#and that ford went through a horrifying experience

[nenoname]

meanwhile the incest shippers don't like them either like 😭 and use b*llf*ford shippers as a way to justify their incest 😭😭😭

i really wish them all to be gone <3

[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

[jnixz]

Realization and speculation. The Psychic 7 might've evaded separation anxiety for the first few days after reuniting in these OCBDL's versions, but all bets are off once they enter Otto's mind and after. Splitting up for a mission?! After what happened to Lucy and Ford when they left them to go alone?

Ohh hoho yeah there's definitely the potential for separation anxiety for all that they have gone through even with just canon. 

It’s all in the background while they are catching up with each other, doing the activities they share again. They are quite happy together (or alone but knowing the others are reachable) and yet there's this smidge of worry about being separated again.

It was usually more so towards the situations concerning the future, like with the reveal of the 7th member of the founders (and how they would handle which info to share and story to weave to avoid trouble for Lucy and her family), or the Grulovia rescue mission (it is likely that the frozen area is just abandoned, but we don’t know what the current Grulovia that would cause problems like politics or environment, since we already got Helmut's body condition in mind to be concerned about). 

They’d be even more wary that it happen twice, even if the second one didn’t last long. Still it was a horrifying experience see Maligula again, they weren’t prepared for that.

Even worse, is that OBDLC would also catch them off-guard, one of the reasons being the parallels to the first time they got separated. They hadn’t expect another breakdown-- from Otto even, someone they thought was faring pretty well.

It's different from Maligula, where they were literally at another country till the could do anything, by then the damage is done. Here the damage is being done and it's even worse inward then outward. But they are here now and they could help immediately.

Once more, it's a situation they have to uncover what is causing the issue before being able to help. They hadn't know what made Lucy into Maligula, all they knew was that they had to stop her and try to move forward from that. With Otto, are certain he got injured, but that doesn't explain everything else breaking down. Sure the psychoseismometer exploded and the nergative energies burst upon him would probably be something, but it shouldn't be THIS bad! Things are breaking in a way they aren't suppose to!

Just-- three times the charm and this one isn't good one. The parallels are even worse. It'll bring up memories they'd rather move past from. It'll shake them up real bad. It also drives the point that everything got so much worse when they were left alone.

All of these make me think 'Oh no not again' and cause a bit of anxiety.

So there is that surfacing a newfound amount of worry that surface when they are alone, although its might be more for each other than anything.

Being anxious of being alone would be more for Helmut (especially when he is still a brain) and maybe Otto (given our ideas about OBDLC). 

It’d be more off-putting for Otto, since he was quite used to being alone. And now stuff he was okay with suddenly his mind turns it against him.( i've yet to post my addition to this post, but i've mentioned stuff in dms)

But as for missions, doubt they'd go to many hectic or really active ones cuz their age might make it challenging-- but for the upcoming one with the Grulovia Rescue mission, if any obdlc version happens before that, they'd be having something weighing on them that wasn't there before

Like the original plan probably just had key people like Helmut, Bob and Otto going to Grulovia, but well -- let's just say due to events, they'll feel better if all 7 went together. (I mean they could have all wanted to go along, but heres to me providing an additional angsty layer to this sweet bonding activity)

This could be a chance to talk about the times they went off alone, and communicate everything about it. From their reasons, apologies and how to move forward in order to repair their bonds. They can even recognize their possible anxieties of being separated again.

There's that balance of supporting each other while not relaying too much on each other as to not cause any separation anxiety within them to grow. It might be slow going but its a start to learn how to deal with their trauma together.

Also, with psychic powers in the mix, we could think back to the psychic link Sasha and Milla have. Makes you wonder back in the old days if they had that psychic connection however unintentionally formed and broken. Nowadays though it is recognized and might even have training techniques to improve upon it. They could have that for all psychic 7 to keep a check on each other, giving gentle assurance even while far away.

(I do have angst ideas about this though haha, the one relevant here would be when the link is disrupted causing a bit of that separation anxiety to creep back a bit. like a hum in the background suddenly missing and you aren't sure why, you could only think of the bad things that could've caused it, and in the case if deluge--it did)

[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!!

[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. 

[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.

[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.

[husheduphistory]

The Lingering Leather of Antoine Le Blanc

Judge Gabriel Ford sat in his courtroom with the fate of another human being in his hands. The stories he had just heard were horrific, blood soaked, and to him the max sentence just didn't seem to spell justice for the Sayre family. He decreed what everyone expected, the man before him would  "...be hung by the neck till you are dead." But, there was more, much more to come for the future corpse standing in the courtroom.

Antoine Le Blanc arrived in New York in April 1883 as a man uprooted. Disowned from his affluent family in France and finding himself in a massive city with no means of obtaining money or communicating in any language besides French, the thirty-one year old Le Blanc spent his first days in this new country seeking work. He wanted to bring fortune back into his hands. What he ended up holding was farming tools.

The Sayres of Morristown, New Jersey were a prominent farming family consisting of Mr. Samuel Sayre, his wife Sarah, and their young servant girl Pheobe. When he was hired by the family Le Blanc may not have understood what he signed up for. The work was brutal, the days were long, and the lodging was a dark and dank room in the Sayre’s cellar. These factors might have made the job miserable, but after two weeks of labor Le Blanc had not been paid and this, according to him, was both inexcusable and unforgivable.

Illustration of the Sayre home in Morristown, New Jersey.

On the evening of May 11th 1833 Le Blanc was spending some time at a local hotel drinking until late into the evening. He was deeply unhappy in his situation and decided he would no longer be under the control of the Sayre family. At approximately 10:30pm Samuel Sayre was at home when Le Blanc frantically ran up to him, gesturing wildly, and conveying that he had to follow him out to the stables immediately. Le Blanc entered the barn first and when Sayre followed behind him he was quickly cut down. Le Blanc had a shovel at hand, and when his employer entered the barn he proceeded to repeatedly unleash it on his head. With pieces of Mr. Sayre’s head strewn all over the barn Le Blanc made his way back to the house and repeated the same charade to his wife Sarah, luring her to the barn and committing her to the same grisly fate as her husband. Lastly, Le Blanc gripped a club and crept into the bedroom where Phoebe was sleeping. She was extinguished with one swing to her skull.

Once Le Blanc was done unleashing pure horror he set out to take what he wanted all along, cash and valuables. Going through the Sayre home he grabbed anything of value that could be shoved inside a pillowcase before fleeing the scene on one of the family horses. In Le Blanc’s mind this was only the first step of his return journey home. He would get to New York, board a ship to Germany, and arrive back in Europe with money in his bloodstained hands. But, the murderer never got out of New Jersey. The morning after the murder Lewis Halsey was walking along a road when he saw some unusual objects. When he picked them up to inspect them he was probably horrified to see the monogram of his good friend Samuel Sayre. Halsey and some people from town made their way to the Sayre home expecting a robbery, but what they found was a nightmare. A massive amount of blood and the bodies of his friends buried under a pile of manure.

Sketch of Antoine Le Blanc.

