#but like. what fiddleford did to him was never on the same level as what bill did to ford

[jingledbells]

oh my god can we not have this fucking argument again istfg

[abyssalzones]

can you tell us about your interpretation of the better world universe!!!! especially curious how stan/mystery trio works into it

hell yesssss I definitely can. ABW is maybe my favorite niche gf thing and probably the only "AU" I care about but that may be due to the fact that it's an AU that exists in the canon and we know so little about it. so it has an established foundation that you're left to fill in the details with yourself... it's like a poke bowl to me. you can put anything in there

and since I felt like it here's a bonus pic of them living their best lives pestering ford

[explanation-y stuff under ze cut because I got very longwinded]

as for specifics of how I see everything working out, there's a few key points that establish why things happened differently from canon, the most important being:

Stan agrees to hide journal #3 somewhere

Ford reunites with fiddleford and they begin working together again

both of these are already confirmed in canon, the first being the most obvious "schism" between timelines. literally everything in ABW is the way it is because stan made a different decision. kind of crazy in terms of its implications: I feel like that moment in the basement is a really good example of how stan gets so few opportunities to shape her own life (while ford is in the picture...) because of her role as the 'black sheep' twin. it's not exactly a premeditated decision to push ford into the portal, it's her acting on feelings that have been bubbling unaddressed under the surface for 10-something years at that point, and only then does she have any sort of power over the "narrative" of both her life and the story itself, something that from her pov has been ford's story. and in the canon timeline, she says no.

so like, what the hell made her say yes in ABW's timeline? this question kind of haunts me because I feel like it has to be entirely dependent on what the inside of stan's head looked like at the time. it's possible something influenced her, but overall I think it's more interesting if ford did and said all the exact same things up until this point and it really was entirely dependent on stan's decision internally.

so stan says yes, goes on a big trip to the other side of the world somehow, and buries journal 3 somewhere probably never to be found again. yay! but, uh, going on a trip like ford was suggesting would... take weeks. that would leave ford alone again. and not to have my established thoughts informed by new material or anything but bill did give him 72 hours.

so, next order of business: how in the fuck would ford convince fiddleford to rejoin him??? I'm unsure between journal 3 and tbob's information how ford may have tried to reach out to him but it seems like fiddleford was pretty adamant about staying away from that guy, out of guilt or fear of bill/the portal or both. I don't think logically it would just be a matter of ford calling him enough times or finding out where he lives- and I think that's kind of getting away from the point of why ABW is the way it is too. if stan is suddenly making decisions that are influencing ford's life, I think it would be similarly interesting if fiddleford also possessed some unique autonomy in this scenario.

aka I think ford got fucked up badly (possibly involving losing an eye) and fiddleford found him half-dead while trying to burn his house down. [mabel voice] romance!

to clarify: I don't think fiddleford is obligated to take care of ford. a major part of him leaving the project was finally making the decision to leave a situation that was hurting him, that he'd been staying in entirely because he still cared about ford and felt on some level he could still help him (which gets broken with "I don't need you!") and I think that's a very reasonable decision on his part. but I also do have to think about all the times ford has been "the hero" in situations where fiddleford ends up hurt and helpless because of something traumatizing. I think it'd be fascinating to see that reversed and have fiddleford actively making the difficult, messy decision to take care of that guy even when they're on miserable terms. and so begins like a solid week of these two desperately trying to look out for eachother in a nightmare scenario where one of them probably needs to go to a hospital + keeps getting possessed off and on and the other is going through the worst addiction/withdrawal cycle of his life irt the memory gun. yay! (part of the reason this even works To Me also is heavily informed by the lack of secrets: if fiddleford is actively dressing that guy's wounds he can't really keep it all to himself anymore. crushingly intimate perhaps...)

stan gets back eventually. such is the context of this pic

from there it's a nebulous grab-bag of things I think could happen up to the foundation of the institute.

how do all three of these incredibly fucked up individuals get along? well they don't but then they do.

how do they get bill out of ford's head without performing amateur brain surgery? idk. my best guess is a fiddleford and stan bonding trip into ford's mindscape that potentially helps answer the first question. possibly utilizing the memory gun. shrugs.

what's up with that one picture you drew of parallel fidds holding the memory gun up to ford's head? well. okay that one might or might not be something that actually happened but the idea was just that ford is coping badly with a few specific things and I liked the idea of fiddleford "holding onto" something for him to remember and work through later when he's ready to deal with it, it's an interesting reversal of how he's normally more of a memory sink.

from the point in canon about them stabilizing the portal so that bill can't use it to get into their dimension anymore onward, I think it just becomes a matter of them living the lives they could've always had in canon without realizing it. hence "a better world." some cool tidbits I like to think about:

stan gets to transition much earlier (late 1990's perhaps?) and probably starts going by "lee" instead

she's also the institute's CMO and is mostly in it for going on business trips abroad with ford. and the money. obviously.

the institute probably also legitimately changes the world on a sociopolitical scale outside of just interdimensional travel since their research renders them uniquely untouchable and all three of them are trans (I'm cartoon logic-ing a little bit here just let me have this one)

ford is the eccentric bill nye esque face of the company, fiddleford is the backbone. that isn't to say ford doesn't do anything as I think he'd always moreso be in it for the science than the fame (though it is nice to be more than comfortable financially) but it's an open secret fiddleford keeps tabs on literally everything, he's still very security-oriented.

the northwest family now has a more prominent ongoing rivalry with the pines family that could be very funny to think about. they've taken all the LOGGING JOBS with their damn SCIENCE

part of the reason I thought ford should lose an eye is because I think having him wear an eyepatch would be a neat way to parallel stan's "role" as mr. mystery visually! stan wears an eyepatch for no legitimate reason to keep up appearances as a schlocky tourist trap host, but it also alludes to her being more than she seems under the surface. ford's eyepatch does sort of have a legitimate reason to exist, but he also could just wear his glass eye and it would probably be less "conspicuous." he chooses the eyepatch instead because it's part of his image as Stanford Pines, Founder of Oddology, and because it keeps him safe. there's also a little residual scarring there from damage to his eyelid/tarsal plate which could easily represent him hiding the more "damaged" aspects of himself under his successes. ouch.

