androids as much as he did if it was just because of that. There had to be something else he was missing. 

"Let's go to the hospital," Gavin says, causing Connor to practically jump out of his skin. He hadn't heard him walk up, but he had been incredibly focused.

He can't even look up to meet Gavin's eyes before he stands and pushes his chair in. 

If he thought the car rides had been awkward before, they had nothing on this. Connor wasn't going to be the one to break the silence. If Gavin wanted to talk about what had happened, then he would. Until then, Connor would keep his mouth shut and to himself. 

The hospital is pristine and has that odd smell only hospitals could have. The floors and walls were white and the lights bounced off them a bit too much. 

The two flash their badges and ask the receptionist a few questions. Apparently, the ST200 had kept the name Chloe and everyone loved her. Even the humans that had been unsure of androids had quickly warmed up to her. 

They then move on to question the other nurses, but they get the same results. No one had any idea as to who could have wanted them dead. 

There was the possibility that it was another nurse, but none fit the requirements. 

They pull a human doctor aside when the man has a break. 

"So, do you know of anyone who fits this description?" Gavin asks curtly. His arms are crossed and he stands as far away from Connor as possible without seeming odd. 

The doctor thinks for a second before his eyes light up. "There is one man, he just left. His name is Noah Alexander Smith. His son had same cancer as him and was treated here. He sadly didn't make it, but he went into remission shortly after his son's death." 

"You said he just left?" Connor asks, quickly glancing at Gavin. The doctor nods and gives them a brief description before the two run towards the parking deck. 

The man fit the description perfectly and he had a reason to kill. He probably blamed everyone at that hospital for his son's death. 

"Noah Smith puts your hands up," Connor calls out once they finally find him. The man turns to glance back at them before taking off running. 

Gavin and Connor both let out a sigh before they start chasing after him. They chase him until they get to the top of the parking deck. 

Before either can truly react the man turns and fires a gun at them. Both Connor and Gavin reach for theirs, but it's Gavin who makes the shot. 

The man drops to the ground and Gavin quickly runs over to check his pulse. There isn't one but Gavin wasn't surprised, he had gotten him in the head. He pulls his phone out and quickly calls for help, but Connor can barely think over the pain.

Gavin does a quick check over himself, glad to find no bullet holes. 

Connor stumbles closer, pressing a hand against his stomach. It hurts so much but he can't seem to say anything. 

"Can't believe that. We were right there and he still missed." Gavin sighs, shaking his head, but still not looking towards Connor. 

Connor sways on his feet, his vision glitching and warnings flashing in front of his eyes. "He didn't miss, Gavin," Connor mumbles before his legs give out. 

"Shit!" Gavin yells, quickly moving to catch him before he hits the ground. Gavin slowly lowers them until they are sitting, and Connor keeps his hand over his wound. "Fuck, hey it'll be ok, right?" 

Connor blinks a few times to try to clear his vision. The warnings and alerts won't stop and the timer to shutdown starts. "I need, I need to go into stasis. It'll give me more time." He breathes out. 

"No, no you need to stay awake. Connor, come on. I can't lose you." Gavin pleads, pressing his hand against Connor's. He winces at the pain, body jerking slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Have to keep pressure, ok?" 

Connor nods and leans heavily against Gavin. "Yeah. Did you call for help?" 

"Of course I did, you fucking idiot. They'll come and you'll be fine. Just gotta fix you up." Gavin says, pulling him closer. 

Connor's eyes fill with tears as he checks his time. "I really need to go into stasis. Stay with me?" He pleads his arms and legs slowly going limp. 

"Of course, I won't leave you, Connor," Gavin says, before frantically calling for help. 

Connor snorts and nuzzles closer. "But you left yesterday. I fell asleep and you left me." 

Connor can hear how fast Gavin's heart is beating as he brings a shaky hand up to touch Gavin's face. "I didn't think I was wanted. But I'll never leave. I want to stay by your side." 

"Why do you-" his mind is flooded with more alerts and he quickly brushed them away. "Why do you hate androids?" 

"I-I don't hate androids. I hate the man who created them, you. I was just angry and scared. I promise I don't hate you." Gavin says. 

"Oh, well you can tell me more about tha-" he's cut off by his systems forcing him into stasis. The last thing he hears is Gavin yelling his name. 

 He slowly wakes up in a bed that's definitely in a hospital. His internal clock tells him he's been out for five hours and forty-two minutes. 

The main in his stomach is almost completely gone, but it does feel a bit different. 

Once all of his systems are up he slowly opens his eyes. The lights are bright so he turns his head. Gavin and Hank both sit in chairs beside his bed. Hank is asleep while Gavin is fiddling with a coin. 

"I can teach you if you'd like," Connor mutters. Gavin jerks and the coin drops to the floor, but neither of them cares. 

Gavin jumps up and slams their lips together. It's a bit uncomfortable and there's way too much teeth, but Connor loves it anyway. 

Gavin slowly pulls away and presses their foreheads together. "I thought I lost you." 

"You can't get rid of me that easily." They both keep their voices down for Hank. Connor stares at Gavin, not being able to get enough. "Though, I still want to know about why you hate androids, or well, why you hate Elijah Kamski." 

Gavin sighs and sits on the bed, interlacing their fingers. "It's a long story, but basically, Elijah is my brother. We had a big fight and yeah. I promise I'll really explain it later, but for now, I think Hank should be woken up." 

"How about this. You tell me about you and Kamski later but you kiss me a few more times before waking Hank." Connor says, grinning up at him. 

Gavin pretends to think for a second before nodding. "I think I can agree with that." Then Gavin leans back down, cupping his face gently. 

It's much softer than before and Connor feels like he's floating on a cloud. 

"Oh, Jesus Christ Connor!" Hank shouts and both Gavin and Connor burst into laughter. 

[detectivejigsawpines]

Relatively Relativity-part 5 (Ford gets forcefully decaffeinated and Dipper gets chest hair)

Seeing how freakishly big and hairy his arms were (at least compared to how they were just yesterday) told Dipper that no, it wasn’t a dream, he really was an old man now.  Great.

Mabel was already out of bed, so Dipper started to sit up-and immediately tried not to groan as he realized that Stan’s comments about how much your joints ached first thing in the morning at this age had not been exaggerated.

Oh man...I hope my body’s not going to be this badly in shape when I get old for real.  Is my back supposed to make that kind of noise?

“Ow, ow ow ow…”  Dipper swung his legs around to the side, and went through the arduous process of standing up.  Once he was actually on his feet, he felt more or less okay.

Until he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sounds of yelling from downstairs.

Dipper sprinted downstairs as fast as he could (again, not as fast as when he was thirteen), following the sounds of yelling towards the kitchen.  A million horrifying scenarios flitted through his thoughts as an explanation.

Had a monster broken in and attacked?  Was something on fire?  Worse, was someone on fire?!

He skidded into the doorway-and saw Mabel standing with a hand pressed flat against one of the cupboards, keeping it shut, while Grunkle Ford appeared to be trying to climb her, and Grunkle Stan stood at the stove looking far too amused at the level of conflict that was taking place (then again, this was Stan we’re talking about).

“What in the heck is going on here?!” Dipper demanded.

Ford finally seemed to manifest how undignified his current behavior was; he immediately let go of Mabel and hopped away, attempting to smooth down his clothes.  “Ah-good morning, Dipper.  We-were just-having a small disagreement on proper morning sustenance-”

“Mabel wasn’t lettin’ him have coffee,” Stan translated.

“He’s too young for it!” Mabel retorted.

“Oh for-we are not actual children, Mabel!  In case you’ve forgotten, I am more than forty years your senior!”  Ford looked a little like he was about to stamp his foot.

“Not right now, you’re not!”

“I’m afraid I’m gonna have to side with Mabel on this,” Dipper reluctantly admitted.  Immediately he found himself having to shrink away from his mini-grunkle’s withering glare.  “Considering what you guys were like with the Mabel Juice yesterday, it’s probably not good for you to get high amounts of sugar or caffeine in your systems!”

Ford looked like he was about to snarl out something indignant-but then the truth of Dipper’s words sank in, and he slumped down in reluctant acknowledgment.  Grumbling wordlessly, he stomped to the fridge and yanked out the carton of apple juice that was in the door.

Stan snickered-and then swore when he realized that the batch of scrambled eggs he was making had started burning due to his not paying attention.

“Language!” Ford scolded.

“Sorry.  Guess I’ve spent too long away from kids.”

Mabel blinked.  “Wait.  Since we’re the grownups now, does that mean we can use those words?”