Sheriff George Ludlow was tasked with finding the monster, but the pursuit and capture of Le Blanc was quicker and easier than anyone expected. Not because the killer’s hiding place had failed, but because the Sayre belongings found in the road were only some of the many items that fell out of the pillowcase as he made his escape. The trail of belongings led directly to the fugitive, sitting inside a Hackensack Meadows tavern with Sayre’s pillowcase next to him. When he spied Ludlow approaching the tavern he panicked and ran for the back exit, but it was no use. Less than one day into his great escape Le Blanc was in custody and headed back to Morristown to face judgement.

For just over three months Le Blanc wallowed in a cell waiting for his day in court. He never denied the charge, confessing in prison and detailing how he sat in the hotel the night of the crime waiting until the perfect moment to return after the Sayre family were retired for the evening. On August 13th 1883 Le Blanc walked into the Morris County Courthouse where his trial, more a formality than anything else, was carried out under the eyes of Judge Gabriel Ford. The jury deliberated for only twenty minutes before giving the verdict that everyone already knew was coming. The first part of the sentence was obvious, “….that you be hung by the neck till you are dead” but it was a second part that was unexpected:

“And it is further considered by the court, that after execution is done, your body will be delivered to Dr. Canfield, a surgeon, for dissection. And may God have mercy upon your soul.”

Printed account of the confession, trial, and execution of Antoine Le Blanc. Image via MorristownGreen.com and North Jersey History & Genealogy Center.

On September 6th 1833 thousands of people descended onto the Morristown Green in Morristown to witness the demise of the man dubbed a monster. Custom gallows, constructed at the local ironworks, were hauled to the Green and designed to give the maximum visual effect. Le Blanc would be tied at the neck and a system of ropes, pulleys, and weights was configured so that when a rope was cut a weight would fall and hoist the body eight feet into the air in order to accommodate the thousands gathered and sitting on roofs to catch a better view of the execution.

Diagram of the gallows used on Antoine Le Blanc. 

 According to an article from The Jerseyman:

“No such crowd as witnesses it was, probably, ever in the town before or since. People came by the thousands, not only from within the bounds of Morris but from Essex, Union, Somerset, Warren, Sussex and all other contiguous territory. Horses and wagons at times blocked the roads, and were tied from the Park on the roads leading from it for a mile or more out in every direction. Many people brought their lunches, but all supplies gave out early and scores went hungry.”

It is estimated that 12,000 people witnessed Antoine Le Blanc’s body launch into the air and twist for two minutes. It hung for thirty-five minutes more before he was cut down and loaded into a wagon. The worst was yet to come for the corpse.

 After his demise Le Blanc’s body was handed over to Dr. Canfield and a Princeton professor named Dr. Joseph Henry. It was not unheard for the body of a murderer to be handed over for dissection, what was unusual was them being handed over to be used in experiments. Le Blanc’s arms and legs were opened up to expose the muscles and nerves before he was hooked up to a battery. The good doctors then went about surging his body with different measures of electricity to test how it affected muscle contractions. Allegedly his legs tensed, his eyes rolled, and they were even able to bring a slight smile to his dead face before they concluded their gruesome tests. Once finished a death mask was cast and according to some stories Le Blanc’s ears were cut off and given away. And yet, they still were not done with him.

In a highly unusual move, the skin was stripped from Le Blanc’s body and sent to Atno Tannery in Morristown. Here the skin was treated as an animal hide and turned into “charming little keepsakes” including book jackets, lamp shades, and wallets all signed by Sheriff Ludlow to prove their authenticity. As reported in The Jerseyman:

“Hon. A.W. Cutler of Morristown was said to have had a piece of the skin, and Hon. Thos. Carter of Newton, has a pocketbook made from it, bearing the endorsement by Sheriff Ludlow that it is the Simon-pure goods.”

Wallet made from the skin of Antoine Le Blanc. Image via NJ.com.

Antoine Le Blanc’s execution was the last public hanging in Morristown and the bodies of the Sayre family were buried in the town’s Presbyterian Church cemetery. Although the town moved on from the murder, pieces of the horrific crime continued to permeate the region. The keepsakes made from Le Blanc’s skin circulated from hand to hand and in the almost 200 years since the killings segments of the story including death masks, skin wallets, and the bones of the long-dead Le Blanc have popped up unexpectedly inside the innards of old buildings and in private collections kept quiet over generations.

There are dozens of mementos that have never been located.

Today the death mask of Antoine Le Blanc and one of the infamous skin wallets can be found inside the collection of the North Jersey History & Genealogy Center.

Death mask of Antoine Le Blanc. Image via MorristownGreen.com and the North Jersey History & Genealogy Center.

[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.

[babybluebanshee]

Seared With Scars - Chapter 7 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Previous Chapter

“When it comes to controlling human beings, there is no better instrument than lies. Because, you see, humans live by belief. And beliefs can be manipulated.”

- Michael Ende

---

Ivan knew it was almost time. 

He rose from his cot, standing to his full height, and stretched a little. No sense in being stiff and achy for what was soon going to happen. 

He looked again at the newspaper clipping, still clasped tightly in his fist, as if it were an extension of himself. He supposed, in a way, that’s what it was. It displayed what Ivan truly wanted and strived for, all the reasons he was still alive. True, those reasons could very well spell his death later on, but he’d had plenty of time to come to terms with that. 

But for now, all that mattered was the culmination of tonight’s endeavors with Stanford Pines.

The thought of Dr. Pines made his jaw clench involuntarily. Ivan wanted very badly to blame him as the cause of all this. After all, he was the one who summoned that triangular abomination into their world, offered up his hand and mind to forces he couldn’t hope to understand or control. Had a hand in everything Ivan holding dear inching ever closer to destruction. 

He wanted to hate Dr. Pines. It would have been so much easier.

He’d tried to force himself to, assailing him with a pipe and fists and kicks, trying to work his body up into a frothing rage, something that had never been hard for him when his plans were stymied by a foolish man who had almost ruined everything. 

He’d tried emotional manipulation, which had proven even more effective than attacking him bodily. He’d actually shocked himself a bit with how easy it was to watch devastation slowly inch into a man’s already-weakened frame, the desperate crumbling of his resolve play out on his face like a beautifully choreographed dance. 

It was the closest he’d come to truly hating Dr. Pines all night. The rush of satisfaction, the sick glee that came with knowing that he’d finally dealt a blow strong enough to chip away at the other man’s defenses, bring him low enough that he’d do anything Ivan asked. 

A part of him delighted in the suffering he’d foisted on another human being, and it almost completely eclipsed the part of him that should be horrified by that. 

But this unsettling sadism flared out quickly, no matter what he did. Try as he might, he could not bring himself to hate Dr. Pines. After all, if he hadn’t summoned that triangular monster, someone else would have. The demon was crafty that way, full of silver-tongued promises and flattery, and it took a strong will to resist him. 

It would have been so much easier to just hate Dr. Pines. But Ivan knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t blame Dr. Pines entirely. He was a weak human, the same as all the others. He wasn’t the first idiot to be tricked by the demon. But, if tonight went well, he could be the last. 

Tonight would put an end to this distraction. No one - not Dr. Pines, not his brother, not Dr. Bergstrum, and certainly not Fiddleford McGucket - would stand in the way of him and his army any longer. He was going to end this, and then send that demon back to whatever hellish dimension he’d crawled out from. 

His hands were far too stained to even think about looking back now. 

The sound of rustling paper caught his attention, and he looked back down the clipping. It fluttering in his trembling hand. Ivan took a moment to breathe deeply, willing the tremors to cease.