I'm unsure if ford and stan would ever feel comfortable getting back in touch with their parents. I know a lot of people go that route with fan material but I don't think they should have to. I think they're much happier now having healed the rift between them on their own and getting to live successful lives for themselves, rather than to prove something to their father.

that being said I do think fiddleford gets in touch with emma-may and his son again and they end up on better terms with time and a Lot of effort. tate's family is now composed of his father, mother, "uncle" ford (in the ye olde gay closeted sense of referring to your dad's partner as an uncle), and auntie lee, and I like to think they go out on trips to the lake together often :]

also ford and fiddleford tie the knot unofficially (in the eyes of the government anyway) in 1990. owed to stan somehow getting "ordained" as a rabbi. don't ask me how.

the pines twins start visiting the institute from a younger age than they do irt visiting stan in the show-- but they're only permitted to come along on heavily-supervised interdimensional excursions once they turn 12. cue antics!

anyway, hopefully this extremely longwinded and loosely structured mess helped answer your question. I like ABW sooo so so much you guys

[callipraxia]

1) The scene where the hands start sneaking up and then swarm? Legitimately creepy, Stan, well-done.

2) Ah, first instance of the phrase of “crippling loneliness.”

3) So, “Abaconings.” It’s true that Stan seems to equate himself with Mabel, but I think it’s a bit of an over-simplification to say he equates Dipper with Ford. If anything, he seems to want to equate Waddles with Ford…except for how Ford’s superintelligence is innate, not some new factor which appeared from nowhere. Dipper, if anything, more closely approaches the role of the principal. Stan, hon…obviously complicated feelings about your family are especially obvious here.

4) “coping with crippling loneliness.”

5) why do I have the feeling Stan enjoyed making the Ford stand-in the source of similar forms of slapstick and surreal humor (“my pig arms are cute and useless!” “And many potatoes! Yummy, yummy, in my little pig tummy!“) as the ones he’d made himself the object of in the previous story? Do even I think it’s going a bit far to read an attempt to put them on equal footing into this, when it’s far more likely Stan is just amused by the image of a talking pig with a rocket scooter and riffing on that idea? I…might actually think that, more (probably not really) at 11.

6) I did just notice for the first time, though…Stan’s knowledge of the hand witch and the jokes about her interspersing mystical-sounding pronouncements with attempts to date him implies he read most of the visible portions of Journal 3, not just the ones with the Portal diagrams on them. We know that at least some pages with reference to “F” survived whatever Bill did to the book just before Ford buried it. This means Stan knows that Ford actually made a friend outside the family (something Stan never seems to have managed, unless you count Soos, and Bill-in-Stan’s-brain, at least, implies that Stan on some level counts Soos in with family). I doubt he has a clue that the friend in question is crazy Old Man McGucket, but he knows there was some other “dumb smart guy” whose company Ford at least sometimes enjoyed. Therefore, I…think he might have just unknowingly cast Dipper in the role of the younger F.H. McGucket.

7) While Mabel doesn’t express direct hostility toward Dipper-as-McGucket, it does seem clear she regards Dipper as actively stealing her best friend from her. So hey, background to why Stan was specifically passive-aggressive and irritated with Ford after Ford (somehow - I’d have never guessed young and old McGucket were the same man until I’d heard them talk) recognized and was conciliatory toward Fiddleford in the Fearamid. Though the fact Ford apparently expressed interest about what had happened to Fiddleford in the past thirty years in a context where “everyone” immediately made efforts to change the subject probably didn’t help, if we assume Stan was part of “everyone.” No evidence for or against the idea that he was, but Ford never wondered aloud what had happened to him after their falling out, did he? And now here’s this guy, who bailed when things got tough and apparently never looked back until the world freakin’ ended and he had no better options than raiding Stan’s apocalypse supplies. He didn’t work thirty years to fix that weirdo contraption in the basement, did he? He didn’t even pay off the ——ing mortgage! Or the taxes! Well, some of the taxes, anyway….whatever couldn’t be gotten out of without risking losing the house….

8) “Clay Day” took me a long time to find associations for, but I think I did! The words “crippling loneliness” don’t recur, but the whole episode is about the theme of imprisonment, isolation, paralysis, suffocation, etc. The only thing is, this time, Mabel is able to single-handedly rescue everyone - or, in other words, Stan rejects the moral of the previous story that he wandered into: Mabel previously sorted out her problem by communication, telling Waddles about her feelings and asking outright for what she wanted….

And one more thing. There’s that bizarre moment at the very end, when Soos unexpectedly turns into clay and Stan decapitates him before assuring the twins that “we’re safe now.” This is a thing I actually had noticed before: see, another theme of the episode, or perhaps just an extra aspect of the first, is that of transformation and control. Stan wants to control events and to an extent people, including literally bending the very fabric of reality to get the outcomes (Ford back, the relationship they had as children, no matter how unrealistic that would be after even half of what either of them has been through in the last forty-five to fifty years, back, to be recognized for an accomplishment and as the good guy in the story) he desires. Between the ability to flip Waddles’ intellect on and off like a switch in “Abaconings” and Mabel’s ability to literally reshape an opponent into an ally, there’s a feeling that…well, it could be taken a few ways. Subconsciously, though, he may well wish he could as easily remodel someone (be that Ford or the twins or himself) into a “safer” version - either himself into someone his family would want to have around or, if one chooses to take a much darker potential angle, his family into people who won’t want to leave him….