“No!”  Stan hurriedly shuffled the eggs around until he’d gathered the blackened ones into his spatula, allowing him to shake them into the trash.  “I don’t wanna haveta explain ta your mom why you came home with a bad case of sailor mouth!”

“We’re in junior high now, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper reminded him as he sat down, “We already hear all of them several times a day.” “No excuse.”

Dipper was tempted to try figuring out how to make coffee just to see what it tasted like (okay, and maybe to annoy Grunkle Ford a little).  But he decided he wasn’t ready to try experimenting with the process yet, and so he just had juice along with eggs and cereal.

“Where’s Soos?” he asked as the rest of his family sat down.

“They got some early tourists, so he’s showing them around the exhibits while Melody runs the gift shop,” said Mabel.  “And it’s shopping day, so Abuelita’s getting groceries.”

“Hope they weren’t freaked out by all the racket.”

****

Elsewhere in the Shack

Soos nearly jumped out of his skin at the sounds of yelling, which could be heard from all the way on this side of the house, but he rolled with it.

“Whoa, sounds like the Summerween ghosts have started up early this year.”

A small child at the front of the group raised her tiny hand.  “What’s Summerween?”

Soos knelt and put a large hand on her tiny shoulder.  “We have much to discuss.”

****

For a little bit everyone ate in relative silence; finally, though, Dipper cleared his throat.  “Melody suggested we should try wearing some kind of protective gear in case the flowers act up again.”

“I made us all masks!”  Mabel held up four strips of brightly colored cloth with elastic straps at the ends, and their names stitched onto them surrounded by rainbows and flowers and stuff.

“That probably depends on whether it was just ingestion of the pollen that changed us, or if they needed to make contact with us,” Ford mused, rubbing his chin.  “We should probably prepare for both outcomes, just in case.  I think I have what we need in the basement.”

He hopped off his chair-and paused to give himself a slightly annoyed/confused glare at having done so, before shaking his head and making his way out of the kitchen.

When he returned, it was with a large, clunky-looking watch thing strapped to his wrist.

“This generates a small force field system that can completely envelope the flower and prevent the pollen from spreading; it also makes things levitate.”

“Whoa.”  Stan’s eyes grew ridiculously big and shiny.  “Can I use it?”

Ford narrowed his eyes at his brother.  “Are you planning to try and pick pockets with it?”

“...No…”

“Uh-huh.  I think I’ll hold onto it for now.”

“Hmph.  Whatever.”

****

The mini-grunkles were still in their clothes from yesterday, which were kind of filthy, so at Mabel’s insistence they changed into some of Dipper’s spare things.

Stan held up a blue-and-white striped T-shirt, tilting his head quizzically.  “If you got all these clothes, why the heck do you wear the same outfit every day?”

“And when do you take time to wash it?” Ford asked, wrinkling his nose.

Dipper flushed.  “Don’t you guys start!”

“HA!  See, I’m not the only one who thinks your hygiene practices are gross!” Mabel crowed triumphantly.

Dipper shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked out of the attic.

****

Eventually everyone took the time to get dressed before their new expedition.

Mabel had made herself a brand new sweater (purple, with “HOT GRANDMA” written on it in sparkly bright blue letters), and borrowed one of Abuelita’s old dresses to wear under it.  Dipper, meanwhile, had pointedly put his clothes in the wash, and borrowed a pair of Stan’s khaki shorts and a red Hawaiian shirt.

Well, at least I finally have chest hair, he thought as he buttoned up the shirt, examining his torso in the mirror.  At least there was one thing to enjoy about old age.

Unfortunately, it was accompanied by a large quantity of stomach hair...and arm hair...and ear hair...basically a lot more hair than he’d been expecting.

He was only stopped from seeing if shaving some of it off would be more effective than it had been for Stan by the realization that his family was probably waiting for him.

“Took ya long enough,” Stan scolded when he returned to the kitchen.  “C’mon, let’s go already!”

They headed out the door-and immediately ran into Wendy, who had at last showed up for work.

****

Aw, crap.

Dipper realized he had forgotten to text her about what had happened.

“Uh-hey, Wendy.  Believe it or not, it’s us.”

She did a long, slow blink.  Then, raising one eyebrow, she asked, “...Do I want to know?”

“We had an accident with a magic flower,” Mabel explained.  “So now we gotta get another one to figure out how to change us back to normal.”

“Ya wanna come?” Stan asked.

Wendy smiled at him.  “That’d be awesome, Mr. Pines, but I got work.”

Stan’s face contorted into an expression of shock.  “Wait, what?  You’re passing up a chance ta slack off work?!”  He reached up a tiny hand to feel Wendy’s forehead.  “Are you feeling okay?!”

She snorted and shoved him off.  “Soos pays me extra if I stay through a whole shift.  And I’m trying to save up for a car, so I need all the help I can get.”

“...So the secret to keeping you from slacking off was to pay you more?”  Stan pondered this for a bit...and then shook his head.  “Nah, it’s not worth it.”

Wendy laughed and punched his shoulder.  “Later, dorks.”  She started to walk past, before spinning around on one heel.  “Oh, Dipper-loving the new hair.  Gives you a kinda silver fox look.”

...Despite himself, Dipper couldn’t help blushing and grinning as he ran a hand through his hair.  And then he sighed as he ignored a smirking Mabel and headed to the car, ready to share joint custody of the driver’s seat with Stan again.

The fact that Wendy only ever saw him as attractive when he was way older than her was probably a sign that he’d made the right choice in stopping pining over her.

Heh heh...pining.

Because he was a Pines.

...Oh crap, now he was starting to think dad jokes were funny.

We gotta get changed back soon.

********

...Sorry, Wendip fans, but I just don't see it happening.

It's not even the age difference, so much as that personality-wise, she strikes me as just staying a "cool big sis" figure to both him and Mabel.

(Also I'm kind of biased towards Dipcif-)

Nothing, you didn't see that.

Moving on.

[nautiscarader]

Wendip Week day 3: We got each other now

(Ao3)

Tyrone Pines is an ongoing character in my older!Wendip stories, and he’s from @elentori-art‘s drawing.

- Well, we have each other now, son.

Saying this with a somber tone, Dipper put his arm around his son's shoulder, bringing him closer. He knew he wasn't gonna cry, he was far, far braver than he looked like. But still, something has been rising up in his chest, and the boy looked up at his father, looking for some wisdom in this difficult time.

- You know that means, right? - Yeah.

And suddenly, their sad faces wer filled with wide smiles as they exclaimed at the same time.

- We've got house to ourselves! Woo-hoo!

The two high-fived each other before Dipper prompted his son to turn around.

- Come on, wave mom goodbye one more time. - Bye, mommy!

The SUV honked again, before it disappeared behind the row of trees that hid Wendy and Dipper's house from the road.

- Don't forget to tell her that her hair looks nice after she comes back. - Dipper spoke to is son. - Why? - Well... I think women like when you mention that if they change the hair style. - Dipper pondered for a moment - I don't remember Wendy ever changing hers, though, but I always say it when she comes back from Mabel's day off at the spa anyway. - So, what should we do now? - Tyrone asked his father. - Well, let's think... What would mom not let us do if she was there?

The two men stood in place for a good minute, both scratching their chins in a near-identical, mirrored way. The truth was, Wendy wasn't a particularly strict mother, and living in woods of Gravity Falls meant Tyrone was both taught to follow rules, as well as to know when to break them.

At some point, Dipper shrugged.

- Okay, let's think what Wendy would not let us do if she wasn't letting us do stuff anyway... - Eat ice cream for breakfast! - Tyrone replied at once. - Good idea, champ.

A moment later, the two stormed for the kitchen, pushing themselves on the way, and it was Dipper who got to the freezer first. He took the large box, turned around and proudly opened it to his son's widening eyes.

- Oh, fudge! - Hey, language, son   - No, it is fudge!

Dipper looked at the box he took out.

- Oh, fudge, you're right! - Better take some strawberry-filled waffles with it. - Good idea.

Dipper took his son into his arms and let him take the package of waffles from one of the upper shelves.

- Think about that, Tyrone, we've got a whole day to ourselves! We can do whatever we want. So, what do you want to do first?

His son pondered a while, and at the same time as Dipper, their faces curled into a wide grin.

"The history of tortoise polo is a long and rich one, dating back to 1845, when sir Roderick Pflummington The Fourth rode his tortoise Bobby in a military parade in front of the King, and had to dodge a kettle the Queen herself threw at him after the third hour, displaying lack of amusement..."