Anger that a few stupid people could throw everything he’d worked so hard for in jeopardy.

Fear that all this would not be enough in the end.

Exhaustion, for he’d been at this fight for some time indeed.

And, worst of all, guilt. He felt guilty for so many things: the lying, the subterfuge, the torture - for, yes, he admitted to himself that what he’d done to Dr. Pines was torture, plain and simple. 

This hurricane of emotion roiled away in his stomach, making him feel sick. 

Oh, it would just be so much easier if he just hated Dr. Pines. 

He seemed to remember feeling this way many times before. 

Fortunately, he also knew how to make it stop.

The memory gun sat on the floor by his cot. He reached down and picked it up. He twisted the dial a few times, not even having to look at the screen to know that the words “PAIN” flickered on the screen in bright green letters. 

Ivan took one last glance at the newspaper clipping, one last glance at the sad young boy staring into the camera. For a brief moment, it felt as if the boy was staring directly at Ivan, beseechingly, brokenly. Ivan exhaled slowly, then tucked the clipping into his sleeve. 

Then he put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. 

And all that was left was the hate for Dr. Pines. It flowed through him, like an angry, flooded river, ready to swallow everything in its path. 

It came so easily.

He felt better. 

----

To the outsider observer, their little group looked utterly ridiculous, and Fiddleford knew it. 

There was Stan, who just fifteen minutes ago had given Fiddleford a brutally honest and insightful dressing down through a haze of cigarette smoke, covertly slipping a pair of highly illegal, suspiciously-stained brass knuckles into his pocket. 

There was Helen, a baseball bat Stan had given her slung over her shoulder as nonchalantly as if it were a trusted walking stick. Like they were all about to go on a Sunday drive, and not on a rescue mission.

There was Ed, still dressed in his Society robes, who’d politely turned down a crossbow when Stan offered it to him. “I’ve never even been target shooting,” he’d told them. “I wouldn’t even know how to hold that thing right.”

And then there was Fiddleford himself, with nothing more than a knapsack slung over his shoulder. True, the knapsack held a very important bargaining chip for him, but he kept that to himself for the time being. 

Yes, they were an odd assortment with a frankly deranged quest in mind. If he hadn’t lived through all the events leading up to this moment in time, he would have laughed. But he knew better. 

Ivan had to be stopped. The Society needed to be reigned in. Ford needed their help. And they were going to make sure that happened. 

Fiddleford began to open the door to the front seat, but Stan suddenly barked, “You’re in the back with Helen. Matthews is up here with me.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow, then looked back to Dr. Matthews. The older man was staring back in confusion, his hand hovering over the handle to open the door behind the passenger seat. Fiddleford saw that Helen had already slid into the seat behind Stan’s, her face stony and serious, gaze so firm on the headrest in front of her, it looked like she was trying to bore a hole in it. 

When Dr. Matthews turned his head to look at her, possibly expecting her to say something to Stan about how it wasn’t a big deal if he sat near her, things were fine, nothing was wrong, she didn’t meet his gaze. She didn’t utter a single word. She simply lowered her head a little and stared at her feet. 

With a sad sigh, Matthews took his hand away from the handle and walked to the front seat. Fiddleford stepped away to let him pass, then ducked back to slide into the backseat. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Stan’s face. Whereas Helen was regarding Matthews like she was trying to pretend he wasn’t there, Stan settled that steely, fiery gaze on the doctor, and didn’t stop watching him until he had ducked into the front seat and was safely buckled in. 

Fiddleford supposed that Stan’s distrust was understandable. Not only did Stan have a decade’s worth of experience with people it was incredibly foolish to trust, but there was also Helen to consider. As the car sputtered to life around them and eased forward, Fiddleford stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. He had no idea what she and Stan had talked about after she’d retreated to the porch, but whatever it was had left her quiet and pensive. Even now, her gaze was focused outside, her chin resting on her hand. 

For the entire time it took them to gather their supplies and get out the door, Stan had been very unsubtly planting himself between Helen and Dr. Matthews. Every time the older man got too close to her for Stan’s liking, he’d shove himself up next to her, like a protective, bulky wall, until Matthews got the hint and moved away. Stan clearly blamed Matthews for causing Helen’s panic attack, and he seemed determined to keep Matthews at arm’s length from her. 

Fiddleford would have found it noble if Stan hadn't insisted on bringing her along. 

When he saw Stan handing her the bat before they left the house, he’d almost balked, demanded to know why Stan thought it was a good idea to hand a person who’d just thrown up in the sink and nearly hyperventilated a weapon and invite her along on a potentially dangerous mission. 

Then he’d caught a look at Helen’s face - mouth set in a determined line, shoulders squared, fist clenched tight enough around the grip of the bat to make her knuckles turn white. She was a woman with a mission.

Still, he’d tried to open his mouth to say something, anything. After all, he didn’t want her to be hurt anymore than Stan did, and unlike Stan, he knew that an exhausted and vulnerable person tended to be the one who was hurt the most in situations like these. 

It was like she’d read his mind. As soon as his mouth was open and a breath of speech had escaped him, Helen’s head snapped in his direction, and Fiddleford had actually taken a step back. Her eyes were full of an angry fire, hot and intense, ready to burn down anything that stood in her way, him included. 

He’d quickly snapped his mouth shut, but nothing about Helen being here sat right with him. She should be resting. Even the bat currently resting against her leg didn’t do much to assuage his concerns. 

A bump in the road jostled Fiddleford from his thoughts, and he realized that they had left the uneven dirt road of the woods, and onto the paved streets of town. The only light around them was the dusty yellow of the streetlamps. The only sound was the vague road noise around them. Fiddleford looked at the clock set in Stan’s dash. It was five minute to two. 

“Take a left at the next stop sign, then keep going straight until you hit Huckabone Street,” Matthews said suddenly, voice tight and quiet, slicing through the silence like an arrow shot by a quivering hand. As they passed under one of the streetlamps, Fiddleford saw his Adam’s apple bob in a nervous gulp.

“You’re not even going to tell us where we’re going?” Helen asked. Fiddleford looked over at her, surprised not only that she’d finally spoken, but at the sheer amount of venom behind the words. 

“I figured it would be easier if I just gave directions to the man who’s only lived here for a couple of months,” Matthews replied. There was an odd playfulness in his tone, like he was trying to joke with Helen, ignore the tension between them and just get back to the professional friendship they’d had as colleagues. 

From Helen’s face, Fiddleford suspected the effort was in vain. She just let out a derisive sigh through her nose.

Matthews turned quickly in his seat, the leather groaning beneath him. Fiddleford felt Helen start beside him. Stan’s hand tightened on the steering wheel as his shoulders tensed up, ready to fight. 

“Helen, look,” Matthews said, pleadingly, “I’m sorry. I can’t even begin to say it enough.” His eyes were watery and slightly puffy in the weak light. “I’ll never be able to fully fix what I’ve done. I thought I was doing the right thing-”

“You never bothered to see if that’s what I wanted,” Helen replied, more quietly, but still with rage bubbling just below the surface.