And then there’s Gumby Soos…who is not remodeled but obliterated at the end in the service of Stan’s primary objective in the story. It’s not Soos’ fault that he got turned to clay. He initially seemed to have escaped as well as anyone else did. Ultimately, however…Stan probably remembered the Zombie Soos incident in “Scaryoke,” where through no fault of his own Soos had become a problem, when he made up that bit of “Clay Day.”

Do I think Stan was consciously trying to convince himself that he could kill Soos in real life if Soos interfered with his mission? Not in so many words, no - but I don’t think it’s impossible that he would have resorted to some level of violence had he deemed it necessary, and I do think he was prepared to sacrifice that relationship if need be. Soos had been unswervingly loyal to him for ten years. He’d practically half-raised the boy. Soos’ devotion ran to the point that it occasionally disturbed him, but the relationship isn’t entirely one-sided: we see, not frequently but repeatedly, that Stan appears to trust Soos far, far more than he does anyone else, which is impressive, considering how many secrets Stan had and how generally jaded his adult life had left him. Soos appears to participate in Pines family movie nights off the clock, for goodness’ sake. However…to quote the man himself, he knew that if he succeeded in retrieving Ford, then the tiny number of people he’d developed any level or relationship with while Ford was away were “gonna hear some bad things about me, and some of them are true,” and even at his most blindly self-deluding, Stan had to know that there was no predicting how they would take that information. He’d promised Dipper there were no more bombshells. He’d fostered this illusion that he to some extent trustee Soos with his secrets, including ones the twins were not meant to be privy to, while keeping some extremely big ones still hidden - Soos missed work once in ten years, and in all that time, he never really knew the man he thought of as a father at all. Forget never knowing his history, or what he was capable of - he never knew Stan’s name. The foundations of Soos’ world were going to shake worse than the town did during the gravitational anomalies - who could know how well they would settle again?

But to quote the man himself again… “I don’t care how dangerous it is.” “I’ve come too far.” “Nothing was going to get in the way of my mission.” Including, quite possibly, everyone else he cared about at all.

9) the ending is interesting. It isn’t canon, but it nevertheless shows us Stan being extremely ruthless - something underlining that notion of the extremism of his dedication to his goals. Once Stan commits, that’s it: it will happen, or he’ll die trying to make it happen, or both. I think that served multiple purposes on a writing level:

a) In S2, we see Stan being somewhat nicer than in S1, at least to his family. We’re lulled into seeing him, to an extent, the way they do: rough-edged to the point of abrasiveness, with a slightly strange, slightly alien view on morality, but it’s not much of a struggle to understand why they love him. Here, just before we kick off that final arc where it looks like his machine may be malicious, the author manages to remind us a bit that Stan is, after all, someone who has repeatedly shown a reckless disregard for human safety when it interferes with his objectives (ex., “The Time-Traveler’s Pig,” where he prioritizes profit over the safety of the Mystery Carnival to the point that a ride with Dipper in it apparently goes to pieces violently enough that Dipper enters the scene from above, flying in a detached compartment; any of the many times he engages in aggressively dangerous driving). This theme is built up a little (here’s another new thought!) in “Love God,” where Stan appears in earnest about trying to shoot a hot air balloon early in the episode and where an image of him, distorted but still recognizable, appears as a fiery hazard descending on civilians, like some kind of cannibalistic monster from Hell. The writers also, however, do something very, very clever in both of these incidents: they put them in contexts where, the first time we see them, it’s incredibly easy to laugh them off. “Little Gift Shop of Horrors” isn’t canon, as Dipper and Mabel‘s casual reaction to the idea of a stranded motorist being glued into an exhibit helps emphasize; the episode has no consequences, so we can take it as just a distortion of Stan’s avarice written for the sake of a joke, not an event that we should consider in our evaluation of the character. As for “Love God,” the Stan subplot is pretty minimal; for the most part, it’s another very lightweight episode, focused on the social dynamics of the teenaged characters almost separate from the supernatural; the plot would remain intact if we clipped out “Love God” altogether. Just another moment where the writers went juuuuussst a little past what is in character for the sake of the joke - right? This is, after all, Stan we’re talking about: Stan, who went Captain Ahab on a pterodactyl to save Mabel’s pet. Stan, who, in his own, admittedly ineffective way, ultimately does care about Dipper, and gives him the pointer that allows the Mystery Crew to put up a fight against Bill. Who, when he was down to his last scrap of money, prioritized the twins’ well-being, and who ended up providing the information that put a dangerous and completely, by the end of the season, unhinged stalker who tried to outright murder Dipper into a high-security prison, protecting the twins from further attacks and harassment from said stalker. Who plowed through zombies with a baseball bat and ultimately his own fists to prevent Dipper and Mabel’s brains from being eaten - who supported Mabel in both of the first two mini-arcs of “The Golf War” - gives Pacifica, who he’d earlier expressed a desire to hit, a ride home instead of abandoning her in the rain - and so on and so forth. Stan’s a little intense about his money, sure, and he’s got a temper, but ultimately he usually does more or less the right thing. And he’s funny - we enjoy his antics all the time - and, just under the surface, shown occasionally to be quite emotionally vulnerable: in the first two episodes alone, he makes an awkward but sincere enough effort to cheer the twins up when they are down, and he is shown to be very lonely and capable of badly hurt feelings. Really he just runs his mouth; we know he has some lingering secrets, courtesy of the lab scenes and the crossed fingers at the end of “Scaryoke,” but this is a relatively lighthearted show and he’s basically all right. So no point in pulling a Callipraxia and over-analyzing the text to death and back; indeed, between ourselves, I’ve reason to know that Calli didn’t think a thing about these incidents during her first watch of the show. We trust Stan. We even kinda like him.