The monotone, drowsy voice of Bert Kurns narrating his miniseries slowly put the two men into a state of slumber, as they stared at the TV in their living room, consuming spoon after spoon of the fudge ice-cream. It was already 4 P.M.

- You've got to give it to him, he can make boring things interesting. - Yeah, I think so. - Dipper mumbled.

He flailed his hand, trying to take another scoop of the dessert, but found himself whacking on a plastic, no matter the angle. Gathering the strength, he turned to the side, and found the box near-empty.

- Well, ice cream is gone. - What? No, I only have half the stomach ache! - Tyrone protested. - Hang on, I think we have more in the freezer in the basement. - Right next to bear repellent and portable internet? - Tyrone asked. - That's right. Gotta be prepared for apocalypse, like mom says.

The two looked at each other, and at the same time, they launched their fist s at each other. Dipper's was rock, Tyrone chose scissors.

- Aww, man. - Tyrone groaned and reluctantly got up from the sofa to go downstairs.

The basement of their house was quite spacious, and the act of venturing underground always gave little Tyrone a bit of a thrill he could experience in their home. It was naturally cooler, just enough dark to make a few hairs on his neck to stand up, but it was still cozy enough to make him feel safe. Of course aside the pantry he was trying to reach, the most important part was the vault.

It was the only part of the basement that stood out, thanks to steel, clean, almost alien-looking, black door, heavily guarded by both magic and technology. He knew his parents kept treasures there, though he only was allowed a peek or two in his whole life, and he always wondered if it was possible to somehow outsmart his parents and get inside.

Tyrone walked to the spare fridge, opened the freezer and, much to his delight, found not one, but five spare packages of fudge ice cream. He grabbed two, and was about to rush upstairs, when he felt a sudden gust of chilly wind on his back. Thinking the door to the fridge opened again, he turned around, but as he did so, a new image made him open his eyes wide, and drop the packages of ice cream to the floor.

- Dad! Come quickly!

The voice of his son alerted Dipper at once, and much faster than he thought he'd be able to, he sprinted downstairs, fearing the worst.

What he saw wasn't the worst, but it was quite high on the scale.

In the wall opposite the backups, there was a hole, not a neatly cut one, but evidently torn by some animal, as splinters of wooden planks lie everywhere underneath it, and only the partial darkness obscured the mess. Dipper grabbed his son and pushed him gently aside.

- Careful, we don't know what's inside. Go upstairs, I'm gonna call Ford and Stan, we gotta see what caused the damage. And Wendy too, she should know. - Can't I help? - No, Tyrone, and beside, if it can rip through concrete and wood, I don't think you are safe here. - But Dad... - Do as I say, Tyrone.

The boy ran to the stairs, and he was half-way up, when he realised he should be hearing his father making the call. He turned around, cautiously walked back, and saw the basement empty, and his father nowhere in sight.

- Dad?

Swallowing loudly, Tyrone walked into the tunnel, making sure not to cut himself on the sharp, broken planks, and took out his phone to shine the light on the walls. The tunnel went down, and it was getting wider, though that didn't exactly make his journey down easier. Whatever creature lived there, didn't require rails or handles to secure itself while crawling.

There was however, a sound. A terrifying, paralysing sound of scratching and clicking that simultaneously made Tyrone freeze in place and push himself to go further.

His father was there, and he had to do something.

He realised he didn't need his phone anymore to shine light; the walls were covered with glowing mushrooms and purple crystals, emitting eerie, cold light. And then, amongst the unnatural noises, he heard something worse. His father's gurgled voice.

- Get... off... me...!

If he ever had any hesitation, it was gone once and for all. Tyrone peeked out of the corner and saw a monstrous, lobster-like creature with several, elephantine tentacles or trunks, holding his father. The dark, pupil-less eyes stared at him, with evidently one intention.

The next moment, the cavern was filled with a scream, but not of the monster, nor Dipper, who found it more and more difficult to breathe, but a new one.

- FUDGE YOU!

The creature turned its head towards the intruder, only to have his vision blocked by something gooey, cold, and rather tasty. The monster dropped Dipper to the ground, and it took him a while to get up, horrified by the sight of his son crawling further down.

- Ty...Tyrone!

Dipper desperately moved his arms and legs to climb up, but more importantly to push his son to the exit first.  

- I got you, dad!

He reached his hand and with more than few problems pulled his father up, just in time for another loud noise to fill the cave.

- Run!

Dipper grabbed Tyrone and rushed to the exit, hoping he would be able to give his son more time to escape. The light of their basement was already on the horizon, getting closer with each second, but so was the noise of the pincers and claws behind them. Heart beat faster and faster, and only when Dipper and Tyrone crossed the boundary between the tunnel and their house Tyrone and Dipper allowed themselves a breather.

But the very next moment a loud crash behind them reminded them of the monster, who evidently couldn't get through the wall the first time, but found enough strength to do so now. Tyrone shrieked, but his vision was obscured by his father shielding him from the tentacles.

- Close your eyes!

Tyrone followed his father's command, and he did so, knowing what was gonna happen. Last thing he saw was his dad grabbing the bear repellent and aiming the nozzle straight at the monster's eyes. The basement was once again filled with its shriek, and Tyrone knew his father has done it.

And then, Tyrone felt something dripping on his face.

A single drop fell to his lips, and he realised he was tasting blood.

He opened his eyes, just in time to see his father fall to the floor beside him, and Tyrone quickly grabbed him to see if he was hurt, though he mentally tried to not notice the tentacle around his shoulder. But as he examined him, Tyrone realised it was the monster's appendage that was bleeding, an odd, violet thick substance, exactly where it has been cut.

- Get out, you oversized shrimp! You belong to the hors d'oeuvre table!

A familiar, loud voice brought a wide smile to Tyrone's face, when he saw his mother swinging a huge shining axe back and forth, chopping one appendage at a time, much to the creature's distress. But Wendy didn't want to harm the animal, she wanted to kill it once and for all. With a final swing, she bashed the creature's head, splitting it in half and covering herself with the same stinking, thick substance that was dripping from the floor.

Only when the lifeless body of the creature slid down the cave, Wendy allowed herself to turn back.

- Tyrone! Dip!

She dropped her axe and rushed to her family, and brought them into a tight hug. Tears flew down her cheeks, mixing with the odd substance that covered her, her husband and their son.

- Are you guys okay? - Ca-Careful, I-I might have a rib or two broken... - Dipper wheezed, and his eyes bulged when he felt Wendy's arms around him. - Oh, sorry, honey! We're gonna rush to the hospital soon. - Uhm...

Tyrone opened his mouth.

- Your hair look... uh, nice, mom?

With most of her strands dishevelled and soaked in the monster's blood, that was a blatant lie, but it didn't stop Wendy from bursting into a deep laughter while tears of happiness continued to trickle down her face. Even Dipper managed to let out a chuckle, though his tears were a bit more of pain.

"And thus, we conclude our 75-part miniseries about tortoise polo, its origins, and intense and violent history that continues till present day. In the next series, we will dive into the history of manatee surfing, a fascinating sport that originated in ancient Mesopotamia..."

Five hours later, three boxes of fudge ice cream lay open, one for each member of the Pines family. Dipper was worried the extra calories might rip the bandages he had around his torso off, but he also felt that each spoon improved his health significantly. For Wendy, no amount of sweets would produce a better taste than the one of safety, as she looked at the two men most dear to her life.

From time to time, she ruffled her son's hair, sneaking kisses on his forehead, much to his simultaneous delight and protest.  

- Mo-om! - Shush, Tyrone. If you were to rescue your kid, you'd be giving them kisses all the time, just to make sure they're fine. - And me?

Dipper puckered his lips, but received only another portion of ice cream to his lips.

- You're getting nothing for going after that thing alone. - Hey, I told you! - Dipper protested - I tried to call Ford, Stand and you, but that thing got me first. I would never go into a dark tunnel alone.

He turned to his son.

- I said, I'd never go into a horrible, dark, monster-infested tunnel alone! - And if I didn't, you'd be its dinner. - Tyrone blew him a raspberry.

He yawned and cuddled up to sleep between his parents who quickly placed a blanket over him. A moment later, first snore filled the living room, when Tyrone fell asleep, tired after the day full of fudge and mortal peril.

- We trained our kid well. - Wendy cooed. - I agree. And sorry for ruining your day at spa with Mabel. - What? - Wendy looked up, confused - Oh, nah, that's alright. You guys are more important.

She leaned over their son and kissed Dipper, tasting the sweet, chocolate-y flavour on his lips.