“I know that,” Matthews replied. “I thought the Society...at the time, I thought they could help you. Before tonight, I thought that it would do you good. It was so hard, watching you suffer and knowing there was nothing I could do…” 

Matthews trailed off, his eyes once again gaining that distant sadness, like he was one million miles away from them in the blink of an eye. After a moment, he gave his head a hard shake, and continued, “If I had known this was what Ivan was planning, I never would have given him that key. What you and your friends have been through is my fault, and I’m going to do as much as I can to make it up to you.”

Helen didn’t answer him right away, but she did finally turn to meet his gaze. Stony silence hung oppressively between them.

Helen’s face was totally unreadable. She seemed to be studying Matthews, searching his face. For what, Fiddleford couldn’t rightly say. 

Whatever it was, she seemed to find it. A small smile tugged at her lips, and she finally said, “Damn right you are, Edward Matthews.”

Matthews’ shoulders slumped as he returned the smile.

“You can start,” Helen continued, “by taking my shift on Tuesday. I’m gonna need an extended vacation after all this is over.”

“You say that like I’m not gonna take Tuesday off to recuperate from all this,” Matthews joked back.

“This is a bad week to be Simon,” Helen said, shaking her head.

“Simon?” Fiddleford asked before he could stop himself. Helen and Matthews turned their gazes on him almost like they’d forgotten he was there.

“Simon McBride. He’s the other doctor at the hospital. He’s in Miami for the weekend, at his parents’ condo,” Helen replied. Her brow furrowed in thought before she mumbled, “He’s gonna be so confused when he gets back.”

Matthews chuckled a bit, and even Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile a little. It was nice to see Helen be able to talk like this again to someone she obviously had a great deal of respect for, and who obviously cared about her a lot. 

Then his gaze moved up to Stan in the driver’s seat. His grip on the steering wheel had not lessened. The tension had not left his shoulders. His jaw was still set rigidly. Fiddleford wished he could tell what he was thinking. Seeing him looking so on edge made him anxious, and that was not something he needed to deal with, given what they were going to try and do.

Stan finally spoke up and said, “Alright, Doc, we’re coming up on Huckabone. Now what?”

Matthews turned from Helen to look out the windshield, then said, “Kill your headlights and pull up along the curb. We’ll have to walk the last block.”

Stan gave him an incredulous look as he said, “Pardon me?”

“Ed, all that’s down here is the history museum,” Helen said. 

The words “history museum” hit Fiddleford like a brick to his face. His nose was suddenly filled with the scent of dust and mildew. Chanting flooded his ears, drowning out whatever the others were saying. And before his eyes…

His footsteps echoed across the cold stone floor, as he drew closer to the trembling young man. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. He reached out a hand, and laced it through ashen fingers. They fluttered against his grip like a baby bird. “I promise, it won’t hurt. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The young man looked up at him, his filmy red right eye focused intently on the bulb of the gun pressed to his forehead. After a moment, the young man gulped and said, “I trust you, sir.”

Fiddleford inhaled sharply as the memory ended and he was flung back into reality. Stan had parked the car, away from any street lamps or overhead lights from stores. The dark and the quiet smothered him like a down quilt drawn tight around his face. 

His small gasp for air had drawn the attention of the others, and they watched him cautiously as he took a few deep breaths. His lungs ached, like he’d been underwater and holding in air for hours. 

“You okay, Fidds?” Stan asked. He’d unbuckled his seatbelt to twist in his seat, arm slung around the headrest. Fiddleford noticed that, now that he was focused on him, the tension was totally gone from Stan’s body. 

Fiddelford merely nodded, taking another deep breath before he began to speak. “Matthews is right,” he finally said. “I remember the history museum. It’s our base.”

“How do you hide a memory-wiping cult in a public museum?” Helen asked.

“The best way to hide something,” Fiddelford responded, “is camouflage.” 

Stan and Helen glanced at each other quizzically.

“There’s a false wall in the building,” Fiddleford explained. “Ivan found it, and thought it’d be the perfect place to conduct the Society - perform the ritual, store the memories, that sort of thing.”

“Wow, who could have foreseen that a shady group that wiped people’s memories run by a guy who insisted they do it in secrecy in a musty basement would ever turn into something sinister,” Stan said flatly. 

Fiddleford shot him a withering glance before saying, “At the time, I agreed with him simply because I was running out of places to put the memories. At least down there, we had storage. But as time went on and more and more people asked to join us, we decided to hold the meetings there too.”

“It was good to protect our privacy,” Matthews added. “Some of the members preferred to hide behind the hoods and the anonymity. Not many people want to give up their secrets lightly.”

“Yep, not in the slightest bit creepy,” Stan muttered again.

“Do you have a point, by chance?” Fiddleford asked, .

“Two, actually,” Stan replied. “First, if you really looked at all this weirdness and didn’t think it was the most unsettling shit ever, you have even less foresight than I thought.”

“Noted,” Fiddleford grumbled back. “Anything else?”

“Second, because this is the most unsettling shit I’ve ever come across, and because these people have already proven themselves to be desperate and dangerous, I’m starting to think just busting Ford out isn’t going to be enough.”

“What do you mean?” Matthews asked. 

“He means,” Helen said, nodding her head in the direction of her baseball bat, “that these will help us get Ford out, but we need a guarantee that they won’t retaliate.”

Fiddleford decided it was time to reveal his ace in the hole. “I might have a way of doing that,” he said, flipping open his knapsack to reveal the memory gun.  

Helen, Stan, and Matthews looked down at it like he’d just revealed a loaded pistol to them. 

“I brought it with me in case Ivan proved to be troublesome,” Fiddleford continued. “But Stan and Helen have a point - desperate people will do crazy things. I hope it won’t come to that, but if things get out of hand...I will use the memory gun on my followers.”

Matthews’ face fell in devastation. “Sir, are you...are you really prepared to do that?” he asked quietly. “To bring yourself down to Ivan’s level like that?”

The question hurt, but not for the reason that Matthews probably thought it did. The thing about it was, Fiddleford wasn’t bringing himself down to Ivan’s level with what he had planned. 

Ivan had already lowered himself to Fiddleford’s level. 

What Ivan had perverted the Society into was never what Fiddleford had intended, but his intentions no longer mattered. Fiddleford wasn’t sure if they ever did. After all, what had his intentions been? To keep people ignorant? To give them a place to hide away from their fear, to forever be victim to it? 

What, in the end, had the group ever succeeded in doing, under his direction? If tonight was anything to go by, it had only succeeded in creating people who were so afraid of what they didn’t understand, that they didn’t just want to forget it anymore. They wanted to destroy it. 

As selfish as Ivan’s motives were, all he’d really done was take the core tenants of the Society to their logical extremes. If he hadn’t done that, someone else would have. Fiddleford had provided all the groundwork needed for the Society to be turned into something dark and dangerous. All it had required was the right demagogue to complete the transformation. 

Fiddleford brought his eyes up to meet Matthews’, and said, “There’s this philosphy I learned about in college called the paradox of tolerance. It basically means that, if tolerance doesn’t have its limits, it’s eventually seized and destroyed by the intolerant. So the only way to make sure that doesn’t happen, is by being intolerant of intolerance.”

He looked down at the gun in his lap. Even in the thick blanket of darkness, it glistened like a living thing. Even though he had boasted upon this device’s creation that it was lightweight and sleek, easy to hide in the sleeve of a robe with no trouble, it felt thirty pounds heavier now. It was a testament to all he’d done, everything he’d caused, and to all that he was determined to make right. 