And then comes “Not What He Seems.” Then comes the government, saying that he is planning a mass casualty event…but hey, those guys are dumb as rocks, right? We just saw them arguing in a closet while playing dress-up last episode, and in their first appearance, Powers went straight from “that’s classified” to “let me tell this twelve-year-old about it” while Trigger appeared barely capable of dialogue beyond echoing key words from Powers’ sentences. But then they have a lot of evidence. And then we hear Trigger, when trapped in the SUV, actually speak intelligently. And then the buildings start lifting off the ground…all about the time that we learn Stan did steal toxic waste, seconds before we are presented with the idea that he might be a cold-blooded murderer who killed the real Stan Pines and stole his identity.

All of this in NWHS would, of course, have built on itself convincingly enough without the examples of Stan behaving unusually badly for a joke in a couple of prior episodes…but those images being in the back of our heads certainly doesn’t detract, and probably contributes to the first-time viewer’s experience of fear and tension during the episode’s climax. We’re just that little bit easier to convince when the time comes, to paraphrase the Axolotl from one of my own fics, due to having the idea suggested to us before, without our taking it a bit seriously.

and then (yes, that was all Point A - all that wall of text, which led me to find out that there’s a maximum paragraph length on tumblr apparently) we reach points b) foreshadowing, and c), the rewatch bonus.

10) I really have to write that essay about this episode sometime.

11) and also that AU where Bill makes a deal with Stan.

12) I had another point but I can’t remember it now and I want to at least start my doubtless also quite long comments on “Society of the Blind Eye” tonight. (Edited to add: it was either “don’t play the dark mirror game, that way lies madness” or “Abaconings is an even cleverer title than I thought - it sounds similar to both ‘awakenings,’ as in Waddles first becoming sentient and later having a revelation, and ‘abandoning,’ which is what Mabel feels has happened in the story and which Stan felt happened in the past.” Have ‘em both.)

Words barely serve to express how much I love this episode, y’all.

Plan: play GF season 2 while dozing for…subliminal inspiration or something.

Reality: start watching the episodes….

[introvert-no-chameleon]

Of Monsters and McGuckets

Fiddleford just wanted to have his morning coffee in peace, but Gravity Falls and the Stan brothers had other plans.

AO3

Fiddleford Hardon McGucket considered himself to be a patient, level-headed individual. One had to be if they ever hoped to survive Gravity Falls, and, even more daunting, live with Stanford and Stanley Pines. Keeping them in line was an occupation in itself. His co-workers were two of the most chaotic and morally questionable people he’d ever met in his life. (Then again, as someone who had once made a giant robot to terrorize his ex-wife in an admittedly misguided attempt to get her back, maybe he shouldn’t be throwing stones in that last department).

The point is, when it came to dealing with uncommon and frustrating situations, he usually managed to keep a straight head. But on one deceivingly lovely morning, just when he’d went out to the porch to sit back with a nice cup of coffee and the sun had just begun to kiss the horizon, he saw two large monsters sprinting towards the shack, and. Well.

It was only reasonable that he’d react the way he did.

The first thing he did was spit out his early-morning coffee, ruining his only clean tie in the process. The second thing he did was dash into the shack like the Devil Himself was on his heels. Lastly, he slammed the door shut, locked it, and began combing the living room for the shotgun he knew for a fact Stanley kept around. He thanked the Lord Stanford wasn’t here, lest he’d be chastising Fiddleford for “harming” (defending himself against) a perfectly healthy specimen. Never mind the fact that half of these subjects of study had tried to eat him, no sir. Scientific discovery was always more important.

(Sometimes, Fiddleford wondered how on God’s green earth Stanford Pines hadn’t fallen to his death into a ravine or some other nonsense in pursuit of an anomaly. Heaven knows the man, while undeniably brilliant, was severely lacking when it came to common sense).

A bang rattled the wooden door of the shack. Fiddleford yelped, dropping the pile of books he’d been in the process of moving in his scramble to find the gun. He eyed the secret lab entrance and wondered if the door would hold them back long enough for him to make a dash for it.

“Fidds, we saw you run in, will ya just open the door?”

Fiddleford froze. That voice, while even more gravelly than usual (a thing he hadn’t thought possible) was definitely familiar.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” he said, dazed, as he walked over to the door and unlocked it. “Stanley?”

Upon closer inspection, he couldn’t deny that the square-jawed face that peered down at him belonged to Stanley Pines. There were some…notable…differences, such as the fact that he had glowing orbs for eyes, all his featured seemed to be carved from stone, he had ridiculous pointy ears and fangs to boot. He’d be right at home next to the gargoyles from those pictures of cathedrals he’d studied for his History of Western Art course.

“Took ya long enough,” said Stanley, ducking his head under the doorway and lumbering inside. Each step made the floorboard groan loudly, and for a few seconds Fiddleford thought the man would break through the wood floor. “Thought we’d never get back.”

“Stanferd, do ya have…fur?” said Fiddleford, stepping away from the door to let the other man in.

Stanford—it couldn’t be anyone else, not with that straight-backed posture and furrowed brow peering over thick-rimmed glasses—walked in behind him, hands behind his back.

 Hearing the question, Stanford adjusted his glasses, with a large, six-fingered paw. His facial features were lion-esque, as was his entire body, save from the colorful green, blue and red feathered wings that trailed behind his body. He even had a cute little lion tail poking out from a hole in his pants. “It appears so, yes.” He cleared his throat. “We may have a…problem.”