- And don't worry, Dipper, I'll make sure to be very careful tonight.

Her voice suddenly turned into a low and smoky one, and even if Wendy didn't drag her finger gently across the bandaged side of his chest, Dipper's skin would be full of goosebumps.

- My combatant deserves it.

She then took her phone and replied Mabel the message that she meant to send five hours ago: that next time they play paint-ball, they will have to remove Waddles from her team, because he's too good.

[statusquoergo]

And we’re back! Everyone will definitely be bringing their A-game after that nice little hiatus, yeah? This episode is going to hit it out of the park for sure.

Well, maybe.

The sexism and misogyny really hit the ground running as Harvey, preparing to accompany Samantha to Pittsburgh to meet her biological father, ambles into the living room to ask Donna if she’s “sure [she’s] okay with [him] going on this trip” because “not a lot of women would want their men doing this.” Fortunately Donna is “not a lot of women,” so Harvey has permission to go hang out with other girls, and without supervision, even! What a lucky guy. Not only that, but Donna points out that while any of them would willingly accompany Samantha, Harvey is uniquely qualified to understand what she’s going through because of his long-term estrangement from his mother, which, I mean, yeah, I guess so. Except then she says she loves him and he replies “Thanks,” which is a huge waste of a perfect opportunity to say “I know,” and then, for the first time this season, he says “I love you too,” smothered under an obnoxious cough into his fist, because he’s a mature adult who’s in touch with his emotions but he’s not too mature and he’s not a girl or anything.

Back at lawyerly headquarters, Louis takes advantage of Harvey’s two-day absence by sitting in his desk chair and contemplating listening to his records, gushing that he “can finally be Harvey Specter, and no one will ever know.” Yeah, there’s definitely no way anyone who works at this firm knows that’s Harvey’s office and might walk by and ask what he’s doing in there, of course not. He then sets off the comedic half of the episode by answering Harvey's phone and sort-of-but-also-not-really-accidentally setting up a meeting with “the Ted Tucker,” who wants a meeting with Harvey and he wants it today. Fortunately for Louis, Tucker has never actually met Harvey, and…you know where this is going.

Harvey pulls up to Samantha’s place in a vintage Ford Mustang (I want to say it’s a 1967) that stirs up some Feelings for her; he offers to take it back to the car club and exchange it, but she says it’s fine because she just wants to get on the road, and here comes the sentimental half: Twenty-five years ago, twelve-year old Samantha was…in a group home? With one other kid? Unclear, but the important part is that she lived in a house with some kid named Adam and their abusive father…figure, Ron. One day Adam and Samantha accidentally broke the tail light on Ron’s brand new car, a Mustang identical to the one Harvey’s driving; Samantha took the blame even though Adam threw the ball that broke the light, and Ron beat her for it, so. Feelings.

Louis shows up at Donna’s office in a truly horrifying wig (he calls it his “Harvey wig,” if you’d like to conjure up that mental image; yeah, kind of, but more chestnut-colored) for some information that’ll let him demonstrate to Tucker that signing him would be a conflict of interest, and to her credit, Donna begs him to take the wig off, but when Louis explains that he just wants to feel like Harvey for one lunch, she agrees to help him even though it’s “a really bad idea.” I’m gonna give her partial credit on this one; good intentions, poor execution.

Except then we actually get to see Louis at the lunch and dear lord, Donna, how could you let this happen? Someone on the writing staff (Korsh) is definitely indulging in one hell of a narcissistic fantasy by way of Louis, who, doing a pretty decent imitation of Harvey’s walk, waltzes into some high-end club or resort or something, passing through an endless gauntlet of waiters and attendants who each usher him toward the inner sanctum with a Stepford smile and a solicitous “Mr. Specter,” until he ends up at a table with Tucker, who informs him that the reason they’re surrounded by a ridiculous number of trays of food is, get this: “Well, I didn’t know what you liked, so I just ordered the entire menu.”

This fucking show, I swear.

Things only go downhill from there (from my perspective, not Louis’s) as Louis boisterously recounts a number of stories from Harvey’s life, including “Life is like this, I like this,” and that time Harvey brought Rachel to pick Mike up from prison in a limo. Tucker grinds the festivities to a screeching halt when he asks if Harvey knew Mike Ross was a fraud when he hired him, but fortunately for Louis, A Few Good Men is Tucker’s favorite movie, so screaming “You can’t handle the truth!” in his face is enough to make everyone forget about that silly question and get right back to their sinful indulgences. These people all have such integrity, it’s amazing.

Turns out a traumatic childhood isn’t Samantha’s only connection to the Mustang; Eric Kaldor also used to drive one, which skeeves Harvey out until Samantha assures him that when Harvey drives it, he does “make it look cool.” This dynamic is weirding me out so much; a week ago, she fucks over Mike Ross, Harvey furiously declares that he doesn’t trust people who lie to his face, Faye (justifiably) fires her, and then suddenly, with zero transition, it’s all hands on deck to get her back at the firm, and now on top of that, Harvey's her biggest cheerleader and also road trip buddy? That whole “I don’t trust you anymore,” was that just a hissy fit or what? I don’t… I don’t know what to do with this, I don’t like it.

Oh, wait, more flashbacks: Samantha and Adam steal Ron’s car to drive off in the middle of the night. Samantha, evidently recounting this story to Harvey, explains that they were pulled over on account of the broken tail light, but she assures him that “it could’ve been worse,” being that she ended up with a new family and neither of them had to go back to their abuser, and also she doesn’t know whatever happened to Adam so I guess he might show up sometime in the next three episodes maybe. I really wish I cared more.

That sounds mean, but hear me out a minute: Samantha was introduced in the beginning of Season 8. In fact, “The Greater Good” (s08e13) gives her her very own expository sub-plot courtesy of Judy O’Brien, through whom we learn…very little about Samantha’s experience in foster care, except who Judy is and what Samantha’s relationship is to her, which doesn’t matter at all because it never comes up again. (Well, it will in a bit, but not in any really important way.) It’s basically a waste of an opportunity to tell us things about Samantha that we don’t already know because all it does is build incrementally on things that we do, but in ways that are irrelevant. All the rest of the hints the show drops throughout the season about her backstory are shadowy and vague and mainly serve to establish her as an enigmatic figure whose mysterious past I guess I’m supposed to be dying to learn about, except that right from the start, “Right-Hand Man” (s08e01) establishes that she lies about her past to suit her own interests, so from the very beginning, I’m inherently suspicious of everything she says about herself, which makes it really hard to empathize with her.

The problem with the way her past is revealed is that it’s not really a running subplot, or a continuous arc; little hints and features are dropped here and there, but only insofar as they relate to a given episode’s broader narrative (i.e., she was a Marine, which is only relevant in “Special Master” [s09e02] for that odious misrepresentation of PTSD), which makes it feel like they’re invented on the spot because hey, we don’t really know much about her, who’s to say this or that didn’t happen? If you pay close attention, you might be able to collect enough clues to piece together a complete story, but with everything else that’s going on in this show, I gotta say, I really can’t be bothered. Especially when I have no idea how much of that story is even true.

Right, so, remember how Samantha knows that Kaldor has a Mustang? Well we seem to have graduated real quick from twelve-year old flashback Samantha to twenty-seven year old flashback Samantha, who reveals that while working a case together, she and Kaldor became…involved.

Ew.

Oh but wait. Out of absolutely fucking nowhere, present day Samantha decides “it’s time [she and Harvey] talk about the elephant in the room.” Not “[her] getting fired because of [him]” (she didn’t, she got fired for fabricating evidence), but “why [she] fabricated that evidence in the first place.” Harvey points out the obvious, that he already knows she did it because she hates to lose, and she asks, if he knows that, why he got so mad at her for doing it. (Oh I don’t know, maybe because she fabricated evidence.) Answer? “Because [he] told Mike [they] wouldn’t cross any lines.” And even though their client wasn’t technically doing anything illegal, “Mike’s always on [him] about doing the right thing, and now he’s out there walking the walk, and the least [Harvey owes] him is to think about right and wrong once in awhile.” (Uh, yeah, did he miss the part in “Promises, Promises” [s08e03] where he got their landlord to pay the maintenance staff a fair wage because he felt bad for the facilities manager? And I quote: “David, all I’m asking is do the right thing.”)

Oh but then.

“You really admire him, don’t you?” “I don’t just admire him, Samantha. He went to prison for me. Talk about someone who’s got your back.”