“I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep Ivan from hurting anyone else,” he said firmly. “And I will break my own rules to do it.”

He looked into the faces of the three people surrounding him. Matthews’ face was still raw with emotion, like his entire world was crashing down around him. 

Helen’s face was unreadable as she studied Fiddleford’s face intently. He fought hard to keep from squirming under that intense gaze. 

Stan, however, gave Fiddleford a small smile. It brought a warmth to Fiddleford’s chest that only strengthened his resolve. He hoped Stan realized how much he’d done to finally make Fiddleford see the truth about what needed to be done. 

“Alright,” he finally said, his words strong and firm in the dark, quiet car. “Let’s go.”

The others nodded, and slowly began to get out of the car. Fiddleford closed the knapsack, clutched it tightly to his side, and flung open his door into the cold, damp February night.

---

Darryl’s knife glinted in the weak light as it sliced through the last set of ropes, around Ford’s right wrist. He flexed his left hand a bit, forcing blood to start pulsing through it again, ignoring the raw skin where the ropes had bitten into his skin and left angry red marks. 

He could worry about the pain later. He focused, picturing a large foot squashing down the pain bubbling up inside him, squashing it down until it was nothing more than a dull blip on his brain’s radar.

Finally, the ropes gave with a satisfying snap. Darryl tucked his knife back into his boot. He began throwing the ropes off and said, “Do you think you can walk?”

Ford didn’t respond, just waited until the ropes had landed on the floor with a dull thud, then grabbed the arms of the chair with his shaking hands. With  all the power in his quivering arms, forced himself to stand.

He barely had a moment to realize that that had been a huge mistake, swaying dangerously as soon as his hands left the support of the chair. Darryl dove to catch him, wrapping two strong arms protectively around his chest to keep him from falling. 

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Ford muttered, despite the shrieking warnings from the back of his brain saying no, he was not okay, he couldn’t do this. His vision swam for a moment. His head feeling like it was going to explode. The shaky breath he drew felt like a hot knife being driven into his side. 

He shoved it all back into the dark corners of his thoughts where they belonged. 

“Here,” Darryl said gently, guiding Ford’s right arm around his shoulders. Using his free hand, he put a firm hand on Ford’s left side, just below his ribs to avoid hitting any broken ones. “Just lean on me, Dr. Pines,” he said. He gave Ford’s right hand an encouraging squeeze.

“Please, after all that’s happened, call me Ford,” Ford replied, smiling a bit despite himself. 

“I’ll call you ‘Long, Tall Sally’, if you want,” Darryl replied. “But I’ll do it once we get out of here.” He chewed his lower lip for a moment, then added, “This is gonna hurt, I won’t lie. I’ll try to go slow, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

“I’ll be okay,” Ford lied. Even just standing here made him ache in ways he didn’t even think possible. But he wasn’t going to let Darryl know that. He simply gritted his teeth and concentrated on that mental image of a foot stamping down. 

Darryl gave a crisp nod and said, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

Darryl began moving them towards the door, and instantly, Ford felt a shot of pain up his side. He clenched his teeth harder, balling his free hand into a fist by his side, willing the pain to fade, or at least lessen. After about thirty seconds, it did, though not by much. As Darryl reached the door to Ford’s prison, his side still throbbed dully. He ignored it as Darryl eased the door open. It gave one soft creak, but did no more to give away their position. 

Fluidly, like a cat, Darryl ducked them both out of the room. Despite everything, Ford took the opportunity to look around, and was frankly amazed at what he saw. 

Before them was a short, stone hallway. It was like something out of a medieval castle, lit by torches and lined with tapestries, all in brilliant red with a crossed out eye stitched into them. A few other doors were scattered about. Occasionally, the hallway dipped into an alcove, where stone statues of hooded figures with their arms lovingly outstretched stood, silent and imposing. 

How had Fiddleford managed to do all this in the span of a few months?

Pain suddenly exploded in Ford’s side, nearly making him lose his footing and take Darryl down with him. He could practically feel the broken bones somewhere inside him shifting and stabbing at him, tearing soft tissue and threatening to make him bleed. For a brief moment, he was crippled by the imagine of one of his ribs slicing through his lung, and choking slowly on his own blood. 

Goddamit, Sixer, stop being so morbid and focus!

The voice echoed from a small, forgotten place in Ford’s mind. In his panicked state, his first thought was that this was Bill, mocking him from his mindscape, but then the voice barked out again. You ain’t dying yet, Sixer. Now get moving!

This wasn’t Bill. It couldn’t be. It was gruffer, but kinder. Encouraging, supportive, and certainly not putting up with his melodramatic bullshit. 

Stan. 

That voice could only be Stan’s.

As his senses flooded back to him, Ford slapped his hand over his mouth and pressed hard. The shrieks of agony that wanted to erupt from within him came out now as mere strained grunts. He screwed his eyes shut against the pain. He ground his teeth together to have something, anything else to focus on. He begged whatever deity was watching all this that the pain would pass. 

It will, Sixer, Stan’s voice said. I promise it will. 

Finally, after several agonizing seconds, it did.

Ford took his trembling hand away from his mouth, and only then realized that Darryl had stopped moving and was watching him. He shifted his gaze over to him, and watched Darryl mouth, “Okay?”

Ford nodded, taking in heavy, quick breaths. He still shook, though now it was less from the pain and more from the unrelenting terror of knowing that, no matter what they did, there was always more pain to come. Ford allowed himself only a moment of hopelessness, unsure if he would be able to make it. He’d never known such pain in his life. There was no direction his body could shift where more wasn’t waiting for him. The hallway might as well have been an endless, dark cave, with nothing but a sheer drop waiting for them at the end. 

But then he felt that encouraging squeeze from Darryl again, and the black stain was gone. He looked over, and saw that Darryl had set his lips in a determined line. Strangely enough, Ford was once again reminded of his father, and the only concrete memory he had of his father talking about his time during the war. 

Whenever he and Stan had come home from school with blackened eyes and bloodied noses and ripped clothes and broken glasses, Stan almost always seemed to have it worse than Ford. His shiner was always worse. His nose always gushed harder. He’d once come home with an entire sleeve of his shirt missing. But one could tell by looking at his busted-up knuckles that, while Stan had gotten the brunt of things, he gave as good as he got. 

One day, their mother, her voice harried and exhausted had sat Stan down and asked why. Why did he always get the brunt of this. Why did he act like a common street thug whenever these boys did this?

Stan didn’t looked her in the eye, but he said, “‘Cause they’d just beat up Ford worse if I didn’t.”

And before their mother could even open her mouth to respond, their father had said, “You don’t leave a man behind, Caryn. Leave him be.”

Dad hadn’t even been upset about having to buy Ford another pair of glasses after that. 

It was obvious that Darryl subscribed to that same dogma. Even when it’s hopeless, you don’t leave a man behind. 

As they worked their way further down the hall, Ford realized that they were heading towards a curtain, hung in an archway ahead of them. It was a dark red, the color of blood. He tried not to think too hard about that as he forced himself to keep taking step after step. 

The sound of footsteps echoed around them. Ford realized quickly that they were coming from the direction of the curtain. Someone was coming.