Stanley, who had gone to the fridge to get a beer, came back glaring at Stanford with those bright yellow orbs. “No shit, Sixer. I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

Stanford’s ears flattened against his skull. Fiddleford would’ve found it amusing if Stanford wasn’t now 7 feet tall and didn’t have large, sharp teeth. “Language, Stanley.”

Fiddleford considered grabbing some alcohol as he took in the situation. After a few attempts at forming words, he finally settled for the question he found himself asking on a near-daily basis. “What in tarnation did ya two get yerselves mixed up in now?”

“Oi, don’t look at me,” said Stan. He jerked his clawed thumb at Stanford. “Mr. Science here was the one who just had to walk right into a mysterious, glowing lake that he almost drowned in.”

Stanford’s tail twitched, and he growled. “We almost drowned, Stanley, because you turned into 300 pounds of moving stone.”

“I was only in the lake because you started flailing around growing a tail and screamin’ for help!”

Ford sniffed, chin held up in that way it got whenever he’d start getting defensive. “Swimming with wings is incredibly difficult.”

“Yeah, I would know, I have them now.” Stanley stretched out his bat-like wings for emphasis.

Judging by Stanford’s bloodshot eyes and Stanley’s slouched posture, along with the fact that they seemed even more short with each other than usual, Fiddleford guessed that they’d been arguing on and off about this for a while. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now see right here, the two of ya best calm down, you’ll tear the shack apart if you start fighting bein’ like this.”

The two of them, while far from calm, quieted down.

“Right,” said Fiddleford. “So ya discovered some magic water that turns folks into monsters?”

“Yup,” said Stanley. “We found it in some hidden path behind some bushes and a couple of boulders.”

It’s almost as if it was hidden away for a reason. “Did ya at least remember where the path is?”

“Of course,” said Stanford, having the audacity to look indignant. “What do you take me for?”

“An idiot who got us turned into two walking Summerween costumes because he couldn’t just collect the water in a cup and some gloves like a normal scientist?” said Stanley.

“As if you would know what a “normal” scientist does,” said Stanford, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Alright, fellas. Let me just get some food in me and then we can go back out and get some samples,” said Fiddleford. “I need me some caffeine to deal with this.”

Stanford opened his mouth but Fiddleford stopped him with the same withering glare he’d give his son whenever he tried to step out of line. “Stanferd Pines, if ya think I’m gonna run around the woods with the two of you, in this here state, on an empty stomach, yer sorely mistaken.”

“Fidds has got a point,” said Stan. “You probably haven’t had anything other than that piece of toast since you woke up.”

“I suppose some food wouldn’t hurt…” said Stanford. “I did have an incredibly strong urge to maul a deer we spotted on the way over.”

Fiddleford was getting some bacon out of the fridge when he heard the end of the sentence. He straightened up and slammed the door with more force than strictly necessary. “Y-ya did?”

Stanford seemed to come to the same conclusion Fiddleford had, because he raised his paws up. “Oh, n-no, rest assured. I don’t have any inclination to eat you.”

“Thank the Lord…”

“After all,” said Stanford, rubbing his chin. “According to mythology, sphinxes only consume humans if they are unfortunate enough not to know the answers to their riddles.”

“Don’t I feel better,” said Fiddleford, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Do ya reckon ya can still have some bacon and eggs?”

“Yes, that’ll do,” he said. “Oh! I must write down our findings in my journal. Now, where did I put it…” Stanford went up the stairs, muttering to himself the entire way.

“Ya know, he actually started running on all fours at least twice on the way over.” Stan grinned through another sip of beer. “was the funniest thing I’ve seen all week.”

Fiddleford sighed. That would explain the fighting. He rolled his eyes as he saw Stanley reach in the fridge for another can and shut it before he could. “Stanley Pines, it is 8 o’clock in the morning.”

“Ooh,” Stanley raised his eyebrows. “Two last names in less than five minutes, it’s a new record.”

“Stanley.”

Stanley pouted, and even with his new…physical features, Fiddleford still found it endearing. “Aw, come onnnn, Fids, I’m emotionally distressed!”

“Yer no such thing.” He smiled a soon as back turned to the other man. He took out their skillet and placed it on the stove.

“Y’know, I gotta hand it to ya. You’ve gotten a lot more assertive since we’ve met, it’s kinda hot.”

“Yer flattery will not sway me into lettin’ ya get another drink.”

Stanley laughed behind him. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still bein’ serious. Ford didn’t even try to fight you about getting breakfast. If it was me, he’d be yelling at me by now about how we were wastin’ time and crap.”

“It doesn’t take much for the two of ya to get at each other’s necks.” Fiddleford cracked an egg on the edge of the skillet. Anyhow, that’s because he’s hiding away scribblin’ field notes. The moment he’s done, he’ll be tryin’ to drag us on out of here.”

“Eh, true.”

For a moment, the eggs sizzling and snapping on the pan filled the warm silence. His stomach grumbled as the savory smell of cooking food reached him. “Stanley, can ya hand me the coffeepot?”

The floorboards creaked behind Fiddleford. A shadow loomed over him. “Stanley?”

“…You’re not, uh, scared of me or nothin’?” Stanley’s voice had gotten so quiet Fiddleford had hardly heard him.

Fiddleford glanced back at Stanley, who despite his size was hunched over, looking mighty small for someone who was now a literal boulder.

“Why on earth would I be?”

Stanley blinked meekly. He gestured towards his entire body. “Uh…’cause I look like this?”

Ah. He did try to threaten them with a shotgun. Some of the unease he’d gotten rid of returned, but he tried his best not to show it. He swallowed down his fear as best as he could. “Should I be?”