Okay. So… Okay. Yes, that is a thing that happened. It was a very big deal. Mike and Harvey spent six whole episodes fighting over which of them was going to be the one to take the fall. Except then Season 7 happened, and Mike spent sixteen episodes becoming increasingly distant from and combative with Harvey, culminating in that disastrous farewell at the wedding that Mike didn’t even invite him to. And then “If the Shoe Fits” (s09e05) happened, wherein Mike literally started off the case by promising Harvey not to do anything that could result in either of them being disbarred and finished it by doing exactly that, wrapping up his visit by condemning Harvey for having lost himself because yes, of course, Harvey’s the one who was being a dick that whole time.

Yet apparently, even after all that, Harvey still thinks Mike walks on water. I guess that does kind of help explain his behavior and the exceedingly weird dialogue the last time Mike showed up; Harvey’s got a little hero worship going on, or at the very least, he still has an enormous blind spot where Mike is concerned. On the plus side, there’s my quota of evidence for the episode that Harvey needs to go to therapy like, yesterday.

And about that whole evidence fabrication thing, props to Samantha for admitting that if “[she] could go back and do it all over again, [she] wouldn’t.” Donna could learn a thing or two from her.

Speaking of Donna, Louis hurries in to tell her that his lunch with Tucker was “the greatest lunch of [his] life,” all “because [he’s] Harvey Specter.” But things hit a little snag when he tried to demonstrate that SLWW would have a conflict of interest representing Tucker as well as some company called Reed Communications, because Tucker waived the conflict by buying Reed Communications on the spot, and that’s not even Louis’s only problem because Reed Communications’ in-house counsel is, dun dun dun! Harold Gunderson! Who wants to set up a meeting with Harvey, who knows nothing about any of this. Louis determines that since thinking like Louis got him into this mess, thinking like Harvey is going to get him out of it, and I’m confused, wasn’t the whole point of all this for him to be Harvey? Who’s he been thinking like all day? Way to commit to the role, man, no wonder you’re not an actor.

Filler time: Ten-years-ago Samantha and Kaldor have been together for six months and it’s been “one of the best six months of [his] entire life.” (Seems to me like a weird unit to increment his life by, but hey, man, whatever floats your boat.) In the present day, Harvey suggests stopping for burgers, but Samantha wants to get to their destination before dark, so he’ll settle for some M&M’s at the gas station. Equivalent exchange for the win.

Part II

[abby-studies-art]

Hello everyone!

As promised before, I will be posting an exhibition review below for the Montreal Museum of Fine Art’s Exhibition “Once Upon a Time… The Western”. This is a part of my final exam, however before you are thrown headfirst into the art world, I thought I would talk about what an exhibition review is and how to conduct one as an artist.

An exhibition review is much like a movie review, and as an artist or art student, you will right several over the course of your academic career. They discuss the themes and motives of the exhibition and the artworks featured, as well as the use of space and curation technique: what is the art like? How is it displayed?

Before you go:

Pick an exhibition, in most cases for your courses you will be required to pick one you can attend in real life, and I personally prefer those. If you are going to discuss a space, you should be able to go stand in it for best results.

Read some other exhibition reviews! The best part of an exhibition review is that it is about your feelings and your experience of the gallery, and shows through in other writings. You can also get a good sense of what kinds of things to talk about although I will try to help you there.

BRING A NOTEBOOK AND PENCIL! Seriously. You will not remember everything you need if you don’t write it down, and most galleries won't allow you to use pens near the art, to prevent potential vandalism.

With that being said…… WRITE THINGS DOWN! If you like a piece, or the way it’s displayed, or something about the gallery, make note of that! Your reactions, your thoughts, those are important things to have when you want to begin writing. You should also feel free (unless the museum or gallery forbids it) to take pictures of the works that particularly stick out to you, as well as the artist's description. You can also take pictures of the gallery space to help you remember what you saw, or if you are a drawing person, you can make sketches of the space and the works.

While you are there:

If the gallery has a guidebook or a pamphlet for the exhibition, take one! It will be a good reference for later and may provide information like the featured artist list and the names of the curators.

READ THE EXHIBITION DESCRIPTION. This will describe the goal or theme of the exhibition in the curator’s own words, and it is often up on the wall.

Take your time. Try to take in the exhibition as a whole. As you walk through the space, ask yourself some questions: what does the gallery space make you feel or remind you of? Can you relate it to the theme of the exhibition? How does the artwork shown relate to the theme? Is there any art that you don’t feel fits the theme? Would you arrange it differently? Who is making the art, does it all come from one group? Write down your answers because that is basically an exhibition review.

After your visit, while writing:

Talk to other visitors! Especially if you went with a class or a group for a school assignment. This will help you understand your own ideas, and hear what others thought. They may have different perspectives that you can use to inform your own writing, even if you do not agree.

Read exhibition reviews written by others! If you don't have access to other gallery visitors, then the internet can be a great resource, as many writers will post there. There are many art journals that operate online and they are worth checking out, I promise.

Visit the Museum website! There may be a full list of works shown for the whole show which can help refresh your memory.

While writing: don't be afraid to be honest! I have written many reviews about exhibitions I enjoyed, and I have written just as many about ones I did not. Share your opinion, but be sure to tell people why: if you didn't like the art, why? If you loved the use of space, why?

Language When Writing

We have arrived at the other aspect of the project, which involves confronting some frustrating situations and circumstances. If you are writing this for submission to a university, you will be required to write using some pretty stuffy and inaccessible language. This kind of “Formal” writing will often be required for a good grade.

However, this kind of voice used in academics can leave a lot of people out of the conversation. And in my opinion, art should not be exclusive, because are is universal. Everyone needs to be welcome in the conversation.

Because of this, I have written the following exhibition review using much more common language, in the interest of including everyone who comes across it on the internet. Hopefully, that will also make it easier for you to see how the writing is structured and give you some ideas on how to write this kind of review.

And if you have a thought or comment or if you have seen this show as well and want to talk about it, instead of sending me an ask, leave a comment! If someone has left a comment or question below and you feel like you have something to add or the answer, please feel free to respond! My goal is to foster discussion that welcomes everyone.

With that in mind, please be respectful of others and their opinions. You are allowed to disagree, but please keep it civil. Violence or inappropriate comments will be reported and blocked because this is meant as a positive platform for discussion.

The exhibition review is under the cut! Thank you so much for reading!

The exhibition, “Once Upon a Time… The Western” calls itself an “in-depth, interdisciplinary look at western genres”. It boasts multimedia displays, complex discussions of history, and a massive exhibition space made up of a maze of rooms and hallways. They use this space to discuss the romantic stereotypes that developed in the artistic representations of the west, and they’re  continued effect today. The show is co-curated by Mary-Dailey Desmarais and Thomas Brent Smith, curator of modern art at the MMFA and Director of the Petrie Institute for Western American Art respectively.

The massive space is split up into a maze-like array of rooms, but it not hard to navigate. Each one has one entrance and one exit, meaning that even if you didn’t spend $7.00 on the audio guide, your tour of the exhibition will still have some structure. They move through chronologically, organized very carefully into parts, so it really is quite easy to guide yourself through and gain a good understanding of the themes the exhibition aims to discuss.

The first few rooms, following the Hollywood thread, are organized into “The Set” which discusses the landscape of the west, which served to inspire the artists, “The Cast” which covers the tropes and stereotypes of the mounties, cowboys, vagrants and native americans that would all be manipulated and romanticized, “ The Real Characters” which serves to showcase the real-life celebrities of the west, like Buffalo Bill and Billy the Kid, and “The Drama” discussing the so called “common” events that litter the plotlines of the hollywood western: kidnapping, train hijacking, robbery, battles, and runaway stage couches. While the first rooms do well to represent different media and art styles, they also address both side of the western story: that of the fictionalized settlers, and that of the displaced and abused indigenous people.

On the settler side of things, the first few rooms discuss the power of art, especially photography and painting. Both of these mediums presented a visual for the settlers arriving on the continent and greatly contributed to inspiring the writers and directors of Hollywood. One of these paintings, Thomas Moran’s The Mirage (1879, oil on canvas), is a perfect example of this amazing scenery: sweeping valleys and towering mountains dwarf the riding party that cross the scene near the bottom of the canvas. This goes on into an exploration of the heroes and antiheroes that shone on screen, in front of these backdrops. The Cowboys, vagrants, mounties, sheriffs, some of whom are based on real outlaws, going about their lives thwarting the kidnappings, preventing (and orchestrating) bank robberies, getting into bar fights, and living free in the open air, as shown in Charles Marion Russell’s Free Trapper (1911, oil on canvas).