Darryl stopped moving, his eyes darting like a trapped animal, looking for a place to hide. He turned his head towards a statute slightly behind them on the right. He tugged Ford back towards it and stooped down to fit them both behind it. The fit was tight, and Ford fought not to give a gasp of pain as a rib stabbed maliciously inside him, but at least it was dark and well out of the line of sight of anyone coming down the hall. 

Not that that helped still the wild pounding of his heart. This close, Ford could feel that Darryl’s heartbeat was very much the same. 

The footsteps drew closer, and Ford began to hear voices along with them.

“...just be grateful when this whole thing is over with,” said a gruff, masculine voice. “Having that six-fingered weirdo here gives me the creeps.”

To Ford’s shock, the voice of an older woman answered the man. “At least no one is looking at you like you’re some kind of failure.” He heard her give a frustrated huff. “Still can’t believe that little bitch did this to my face.”

“It’ll heal, Louise.”

Louise? Wait, the grandmotherly secretary from the hospital? That Louise?

“How the hell am I supposed to explain it to my husband, huh? Between Helen and that oaf who was with her, I look like I’ve been in a bar fight.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. You are a pretty dern good liar after all.”

Louise let out a small giggle. He’d never have believed that something so small, dainty, and innocent-sounding could ever send an unsettled chill down his spine. 

“You’d make a girl blush, Leroy Muggins,” she said, as casually as if they were exchanging pleasant small talk.

Leroy Muggins? As in Sheriff Leroy Muggins? The sheriff was in on this?

“‘Sides,” Muggins continued, “at least you got a few good hits in on the grimy one. When I saw him at Helen’s, he looked pretty rough.”

“Serves him right for hitting a lady. I should have given Helen a few good ones too. Never did like that uppity little tramp much…”

“Well, don’t you fret too much, alright? If everything goes the way Ivan wants tonight, you’ll get plenty of chances to pay them back…”

The voices faded as the two figures walked on, and Ford heard a door close. They must have gone into a different room. 

Ford and Darryl stood there for another full minute before either moved a muscle. 

This wasn’t just a group of frightened townsfolk anymore. The Society was out for blood, and their reach was deep enough that the medical community and law enforcement were involved. 

When Darryl finally seemed to snap back to life, he turned his head and looked Ford directly in the eye. The message in them was clear, for it was the exact same thing that was now screaming in Ford’s brain.

They needed to move faster. 

Slowly, Darryl edged them back out into the hall from behind the statue, and eventually reached the curtain at the end of the hall. Darryl lifted it back, less than an inch, checking the room that lay beyond. He let it drop back, then gave Ford’s hand another reassuring squeeze. It must have been all clear on the other side. 

In one fluid motion, Darryl parted the curtain and walked them through. They were now in some kind of open, circular chamber. In the middle of the room was a chair, with straps on the arms. Less than a foot away from it was a pedastal, upon which sat an orante box. The bulb of a memory gun, the large one that Ford had seen Ivan weilding earlier, glinted in the weak light. 

The sight of it made Ford shudder, and he forced himself to look away, pushing down the roiling nausea that flared up in the pit of his stomach. 

“Almost there,” Darryl said in a low whisper. He was taking Ford in the direction of another curtain, at the foot of a small set of stairs, set between two stone pillars. 

 A sense of inexplicable relief washed over him. He didn’t know how much farther they had to go, but knowing that beyond those curtains was “almost there”, out of this living nightmare he’d spent the last several hours in, away from the pain and the torture, was enough to dull every aching part of him for a moment. 

Then the curtain began to rustle. 

He felt Darryl’s body tense up against him in fear. Darryl whipped his head around sharply, doubtlessly looking for another place to hide. 

There was none. 

Ford’s heart began to beat wildly against his broken ribs. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. There was no way they could have come this far only for it all to amount to nothing.

The curtain parted, and Darryl took a tentative step back, clutching Ford tighter to him that ever before.

And through the curtain stepped Stan, looking around at the bizarre scene in front of him. Helen followed shortly after, looking just as confused. She was carrying a baseball bat.

Ford didn’t think before he let out a raspy, “Guys?”

Stan’s head whipped in their direction, and the confusion gave way to pure shock, like he was looking at a very familiar ghost.

“Ford?” he said quietly.

“Yeah…” Ford ground out in response.

“Holy shit, Ford!” Before Ford could say anything else, his brother was upon him, pulling him close to him in a tight hug. 

Ford’s eyes welled up instantly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been needing this, the strong, loving support of his twin. He thought back to that morning, now seeming like a lifetime ago - Stan’s hand on his back to soothe away his anxiety, his gravelly voice offering soothing platitudes and nonsense to ease his guilt, his warm smile making him feel like everything would be okay. 

He’d been genuinely afraid that he’d never get to experience any of that again. He buried his face against into the crook of his brother’s neck and let out a strangled sob.

“Hey, Sixer, hey, it’s okay,” Stan said. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Ford wanted to say something, but Stan shifted his arm, and suddenly his broken ribs were stabbing at him again. Ford pulled his head out of Stan’s shoulder and gave a weak cry of pain. He managed to say, “Stan…” in a strained whisper before it was swallowed up in a desperate gasp for air. 

Stan pulled his arm away immediately and began babbling, “Oh god, Ford, I’m so sorry. You’re gonna be okay, alright? We’re gonna get you outta here. You’ll be okay, pal, you’ll be okay.”

“Oh my god, Ford, what did they do to you?” Helen’s worried voice reached him, and Ford managed to pull his head back up enough to see her practically running to close the distance between her and the brothers. Behind her was Fiddleford and Dr. Matthews, from the hospital. Ford didn’t have time to ask what he was doing there before Stan stepped off to Ford’s unsupported side to let Helen in closer to him.

“How the hell did you guys get here?” Darryl asked incredulously. 

Helen and Stan seemed to realize in that moment that Darryl was there, and turned to take him in - his mouth hanging agape, his eyes wide. 

“Darryl? The fuck are you doing here?” Stan asked, his voice practically climbing an octave in shock.

“You know what,” Helen finally said, sounding so very tired, “I’m not even surprised.”

A brief look of sheepishness flashed across Darryl’s face. He composed himself quickly, though, and said, “He’s in pretty bad shape, Doc. We need to get him out of here.”

“What’s the damage?” Helen asked, clearly trying to keep her gaze analytical and objective, to force herself into doctor mode. But Ford could see the concern in her eyes, that maternal warmth that had let Ford know, from the moment he met her, that she was someone he could trust. It was clear she wanted to embrace him just as much and as hard as Stan did. Instead, she merely reached out a hand and stroked it quickly, but lovingly, through his hair. She winced a bit when her finger got caught slightly where it was matted with blood.

Ford leaned into her touch, not even caring how silly it made him look. He was past that. 

“Blow to the back of the head, broken ribs. ” Darryl replied. “He’s been having trouble breathing, so I’m thinking one of them is getting close to his lungs. We need to get him to the hospital before we got a real mess on our hands.”

Helen nodded, her eyes watery behind her glasses. “Let’s get you out of here,” she said, voice strained. 

“I’ll help Darryl support him, Stan,” said Dr. Matthews, coming up to Stan’s side. “We need you at the front.”

Stan didn’t move, and gave Matthews a look that could have frozen molten steel. Ford felt his brother’s grip around his waist tightened protectively.