Stanley frowned. “Eh, I mean, I feel different, but not in a “eat somebody” kinda way. I do have a very strong urge to perch on the roof and attack pigeons.”

“Fascinating.” Even without his caffeine, his scientific curiosity was finally starting to get the best of him. “Well, gargoyles are known as guardians meant to ward against evil. Perhaps you’ve developed some sorta protective instinct…”

He stopped mid-ramble. Even without eyes to speak of, Fiddleford could tell Stanley was avoiding his gaze.  

Fiddleford brought his hand to Stanley’s cheek. It felt warm, to his surprise, like rock that had baked under the afternoon sun. Stanley peeked up at him. “Darlin’, the only thing I’m afraid of is the damage you’ll cause around the lab if we don’t turn ya back. Yer like a bull in a china closet as it is.”

Stanley chuckled, leaning into Fiddleford’s touch. “Somebody has ta make things interesting around here.”

Something crashed overhead, quickly followed by a string of curses. A series of heavy objects thumped against the wood overhead.

“I’m alright!” called Stanford’s voice. “I simply knocked a bookshelf over my person, but this new form is surprisingly durable!”

“Things are interestin’ enough as it is,” said Fiddleford, his brief moment of curiosity gone as soon as it came. “Where in tarnation is the coffeepot?”

“Relax, Fiddlenerd, I’ll make ya a fresh one.” He went over by his side, giving him a playful shove that sent Fiddleford to the ground. “…Oops. Sorry, uh, forgot about the whole…stone thing.”

Fiddleford glowered up at his boyfriend, taking his hand as he helped Fiddleford back up. “Yer lucky a got a soft spot fer ya, else I’d be mighty cross.”

Stanly gave him the gentlest peck on the top of Fiddleford’s head. “Once I have my human body back, I’ll make it up to ya.”

Stanley gave him a cup of his precious lifeblood, black with two sugars, just as he liked it. Smirking, Fiddleford took a sip, getting warmed by more than just the coffee. “I’ll hold ya to that.”

*

Somebody please give Fiddleford a raise. 

Comment on what monster you all think Fidds should be, and I may do a second part. I've read some people make him a scarecrow, and I considered making him a centaur.

[rhodochrosite-love]

College Ford x shy! male! reader

Hi! Dedicating this to @lantern-light-and-starry-skies and @guilty-pleasures-abound for the great idea!  I hope my writing suffices, it’s a lil angsty ;n;

Title- Hopes for the Hopeless

Pairing- Ford x reader, Backupsmore Ford x reader

Characters- Stanford Pines, You, Fiddleford McGucket, unnamed professors, unnamed students

Summary- You live in your own little world, full of fantasy and surprises.  What happens when campus genius Ford Pines makes his way into your bubble?

Tags- Heartbreak, angst, sorry guys it’s sad, male!reader, though nothing’s specifically pointed to you being male, it’s fine, shy!reader, fluff, Ford x reader

Backupsmore University was a land of missed opportunities and disappointment.  If you were gifted, it didn’t matter.  You were in the deep, dark maw that was Backupsmore and there was almost nothing you could do about it once you were enrolled.

Almost.

If you partner up with the college’s 2+2 program, it got you out of there within two years with the credits necessary to take the next level of courses in your major somewhere else.  It was a win-win for both the college and the students, for obvious reasons.  

That’s why you were here.  You double majored in Art and Creative Writing, which always seemed to bore more than half of the people who asked (most being family).  You always assure them, however, that you are the best in class.  After all, you were told so by the one and only brainiac on campus; Stanford Pines.

When you first met him, he struck you as a bright-eyed, wildly curious geek.  Not to say that you weren’t a geek yourself-- the Tolkien books weighing down your book bag certainly proved that.  But the way he challenged the professor at least once every class period struck you as both odd and fascinating.  You had always wondered what it was like to be that enthusiastic and curious, like many were once.

So when Stanford had been urged to observe his classmates as per instruction (don’t just pursue yourself, compare yourself, Pines!), and had leaned in to glance at your work, you were surprised by how much interest he had taken into it.  “This linework is impeccable, how did you manage to get that consistency with that pen?!” or “Your shading style compliments the negative space of the page very well!”

It was safe to say that after that, you were smitten with him.

Your desires to transfer to another school were slowly being abandoned with the hopes that he would notice you, poor ol’ you, in any way possible.  You tried wearing something other than your jeans and sweatshirt for something a little catchier, but he didn’t seem to notice.  You tried casually flirting with him, which turned into you just blabbering on and on about naked mole rats, which was awkward for the both of you.  You even tried to read up on books that could potentially teach you how to ‘catch a man’, but anything like that was classified as cheesy romance novels that all the middle-aged professors and freshman girls were checking out from the library, so you were left in the dust.  To simply daydream in your own little world, what it would be like to hold his wonderfully weird hands, to see him smile just for you, to lean in for a kiss at the same time and feel the affection radiating off of him… 

“Y/N?  Are you with me?”  Your thoughts were interrupted by Ford, who was walking beside you up a short flight of stairs.  You flushed red, and quickly reassured him that you, in fact, were.  And totally not dozing off.  Not at all.  

The genius chuckled, “Well, I certainly hope not!  I wouldn’t want you passing out, especially on the stairs!  What an awful place to fall...”  You nodded, your cheeks a pretty pink now.  That’s right, you were going to Ford’s dorm.  Not for anything scandalous!  The two of you were studying for quite a while at your apartment just off campus.  And seeing as though you didn’t want him to stress about his term paper that ‘still needed reworking’, you wanted to drive him back. You’ve been there, totally stressful…. Although you couldn’t help but wonder what may have happened if he decided to stay the night?