The story told of the roles of the indigenous people is much more traumatic and horrifying to consider. Pushed out of their homes and lands for the sake of white colonial settlers, and massacred when they resisted, the remaining indigenous people were then further mistreated in art and film. The men became villains: holding up trains and threatening passenger, kidnapping and holding hostage “innocent” settlers, and stealing women from their husbands, as shown in The Captive by Eanger Irving Course (1891, oil on canvas). The indigenous women were romanticised and sexualized and abused. This villainization and sexualization would continue up to the present day.

The “Drama” room is also the beginning of the second and third themes of the exhibition: the different varieties of westerns in Hollywood, and the effect of various world events on the genre, and modern indigenous responses to the representations of their ancestors, and the lasting impression those representations left on North America. The “Drama” room gives way to a series of smaller rooms, which discuss two major directors (complete with dramatic, shadow lettered names) John Ford and Sergio Leon. Ford was a famed director, and his 140 films were inspired directly by the 19th-century painters explored in the first few rooms. His film, Stagecoach (1939, film),  Leon came after the second world war, participating in the more international sect of western films, including the “Spaghetti Western” Sergio Leon's films came at the end of the western genre as it had been known up until that point, and his characters were tropes of themselves. Their exhibition rooms include movie release posters, massive timelines detailing their filmographies, and on the right sides of both, a screening of clips from their films for visitors to sample.

Separating the two men’s rooms is a room that discusses the effect of the end of the second world war had on the western genre. Heros became anti-heroes; brooding and outlaws, living isolated on the fringe of society. This isolation was meant to relate to the men who were returning home from the war, who themselves also felt isolated, and of course the constant threat of an atomic bomb.

Moving from these viewing rooms, we approach one of the final rooms of the exhibition. This room talks about the next age of the western after the post-war western: the western genre’s interaction with the counterculture of the 1960’s in response to the Vietnam war. The cowboy character was played with especially, in their gender and sexuality. Andy Warhol’s film, Lonesome Cowboys (1968, film), played with this heavily in order to dramatize homosexuality in Hollywood. And finally, the indigenous were shown as the victims of a violent colonial attack, much like the citizens of Vietnam were casualties of the war.

The other end of this next-to-last room, and continued into the last room, we see modern era indigenous artists responding to these representations of their ancestors. Here the multimedia aspect of the art truly shines, especially in Llyn Foulkes’ the Last Outpost (1983, mixed media) and a number of other indigenous artists, including Wendy Red Star and Gail Trembloy.

The very last room lead into a sort of entrance to the gift shop, which I referred to as the “bonus room”. It had a few seats and was showing clips of modern westerns, including Django: Unchained (Quentin Tarantino, film, 2012) and True Grit (Ethan and John Coen, film, 2010). I felt as though more could have been done with this room, as the clips were hard to follow if you were not familiar with the films (I was not) and so it was hard to relate what were shown on screen to the rest of the exhibition. This room did lead into the gift shop, which had a few large cabinets of indigenous art for sale, providing visitors with the opportunity to support real indigenous artists. Among the handmade works was a few true treasures: a cast of Miss Chief’s praying hands by Kenneth Monkland, edition two of only ten made.

Overall, the exhibition met the expectations it set at the entrance. The decision to lay everything out chronologically made it seem much more like a story and recalled the films that it was aimed at critiquing. Some of the lighting was dark in some of the rooms, especially those with projections of films, which made it harder to read the information in some cases, but this was a minor issue that did not greatly affect the impact of the works being shown.

The show also aimed to explore the mistreatment of indigenous people during colonization and continuing today. While I was glad to see this aspect of the western explored at all and I was encouraged to see modern indigenous artists benefiting from the exhibition and sale of works, it should be noted that as someone who benefits from colonialism, I cannot accurately form an opinion on the representation in the exhibition.

The exhibition will be showing until the fourth of February in 2018 and is worth visiting for its interesting and depth look at the western genre and all its implications.

[gibelwho]

Marathon #2: Horror

With the successful wrap of the Western Marathon, it is time to turn our attention to the Horror Marathon - and boy, am I nervous about it! I am not a huge Horror fan and tend to avoid these films whenever possible - but that time is over as I dive into Filmspotting’s next marathon, focusing on the Horror genre. I started off this journey through the safest possible route - reading “The Horror Film: An Introduction” by Rick Worland - an academic text of the genre’s history that also traces the societal context that was reflected in and also shaped by the genre. In this introduction, I will touch on the basics of the genre, summarize the history, explore my own experiences with Horror films, and lay out the list of films we will be watching. Here I go - holding my breath in suspense, closing my eyes in terror, and tiptoeing towards the Horror!

To start at the beginning - what defines a Horror film? At the basic core, a Horror film is intended to provoke an emotional response from the viewer - to shock, disgust, scare, and (in the truest essence of the word) to horrify. This is accomplished through the mise-en-scene of the film - the settings, iconography, and also the themes. A vital component of this package is the villain of the piece - the Monster! Whether a grotesque figure featuring heavy makeup or a regular human maniac, the monster is a violation of regular society and true nature; they must be fearsome and repellent, attacking the normal life of the heroes and seeking to destroy their victims (and oftentimes the domesticity surrounding those protagonists). Early in Horror history, pulling from Gothic trappings, the settings were often sites where monsters would credibly dwell - a decaying haunted house where ghosts still reside, a scientist’s lab where experiments go wrong, or creepy cemeteries where the dead rise to pursue the living. Later on, the settings expanded into “normal society” locations - a small-time hotel, the suburban house, or other teenage hangout spots. The iconography that goes along with these settings are hallmarks of nightmares - the overwhelming shadows, an offscreen terror that is creeping closer, the victims intense scream or look of dread. The early era of Horror featured monsters that were external threats to society and the institutions (church, police, state) were all helpful to the protagonists, who were characters worthy of saving. Once the turbulent 1960s gripped the United States and Hollywood as a business and artistic center began to change, the Horror genre transformed as well - the monster could now come from society itself, plots referenced the decay and breakup of the American family, and an overall questioning of normality and tradition was commonplace. Finally, the genre began to direct its films toward a teenage audience, especially attempting to entice potential youthful ticketgoers with stories centered around sex and violence. In contemporary times, the latest development in the genre revolves around how special effects can escalate the production of gore and the enhancement of the grotesque to even higher levels of mayhem. 

Horror films have their roots in Gothic literature and were first popularized in Germany in the 1920s, when the German Expressionism style gained momentum. Films such as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Nosferatu (1922) established much of the iconography and early themes for the genre. Many of the film directors and artists left Germany, lured by the opportunity to influence Hollywood and it’s take on the genre. Universal in particular specialized in Horror films - an early cycle during the 1920s with films like The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923) and The Phantom of the Opera (1925), both featuring the first Horror star Lon Chaney. Universal’s second Horror cycle took place in the 1930s, utilizing the talents of Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff; classic films like Dracula (1931) with Lugosi and Frankenstein (1931) and The Mummy (1932) with Karloff were significant milestones cementing the legitimacy of the genre in popular culture. The genre was less prominent during the WWII years and was overshadowed by Science Fiction during the 1950s (although Roger Corman and Vincent Price both got their start during this time making low-budget teen exploitation Horror films), but made a sharp comeback in the 1960s and into the chaotic Vietnam War era in America. 

Many scholars point to the Alfred Hitchcock film Psycho (1960) as the titular movie in the Horror genre’s shifting viewpoints about the larger society. As noted above, pre-1960s Horror films ended with the destruction of the monster, which brings a sense of closure to the unnatural element it had inflicted upon the characters and society. Once Psycho had established that the villain could be a madman that emerges from society itself and, combined with the turbulent Vietnam and Cold War eras, the institutions once worth preserving were now suspect and even working against the protagonists of Horror films. These themes became even more exaggerated in the 1970s and the rise of the slasher/stalker films (which will be the focus of this Horror Marathon). Filmmakers that grew up as fans of the previous generation of Horror films (and the fan magazines that sprung up in popular culture as well) began making their own versions of the genre in the 1980s and 90s; Steven Spielberg, Brian De Palma, John Carpenter, George Romero, Francis Ford Coppola, Terry Gilliam, and M. Night Shyamalan working with major studios all took their turn at directing Horror films, partnering with makeup artists and special effects masters to heighten the terror. Independent studios also took on the low-budget Horror flick, aimed at the teenage audience, with films like Evil Dead (1981), Scream (1996), and I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997). As the Horror genre entered into the new millennium, the films took on a postmodernist trend - showing awareness of the genre’s history, tropes, and plot conventions - and sometimes even commenting on it for additional screams or for comedic laughs. While the genre has evolved, its core tenant of scaring the bejeezus out of the audience has never strayed from its mission.