“Stan, he’s right,” Helen said. “You’re the semi-professional boxer. If we run into any trouble, we’ll need you to do what you do best.”

That finally seemed to get Stan to relent, and he gently helped Doctor Matthews arch Ford’s arm over his shoulders. Ford noticed that, throughout the entire maneuver, Stan never took his steely gaze off Matthews, even for an instant. They began to move toward the steps.

“Let’s hurry and get back up into the museum,” Fiddleford suddenly said from his position at the bottom of the stairs. He was pulling back the curtain, and frantically looking beyond them, clutching a knapsack close to his side. 

The museum? They were under the museum? Had Fiddleford been that close to him this entire time and Ford hadn’t even realized it? All he had to do was come into town and come to the museum, and he could have spared his friends this horrible night?

Fiddleford wouldn’t have been targeted by a mad cultist with a mysterious but dangerous agenda. 

Stan wouldn’t have a series of angry-looking stitches trailed down his temple.

Helen wouldn’t have had her very sense of peace and privacy violated.

Darryl wouldn’t having to risk his life for someone who’d caused him nothing but misery.

Once again, if he’d just been a better person, none of this would have happened. 

A wave of pain that had nothing to do with broken ribs crashed over him as his eyes welled up again.Before he had a chance to think about it, Ford murmured, “I’m so sorry, guys. Th-this is all my fault.”

“Shut up, Ford,” Stan said firmly. “Just shut up. You’ve got nothing to apologize for, you hear me?”

“He’s right,” Helen added gently, “This isn’t anyone’s fault but Ivan’s.”

“If it wasn’t for me, Ivan wouldn’t even be a problem,” Ford countered miserably. “This entire night, i-it’s my fault...I’m sorry…”

His eyes drifted shut as the tears trailed down. He was just so tired, not just physically, but mentally. He was tired of being the one who dragged everyone else through emotional hell because he was too much of a short-sighted ass to see beyond what he wanted, how he was feeling in that moment. Even when he tried to make things right, all he did was fuck it all up worse.

He heard footsteps approach him, soft and tentative, but determined. Then he felt two hands reach out and cup his face. A calloused hand gently wiped the two streaks of tears away. “Aw, hush,” Fiddleford’s kind voice said. 

When Ford opened his eyes, he didn’t know what he expected to find in Fiddleford’s expression - distrust, fear, maybe even anger. The way they’d left things at the start of all this, Ford really wouldn’t have been surprised by any of them. 

What he was greeted with instead was the soft, sweet smile of his dearest friend in the whole world.

That damn smile. It had always been like concentrated sunshine, something that always made Ford feel better when they were in school together, even at his most frustrated, his most lonely, his most afraid.

The effect hadn’t changed. 

“There’s no need for talk like that,” Fiddleford replied. Before Ford could say anything back, Fiddleford had moved his hands from Ford’s face, and wrapped his arms around his neck, in a small hug. “We both made mistakes,” he muttered into Ford’s shoulder. “At least you owned up to yours and tried to fix them. I hope, when we get you out of here, that you’ll let me do the same for you.” 

Ford couldn’t find it in himself to respond, so he just nodded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stan and Helen, watching the two. They both wore relieved smiles. 

After holding Ford for a another few seconds, Fiddleford pulled away, and said, “Back up we go.”

That seemed to spur the rest of the group on, and Helen and Stan started down the stairs, Fiddleford following shortly after. Darryl and Dr. Matthews began gently guiding Ford toward them. 

“Y’all never did answer my question,” Darryl said. “How the heck did you get here? I wasn’t exactly planning on running into any friendly faces.”

“You can thank Ed for that,” Helen replied. “Without him, we never would have gotten this far.”

A voice from the shadows suddenly boomed, “How fortunate for all of us, indeed.”

Everyone froze, only for an instant. Then in a dizzying flurry of red, almost a dozen hooded figures emerged from the shadows and descended upon them. 

One collided with Fiddleford’s back and slammed him into the ground. Stan and Helen were blindsided by two more figures and knocked the rest of the way down the stairs, landing in a tangled heap just inches from the curtain that lead to their freedom. Ford watched as they tried to kick and throw punches, but another pair of figures leapt into the fray and added more weight on them both. One even jerked the bat from Helen’s hands and tossed it away. It landed with a clatter on the stone floor, at least fifty yards away.

The support at Ford’s right was suddenly wrenched away, and Darryl only let out a shout of surprise as a robed figure wrapped an arm around his neck in a chokehold, and began wrestling him to the floor. 

Only Ford and Dr. Matthews were left standing, and he knew this old man wouldn’t stand a chance against feral cultists out for blood. He was just about to tell Matthews to run, to do something to protect himself, when suddenly he felt his left arm being wrenched backwards. He gasped as it popped in protest, pulled back further than he ever thought possible. The pain struck him like a bullet to the chest, and all he could do was let out a strangled gasp as he was forced to his knees. 

“Be a good boy and stay down, interloper,” he heard Matthews hiss at him, “or I’ll dislocate it right now.”

Through the pain, something clicked in Ford’s mind - the angry words, the voice that sounded minutes from snapping, the hands that gripped him like a vice. 

Dr. Matthews was the follower who’d been with him when he first woke up. 

Ford heard Helen yell, “Ed, what the hell are you doing?!”

Almost overlapping her, Ford heard Stan practically scream, “Matthews, get your goddamn hands off him, or I swear to God I’ll-”

The voice from the shadows rang out again. “Not to point out the obvious, but there’s not much you can do, Stanley.” 

Ford lifted his head, heavy and trembling on his shoulders, towards the source of the voice, and from the shadows emerged Blind Ivan, seamlessly as if he’d melted into reality from the inky blackness. On his face was a satisfied smile. Ford felt his heart fall to his shoes.

This had been Ivan’s plan all along. 

He’d used Matthews to lure Stan, Helen, and Fiddleford here. 

Matthews had been working against them from the beginning.

And now Ivan had all the pieces he needed.

The realization hadn’t seemed to dawn on Stan, and he spat, “You’re not gonna be looking so smug once I knock back your goons, cueball! When I get my hands on you, you’re gonna wish all I’ll do is kill you!”

Ivan didn’t respond. He just snapped his fingers. 

At the sound, Matthews reared back his foot, and brought it down sharply on the back of Ford’s knee. It gave with a sickening crunch, like a piece of rotted wood being split by an axe.

A roar of agony was ripped from Ford’s lungs, and he lost his balance completely. He hit the cold stone roughly on his side, and he let out another, tighter scream of pain as he landed squarely on a broken rib. Matthews brought his foot back down roughly on Ford’s back, applying just enough pressure to make Ford fearful to even breathe, for fear that Matthews would start grinding his heel into more of his broken bones.

Ford let his head fall limply to the floor, and looked to his friends. They all stared, in dumbstruck horror, between him and Matthews. 

There was nothing any of them could do to help him.

They’d lost.

“Now then,” Ivan said. “I believe it’s time we got down to business.”

[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

[sartle-blog]

Mental Health Art History: 5 Artworks Depicting Asylums

Yard with Lunatics (cropped) by Francisco Goya

There is such a cliche about artists and madness. Perhaps there’s a bit of truth to it: people who struggle sometimes see the world creatively; creative people may struggle to fit into the boxes that define the norm. It’s tempting to simplify this, but it’s a mistake. Many people living with mental health issues aren’t able to create at all, despite desperately wanting to. Illness takes over. And yet, there are some amazing people who persevere and create magnificent works of art despite their challenges.