“Glad ya’ could join me, Ford, at…”  A southern voice sounded from the darkness of the room, “... 1:47 in th’morinin’.  Where’ve you been all darn night, huh?”  “Certainly not at any jug-band concerts, I’ll have you know.”  Ford responded hastily, turning to set up the table in the corner to continue his term paper.  

You turned to Ford’s roommate, offering a small wave of hello.  He perked up at the sight of a guest, and smiled fondly.  “You’re Y/N I presume?”  You’re cheeks went pink again, and asked the man how he knew you.  He laughed, “Ford talks about ya’ sometimes!  Y’seem like a real nice fella’, is all.”  He reaches out a long-fingered hand for you to shake, “Fiddleford McGucket.  Pleased t’meetcha!”  You nod in agreement, a few moments later finding yourself looking around on Ford’s side of the dorm before quickly saying goodnight to the both of them and exiting.

You had become more embarrassed by yourself than you ever had before.  You had imagined all sorts of both innocent and lewd situations with the brainiac and yourself there in his dorm… They were all so vivid that you could almost reach out and make them all reality.

You came to a logical conclusion.

You were gonna get a haircut.  

It wasn’t all that intense, really.  Before, your hair ended at about shoulder-length and was often unkempt, but now it widened out, exposing your ears and brushing your bangs off to the side ever so carefully.  You looked in the mirror that afternoon and finally decided on what to do… You were going to tell him how you feel.  

The following day, when 9:30 rolled around for Drawing and Painting class, you wore your best duds-- high waisted slacks with a button up shirt with two, no THREE, buttons undone from the top, and the sleeves rolled up to your elbows.  All complete with sleek, dark shoes and a casual belt with a silver buckle, you felt like you could do anything you wanted!  It had to go positive when you looked this good, right?

“I’m sorry… I’m afraid I don’t feel the same.”

You leaned away from Ford.  What did he say?

“I… I don’t feel the same, Y/N.”

Shit, you said that out loud?  Fuck.  Why did this happen?  Why does this always have to happen…

You always get your hopes up with a guy, don’t you?  You always end up being disappointed by what you can’t have-- Correction, by what you’ve never even had in the first place.  You really thought it could be possible to love someone, even after your last breakup?  Stanford was different, but apparently not, according to the situation at hand.  Fuck, how could you be so stupid?!

“Hey.. Hey, please don’t-- Don’t cry.  I’m sorry, I really am!  I’m not looking for a relationship right now… I thought you knew that, please don’t cry.”

You both stood there now, outside the classroom, 3 feet apart from where you were; your hand was on his arm, the other hand close to your chest.  Now they were both clenched against each other, trying to find some way to escape your body as hot tears flew from your eyes like someone turned on a sprinkler.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying until he pointed it out to you, to which you turned away from his gaze and avoided it.  You apologized, too, mostly on instinct, and promised that you’d never bother him again, quickly turning to leave.

Ford suddenly grabbed your arm after a single moment of hesitation, “Y/N, wait!”  You turned to look at him-- your eyes beginning to puff up and turn a shade of pink, letting your tears drip down off your chin, you waited for him to say something (anything!) before shaking him off and running to your car.

After throwing yourself in the driver’s seat, you started up the engine, both hands clenched on the wheel.  After holding in everything from the previous moment to the wheel, you finally let go.  Wailing and weeping, similar to a child.  However, you would think that would be associated with selfishness or with tantrum.

No, you cried like a child who’s dreams were crushed.  Who’s hopes were burnt like the cheapest wood in the forest.

You wondered how long the heartbreak would last this time.

If you made it to here, I thank you!  This certainly isn’t my first time writing but it was fun to do!  Leave a comment or a like and I’d love to talk to anyone about our favorite boy!

[nikxation]

If You Give a Mothman a Loan

Huge thank you to @birdgirlamp for commissioning me to write a fic by donating to WHO (if you want more information, see this post). Sorry it took so long to get this out, but here it is! Hope you enjoy!

Word count: 2359

Characters: Stanford Pines (pre- and post-portal), Fiddleford McGucket (pre-portal), Wendy Corduroy (post-portal... obviously)

~ ~ ~

It’s three months into Fiddleford’s stay in Gravity Falls, and the skeleton in the closet (or the portal in the basement) is slowly looking less and less like just a bundle of messy wires and half-finished structural supports and more like the behemoth of a machine it’s meant to be. The raw stock for the exterior plating should be here any day now, the first of the two power transfer beams is online, and every day is another day closer to their end-goal.

He’ll hand it to Stanford Pines, this is some of their best work yet.

He still remembers the day he arrived and Ford showed him the initial drafts. He’d thought the size was overkill, that the hollowed-out basement beneath the house would just become a room with decent acoustics for him to practice his banjo playing away from his old college roommate while the real machine was built somewhere less cold and damp.

Boy howdy was he wrong.

Now, every time he walks in the room, he feels the thing like the presence it is, towering stories tall, looming over him in a way that he would almost consider menacing if it weren’t for the fact that it’s just a machine.

He’s got blueprints and prototyped miniatures of literal death bots.

So why would the interdimensional portal in the basement put him on edge?

It shouldn’t.

So he shakes the thought away and gets back to work.

An unsuccessful system test led to the time-shift circuit on motherboard seven incinerating again. If he were the kind of man to actually keep count (which he certainly is), he’d know it’s the fourth time in the past week this same part has crapped out on them.

It’s also the reason he’s gonna finally stop out-sourcing these parts and just start making them in-house from now on. He’s about sick of replacing them every five minutes.

That’s what brings Fiddleford to where he is now, with his upper body shoved halfway inside the portal’s support structure and crammed between God knows how many electrical components. His arms have just started to cramp in their rather unnatural position as he pries at the burnt-out part to replace it with a newer one that will hopefully hold out against the power output better than its predecessor.