Personally, I actively avoid Horror films, whether screening in the theater or watching at home. I have seen exactly zero of these films included in the Marathon and would never have actually pursued them without taking on this challenge. I spent some time reflecting on why I have an aversion to the genre and it comes down to not wanting to actively subject myself to the feeling of fear, which is literally the base intent of Horror. Images of gore (which I usually glimpse through the slits of my fingers covering my eyes) aren’t as terrible for me as the atmospheric suspense; the former I can tell myself is not real and just movie magic - but the monster stalking the woman in the dark or the slow creaking of a door opening or the anticipation of an attack in a rain-soaked alley - these all could be real events!

Over my life, I have watched a few Horror films that have stayed with me. My most vivid memory is watching The Ring (2002) in high school. I went with a group of friends and drove a few of them home. To get back to my house, there was a backroads way that went through wetlands with limited streetlights - so after an extremely suspenseful and scary movie, I drove home through a dark and winding road that was just PERFECT for something creepy to attack me. Thank goodness I made it home ok! Another Horror film that I watched during high school had the opposite of the intended effect - I went to a party where The Exorcist (1973) was screened; chatting with friends, half paying attention to the film, and not truly connecting to the material meant that when the famous head spinning scene happened - laughter rang out amongst all my friends. An entirely different atmosphere surrounded my screening of The Shining (1980) - I was living alone, watching it late at night, and had to pause the movie halfway through and call my Mom to distract me from the growing dread in the pit of my stomach. And my final notable Horror viewing experience was when I began this blog; I watched Nosferatu (1922), one of the original Horror movies filmed in the German Expressionism style. This film was less terrifying and more atmospheric - and I certainly appreciated the filmmaking techniques employed to create the vampires creepy style and tone, despite being so early in film’s history.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading “The Horror Film: An Introduction” because I could enter into the genre through a historical and societal lense, taking an academic approach to an otherwise scary venture. Out of the vast canon of films that have been produced in the genre, this Marathon is only taking a small slice from the 1970s and 80s - primarily looking at the slasher/stalker cycle. It also includes two sequels, so I will be including two additional films as homework to screen before those official entries, although they will not count towards the awards at the conclusion of the Marathon. Here are the films I will be cringing, flinching, and screaming at during Gibelwho Production’s Horror Marathon:

1[a]. Night of the Living Dead (1968), George Romero

1. Dawn of the Dead (1978), George Romero

2. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Tobe Hooper

3. Suspiria (1977), Dario Argento

4. Halloween (1978), John Carpenter

5. Re-Animator (1985), Stuart Gordon

6[a]. The Evil Dead (1981), Sam Raimi

6. Evil Dead 2 (1987), Sam Raimi

Watch your back and happy haunting!

[back-and-totheleft]

Stone, cold sober

Re-telling the story of September 11 with a measured hand and lightness of touch hithertoo unhinted at, director Oliver Stone proves a more serious thinker than his paranoia-soaked canon would suggest. Here, he explains how his experiences as a soldier in Vietnam framed his outlook on life and art.

The introductory handshake comes with an additional squeeze of the wrist and a roguish smile.

“You’re Irish. I can tell.”

No. Your correspondent hasn’t been transported back to a disco in the 1970s. Instead, she’s in New York’s Regency Hotel meeting Oliver Stone. That twinkling opening gambit has brought about a Proustian rush of wayward tabloid headlines. I remember that idiotic book on the making of Natural Born Killers, with its scurrilous tales of loose ladies, psilocybin mushrooms and cocaine abuse. I recall that story about the director commandeering the Warners corporate jet to do peyote in the Mexican desert while making The Doors. I remember too how the set of Alexander reputedly became an extravagant saturnalia. Sure enough, I can effortlessly picture this man partying down with Colin Farrell, a duel study in swaggering Dionysian charm.

Though Stone insists his appetite for debauchery has been greatly exaggerated, he’s always owned up to unruly habits. Yes, he does have a fondness for marijuana dating back to time spent on the frontline in Vietnam. He has also ‘expanded his consciousness’ with the occasional psychedelic. But driving offences from last year and 1999 have, he claims, more to do with pre-diabetic medication unwisely knocked back with alcohol than exotic marching powders.

Still, it’s an impressively scandalous record for a man of his years. Stone is 60 now, though you’d say he were a decade younger if you suddenly spied him on the street. In person he’s imperturbably casual, far more relaxed than the ‘madman’ headlines might lead one to suppose. His glowing tan is offset by a bright yellow polo shirt and he sits way, way back in his chair holding your gaze all the while.

Accommodating and easy in his manner, you’d be hard-pressed to identify this individual as Oliver Stone – Controversial Filmmaker. That is, nevertheless, to whom we speak. Stone boasts a fearsomely uncompromising reputation as a screenwriter and director. Throughout the ‘80s when the post-classical frisson of counter-cultural Hollywood had fizzled and poachers died off or turned gamekeeper, only Stone kept the faith, authoring politically conscious cinema at a time when the Academy was honouring Driving Miss Daisy.

His screenplay for rapper’s favourite Scarface set the frenzied pace and ultra-violent tone that would later characterise his visual style. But Stone was too engaged with the world to become the new Brian De Palma. Salvador, his first major film as director, probed the gulf between the ideals of American foreign policy and realpolitik. Platoon, Wall Street, JFK and Nixon would further confirm his interest in micro and macro conspiracies and establish him as an outlaw auteur.

Though he’s now rueful about being stereotyped or “pinned like a butterfly”, he was a good sport about it, appearing as a conspiracy nut in Dave and Wild Palms.

“You know, I’ve never really regarded myself as a political filmmaker”, he tells me. “I consider myself a dramatist. I always get involved with people more than the politics. With the movie JFK, for example, the book by Jim Garrison had a lot of theory. I was more interested in making him part of that story. And Oswald fascinated me. If you watch that film it is really a trail of people played by great actors. Nixon, despite the whiff of conspiracy, is truly a psychological portrait of a man. Many people in the right wing thought it would be a hatchet job but I really made him apathetic. I refuse to be pigeon holed. I am not a political guy. I don’t go to rallies. I am not an activist. I don’t have the time because I’m busy being a writer.”

He may deny the role of agitator, but his opinions, both off and onscreen suggest otherwise. His most recent work in the documentary sector includes Persona Non Grata, an examination of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and two features about Cuban president Fidel Castro, Comandante and Looking for Fidel. (Stone has described himself as a friend and an admirer.)

He has, before now, referred to the events of September 11th as a ‘revolt’ and expressed an interest in the work of Richard Clarke, the former White House counter-terrorism advisor whose book Against All Enemies accuses the Bush administration of ignoring the al-Qaeda threat, then linking the group to Iraq, contrary to all evidence.

“We Vietnam vets, in particular, found it very difficult”, says Stone. “We had the backing of the world in Afghanistan. We were rounding up the main suspects. Then we go into Iraq with no support. Militarily, it was stupid. It was overreaching. And any American who travels can tell you how the rest of the world is resentful. What the hell are we doing in Iraq when the enemy was 4000 al-Qaeda fighters in Afghanistan?”

When it was announced last summer that Stone would direct World Trade Centre, a film focusing on ‘first response’ police officers trapped by the Twin Towers collapse, many eyebrows were raised. “To allow this poisoned and deranged mind… (to recreate 9/11) in the likeness of his vile fantasies is beyond obscene,” raged one conservative commentator. But World Trade Center, it transpires, is Stone’s least obvious work even by his own consistently innovative standards. The towers do not fall back and to the left. There is no grand plot or secret ruling elite. “This is not a political film in any sense”, insists Stone. “It harks back to Platoon in that respect. In Vietnam, we didn’t sit around talking about LBJ. And the truth is, I don’t think we can say for sure what happened during 9/11. We spent more investigating Bill Clinton’s blowjobs than the destruction of the World Trade Centre. Whatever was going on in the background, if you look at the forest through the trees, it seems to me that what has happened since is far worse than what happened that day. So the politics and conspiracies behind that day, whatever they may be, are not as relevant as where we are now.” Completely eschewing polemic, the movie instead offers a heartfelt portrait of ordinary fellows on the front line. Stone’s traditional constituency are, needless to say, horrified, and assorted doublespeak statements have been issued attacking World Trade Center as “non-conspiratorial lies.”