In fact, a surprising number of works from famous artists were created while those people recovered in asylums, at mental health retreats, or other inpatient care. Some were created afterwards, but depicted what the artists saw in those places. If you’ve ever seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest then you know that art can depict those places in the most horrifying of ways. We may even want to look away. But looking at those challenging pieces can help us better understand some of the darkest times an artist has gone through.

Here are five works that specifically depict the asylum / hospital experience.

1. Corridor in the Asylum by Vincent Van Gogh

Corridor in the Asylum by Vincent Van Gogh, The Met Museum

Vincent Van Gogh created magical works of art depicting nature. His flowers, wheat fields, trees, and seascapes continue to inspire the imagination of viewers today. The painted-in-detail film "Loving Vincent" is only one of many recent examples of how artists continue to draw from his work.

The artist painted what he saw. Not all of his life was spent soaking in the beauty of landscapes bathed in natural light. He spent one terrible year of his life in the Saint-Paul de Mausole asylum. What he saw was the empty, seemingly-endless hallway represented in Corridor in the Asylum.

His letters at this time indicate that there were more than two dozen empty rooms in this corridor. He was relieved that the patients who were there didn’t harass him about his work or seem to judge his finished paintings. Still, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to have this as his inspiration. He only did a couple of other paintings of the asylum’s interior and he strictly avoided depicting what his own room there looked like, despite sharing paintings of his personal bedroom from when he was not at the asylum.

Life at the asylum was anything but pleasant. He wrote of his experience, “one continually hears shouts and terrible howls as of animals in a menagerie.” The terrifying sounds must have echoed horribly in that corridor. One patient he shared space with had auditory hallucinations and Van Gogh wrote that he seemed to be responding aloud to sounds in the corridor that no one else could hear.

Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh, MoMA

Despite the need to paint some of his experience, Van Gogh did all that he could to paint the more pleasing landscapes he remembered from his life before the institution. Whenever possible, he would sit in the asylum’s gardens, painting what he saw there instead. He arguably even created some of his best work there, including Starry Night. He was forced to imagine better times alone since nobody ever came to visit him in the asylum.

2. The Madhouse by Francisco Goya

The Madhouse by Francisco Goya at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts of San Fernando

Not one to sugarcoat things with a pretty name, Goya aptly called this painting The Madhouse. A similar painting from the asylum is called Yard with Lunatics. It leaves little to the imagination in terms of what his experience there was like.

Goya actually painted two versions of The Madhouse, the first in a vertical format and the second as the horizontal image most people are familiar with. In both we see the chaos of the madhouse experience. Naked men grapple with each other or with invisible deities. Chiefs and kings represent authority figures that easily suggest the horrifying power dynamics in 18th century asylums.

Comparing the earlier and later images, the difference that stands out most is that the latter is even more chaotic than the first. It’s as though the setting was eating away at Goya’s mind and he had to change the painting to reflect the madness in an even more thorough way.

Although he may have been losing his own mind there, his work is representative of an important turn in art history as it relates to mental health. He was on the cutting edge of what would emerge in the nineteenth century as a fascination with the subject of madness in art. There was a shift in society; madness had been something people gawked at for entertainment and was now becoming something to hide away in asylums. The art of the time reflects a new interest in what it means to be a part of this shifting culture when you as an artist are coping with mental illness.

3. Creative Therapy by Jacob Lawrence

Creative Therapy by Jacob Lawrence, Cleveland Museum of Art

The asylum experience doesn’t have to be horrible. Some people check themselves into an institution to get treatment and get lucky - they’re there at the right time in society, with the right doctors, and they get the care that they need. Art therapy has been a part of many asylum stays, and certain artists have thrived thanks to that creative outlet.

Depression by Jacob Lawrence at the Whitney Museum of American Art

Jacob Lawrence painted his Hospital series depicting the experiences he had while dealing with depression in an institution. Most of the work from this time is dark, as one would expect from scenes of an asylum. One of the most well-known works is Depression, which describes not only his own experiences of that mental illness but the depressed experience of being in the institution. Likewise Sedation, featuring psychiatric pills, emphasizes that there’s a clear question about whether the illness or the “cure” is the problem.

Sedation by Jacob Lawrence, MoMA

However, Creative Therapy offers a more positive take on what can happen in the asylum, particularly in terms of healthy treatment. It depicts the artist participating in an art therapy group there, led by a psychiatrist, in which he explored different aspects of his art and used color and perspective in new ways. Art does have therapeutic value, and when artists are allowed to work with it in therapy it can make all the difference in whether their creative impulse shrivels or thrives.

In a fun twist that he may have appreciated, Lawrence’s paintings have served as important discussion starters among older adults in contemporary art therapy groups.

4.Henry Ford Hospital by Frida Kahlo

Henry Ford Hospital by Frida Kahlo at the Dolores Olmedo Museum

This one isn’t quite from the asylum but it might as well have been. Frida Kahlo had spent her pregnancy on bedrest only to suffer a miscarriage that required an abortion to complete the process. That horrifying experience happened at Henry Ford Hospital.

She went into a deep depression, which she tried to process through her art. Each stage of the miscarriage and hospital experience is depicted in this painting, which began as a sketch while she was still in the hospital. The viewer’s eyes don’t know where to look and may want to turn away altogether. It’s lonely, scary, desolate, and desperate.

And although the experience didn’t take place in a traditional asylum, one can imagine that in this hospital setting she experienced that similar combination of focus on her the weaknesses of her mental health combined with inattentive care to the horrible experience of loss and depression she underwent during her two week stay there.

Although this is perhaps the most famous work depicting Kahlo’s struggles with infertility, it’s not the only one. In fact, some argue that it’s a critical theme throughout her work. This was only one of three medically-necessary abortions she had, and she suffered other miscarriages as well. Undoubtedly, this affected her mental health. The hospital bed is symbolic of the inevitable tie between physical and mental health, though historically society has often chosen to ignore this important link.

5. The State Hospital by Edward Kienholz

The State Hospital by Edward Kienholz

Edward Kienholz wasn’t a patient at an asylum. He was part of the staff. It didn’t make him any less affected by the horrors that can happen when things don’t go well in an institutional setting. The State Hospital reflects those horrors in all of their gory detail. He created this piece in the 1960s, nearly two decades after his two year internship in the hospital, but the experience was seared into his memory.

He described the asylum in terms that include the words: prison, brutality, and dirty. He even said that One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest was a model asylum compared to what he saw where he worked. His installation includes a model who was in actuality about to die from cancer, so he expressed that living in the asylum was essentially like being dead. The cavernous spaces in the heads in this piece suggest minds atrophying.

For several years prior to this piece, Kienholz’s installations were designed to shed light on individual horrors including those afflicting people troubled by mental illness. This piece added a new element though; holding society accountable for the abuses these marginalized people endured.

This post is part of our series on Mental Health Art History. We’ve previously shared two posts on artists with depression, plus posts on bipolar artists, artists with schizophrenia, and the unique condition of Misere.

By: Kathryn Vercillo