John Conner, a leading voice in the Christian branch of the 9/11 Truth Movement, went so far as to ask the following– “Was Stone used by the Illuminati as an unknowing pawn to whitewash the 9/11 conspiracy theories to the masses? Was he approached with the project and coerced into a commitment to occupy his time in attempts to thwart any other 9/11 angle from being used? Is Stone a pawn in the game? Perhaps Stone didn’t know at the time, and found out too late.”

Oddly, however, like Paul Greengrass’ United 93, Stone’s film has found champions from either end of America’s bipolar political spectrum, often the same folks who had previously dismissed him as a pinko malcontent. L. Brent Bozell III, the president of the conservative Media Research Center and founder of the Parents Television Council — a latter day Mary Whitehouse in trousers — called it “a masterpiece” and sent an e-mail message to 400,000 people saying, “Go see this film.” Cal Thomas, the right-wing syndicated columnist and contributor to The Last Word, wrote that it was “one of the greatest pro-American, pro-family, pro-faith, pro-male, flag-waving, God Bless America films you will ever see.”

“I just felt this was a great story dying to be told,” explains Stone. “It may not be like anything I have done before, but Heaven And Earth wasn’t like anything I had done before. Nor was U Turn or Natural Born Killers. I do jump around and each film is a different style. This isn’t like United 93 which was a brilliant piece of vérité. This is more like a classic John Ford, William Wyler or even Frank Capra film. Against tremendous odds this rescue takes place. This has the traditional Hollywood tropes of emotional connection to four main characters from the working class.

"I would love to bring Hollywood back to that, making films where people actually work for a living, not sit around making things happen with a remote control like that Adam Sandler film. Born On The Fourth Of July was blue-collar. So was Any Given Sunday. Although it’s about elite athletes, it was about work. They had to punish their bodies for their lifestyle.”

A marriage of disaster movie and combat zone drama, World Trade Centre follows Port Authority officers Sergeant John Mc Loughlin (Nicolas Cage) and Will Jimeno (Michael Pena) on a doomed rescue mission into the Twin Towers. On September 12th, they were among the last survivors to be pulled from the rubble. Though the original script by newcomer Andrea Berloff read like a relocation of Beckett’s Endgame, Stone has widened the remit to include the rescuers and the anxious wives at home. As a director noted for working within a decidedly masculine milieu, was it a challenge to represent domesticity, I wonder.

“Oh yes,” he admits. “That was a big challenge. On the surface this is a very simple story of catastrophe and rescue and heroism. But if you go beyond the cliché it is very fresh. Everything the rescuers did was dangerous. We assume rescues just happen, but it is hard work. These men really crawled into places where they thought they would die. It took hours to get them out. I tried to show some of that digging. But an even bigger cliché in these circumstances is the waiting housewife. Actually, it goes further than that. Each of these women died that day. They sit there as the hours pass and the only news is no survivors. You knew no one would come out of there. The buildings were so pancaked. So it was like death for them. I wanted to portray that. I wanted them smelling the sheets from the previous night where they had slept. Again it’s a cliché but the idea was to take the cliché and make it fresh.”

Another subplot concentrates on Staff Sergeant Dave Karnes (Michael Shannon) a Christian marine in Wilton, Connecticut, who watches events on TV and tells his colleagues that America is now at war. Once he decides that God wants him to go to New York he heads to Ground Zero with a flashlight and eventually hears the two cops in the debris. A postscript before the final credits informs us that Kearns has since served two tours of duty in Iraq.

“It’s a remarkable and weird story,” Stone admits. “But that’s how it happened. I also think Kearns represents a significant sector of the American population when he says, ‘We’re going to need some good men to avenge this’. For many people, revenge was their first thought.”

And there you have it. For all the pigeonholing as a conspiracy theorist, facts are of paramount importance to Stone. He spent two-and-a-half years researching JFK. He spent three years immersed in Persian history for the much-maligned Alexander. It was a labour of love and the ill-tempered critical reception seems to have cut to the quick.

“I’m a historical dramatist,” he explains. “I wasn’t a Kennedy assassination junkie at the time, nor was I a 9/11 junkie. But I love the past. It hurts when I read someone claiming that I’ve fabricated something. But then you make a film like Alexander and scholars say you have it right, but critics say it’s all wrong.”

Similarly, while Stone has been at pains to represent those involved in the World Trade Centre disaster as faithfully as possible, he has not been able to quell dissent completely. The widow of Dominick Pezzulo – a cop portrayed in the film - has accused Jimeno and McLoughlin of cashing in on the tragedy by selling their story to Paramount. There have also been mutterings about the film being too soon.

“I know,” nods Stone. “But I honestly think it is the right time. The Killing Fields was made five years after those events in Cambodia. During World War II, Hollywood made propaganda films. Casablanca, made in 1941, takes a very anti Nazi position even before we declared war. The Vietnam movies took longer to make, but life goes faster now. I would say to you the consequences of 9/11 are so bad that we better look back now and understand what happened on that day. When you leave it too long, events become mythologized. Watching Pearl Harbor, you’d think we won that battle. This is the epicentre of 9/11, but there are many stories that still need to be told.”

Though personal and more modest in scope than the $63 million budget might suggest, the director does hope that his intense focus on McLoughlin and Jimeno has a wider relevance.

“They did not have a clue as to what was happening,” he says. “They knew it was a terrorist attack but there was no discussion of politics. They’re cops. They are far more likely to talk about pop culture, whether it is Starsky And Hutch or GI Jane. It wasn’t Bergman down in that hole.

So I am not claiming this movie will answer all the questions. But let’s say you go to a psychiatrist and all your life you have been repressed because you were raped when you where 14. Perhaps the psychiatrist says, ‘Let’s go back to that day’. They make you remember that day and it changes all the defences you had built up. So perhaps by undoing the screw, the secret at the beginning, you can take some of the armour off.”

The events of 9/11 may be difficult to disentangle, but no more so than the filmmaker himself. Born in New York City to a Jewish father and Catholic mother, William Oliver Stone was raised Episcopalian by way of compromise. His parents divorced after his father, a conservative Republican, conducted various extra-marital affairs with family friends. Young Oliver spent much of his subsequent childhood in splendid isolation between private schools and five star hotels - ‘a cartoonish Little Lord Fauntleroy’ by his own account.

Still, Stone needs neither bullfighting nor marlin fishing to confirm his Hemingwayesque credentials as an artist. He attended Yale and dropped out twice before enlisting to fight as an Infantryman in Vietnam. Mixing with the lower orders and smoking pot soon transformed the spoiled youngster into a military hero. He was wounded twice in action and received the Bronze Star with ”V” device signifying valor for “extraordinary acts of courage under fire,” and the Purple Heart with one Oak Leaf Cluster.

Soon after the war, he was arrested at the US-Mexico border for possession of marijuana. His father bailed him out but the experience served to radicalise him. Later, meeting understandably embittered veterans such as Ron Kovic pushed Stone further to the left.

He has, however, wooed Hollywood despite the often overtly political nature of his films. He won his first Academy Award as the screenwriter of Midnight Express and has been further honoured for directing Platoon and Born On The Fourth Of July.

Now, after World Trade Centre, has attention and lavish praise from the likes of Bill O’Reilly turned his head? Not bloody likely.

“People are people,” he tells me. “I think people have to take care of themselves and their families first. But there are bigger questions now. The ecological movement want us to clean up, but how can that work when there is always the issue of jobs? It’s a very selfish world and avarice triumphs over the green imperative. After Katrina, there was a tremendous outpouring of help. That was also true when the tsunami hit Indonesia. People are very generous in America and there are some very fine Americans. Unfortunately, a lot of them don’t have passports. Most of them don’t know where Iraq is. And a lot think al Qaeda and Iraq are the same thing. There’s a problem with the education levels. American television keeps people trapped. The news is very superficial and mostly filled with advertisements and rapes and murders. If you travel in the country and you stay in the smaller places you find very limited resources. If America spent the same amount of money as we spend on embassies and CIA stations around the world on our major cities with the goal of helping bring those cities to a way of life that was democratic and economically viable, we would have a tremendous success in this country. Instead, we have an international presence and I don’t know if it is worth it. All we are doing is promoting a system which is now suspect all over the world. We have broken our constitution repeatedly since 2001.”

He smiles cynically.

“I don’t think pictures of soldiers pointing their naked dicks in Abu Ghraib has helped us at a local level either.”

He’s still got it.

-Tara Brady, “Stone cold sober,” HotPress, Sept 19 2006 [x]