Ford’s sitting in the control room, supposedly running through some of the math again to double-check that they didn’t miss anything.

The “supposedly” is only because, for the past twenty minutes, the man has been prattling on like Fiddleford’s grandma at Sunday family brunch. He can only hear the occasional snippet from his position (quite literally) inside the portal, and as far as he can tell, he thinks he’s talking about either his most recent research outing, or something about preacher scouting. He wants to lean towards the former, but with the new stories he’s found about a so-called “velocipastor”, he can’t rule out the latter. Either way, the man hasn’t stopped talking long enough to breathe, let alone re-run equations that use relative space-time physics with integrated fourth dimensional calculus.

Fiddleford just doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he really can’t hear him.

He snaps the ribbon cable off the still-smoking component (after the first time it blew, he learned to bring heat-resistant gloves in here with him) and is rather glad to see it’s still intact. Rewiring is a day-long project he’s glad to not have to do again. He maneuvers his hand back out into open air and tosses the old piece somewhere into the room before getting to work mounting the new one.

Ford’s voice echoes from the next room over.

“… extra funds… exploring… investing for…”

Bolting the circuit down turns out to be easier the fifth time he has to do it, and he’s about to start running a simple, probably non-exploding test to make sure the new part is integrated correctly when he hears—

“… so I gave Mothman a thousand dollars…”

And that, of all things, stops Fiddleford in his tracks.

“Come again?” he yells. He had to have misheard because he swears he just heard the man say—

“I ran into Mothman in the woods yesterday,” Ford says, all too nonchalantly, “and they told me they were starting up a small business and needed an investment, so I gave them a thousand dollars from my excess funds with a verbal agreement that they would pay me back within the year.”

… So he didn’t mishear him, that’s for darn sure.

The fact that the Mothman is real is surely weird enough. But he’s lived in Gravity Falls (and known Stanford Pines) for long enough that it doesn’t really surprise him too much. No, that’s not the part that brings him to wiggle himself out of his position inside the portal’s underbelly just enough so that he can meet Ford’s eyes in the other room.

“You gave Mothman… a thousand dollars…” Fiddleford says slowly.

“To help kickstart their new business, yes.” It’s so casual, like he doesn’t even register the inherent absurdity in what he’s saying.

“And that business is?”

“Mothballs.”

“Stanford!”

“What?”

“That’s the stupidest scam I’ve ever heard.”

Ford sputters, his face aghast for a moment. “I did not get scammed by Mothman!”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

“Do you even know what mothballs are for?”

He pauses, his mouth snapping shut, his face turning the slightest shade of red. Fiddleford can see it from the next room over. “No. I always assumed they were some biproduct created by moths during reproduction or something.” Fiddleford lets his head fall back, bonking on a bar of the steel framework behind him.

“Stanford, they repel moths,” he says. “You just let a bunch of moths convince you they’re starting a business making the thing they hate. That’s stupider than the time my neighbor tried to convince me his cat could see God. And you have three PhDs!”

“Four now,” he says quietly, and Fiddleford levels him with a single raised eyebrow.

“You’re gonna go back, find that over-glorified insect, and get our money back. Or so help me, I will never do another grocery run for as long as I live here.”

“Oh come now, that’s hardly fair. You know I hate going into town.”

“Then you better hurry along and find him.”

“You honestly believe the actual Mothman is pulling a con.”

“People lie, Stanford,” he says, finally ducking himself back into the machine to finally run the diagnostic on the new circuit. “Even cryptids and aliens probably from another dimension.”

There’s a moment of silence, but it’s broken a few moments later by the sound of a chair scuffing on the floor and footsteps ascending the wooden stairs out of the basement.

Fiddleford snorts, shaking his head and getting back to work.

~ ~ ~

“So, like, the Mothman,” Wendy says, keeping pace next to him as they make their way back into the woods, the sun’s last rays just starting to slip behind the trees. “The actual Mothman. He’s real?”

“As real as any of the other anomalies in this town,” Ford says, adjusting the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. He’d heard the cryptid had come back into town again shortly after Wierdmageddon, and after his first attempt at getting his money back a few weeks back (second if you count that time over three decades ago) went sour, he decided to bring back-up this time. But with Stan still out of commission and the kids rightly wanting to stay with him, he was hard-pressed for options. That is until the cashier girl piped up and said she’d do it for ten percent of whatever they recovered.

Ford negotiated her down to eight and a half. She drives a hard bargain; he can see why Stan hired her.

“Dude, that’s sick,” she says.

“I mean, I hardly think they’re ill or anything,” Ford says. “As fast as their moths die off, they re-introduce new ones to the population through some sort of reproductive mitosis—”

“Nah dude, it’s a phrase,” she cuts him off. “Means, like, ‘that’s awesome’.”

“Ah, alright.” Ford pauses to check the anomaly scanner on his watch, the little white blip flashing on the screen. “I’ve never been exceptionally ‘with it’ when it comes to slang, so you’ll have to pardon my misunderstanding.”

“You’re fine, Dr. Pines,” she says. She kicks a loose rock off into the brush. “I’m pretty sure Stan doesn’t understand half of what I say either.” Ford hums an affirmative, intently watching the small blip on his watch, confirming that it is, in fact, slowly moving in their direction. After a few seconds, he drops the bag he’s been carrying with a thwump, a bit of dust swirling up from the dirt.

“We’re going to set up the trap right here,” he says. “We have probably ten minutes until the Mothman comes through here, so we’ll need to act quickly.”

“You got it boss-man.”

It’s a fairly simple net trap, one that they make short work of assembling. Ford had already built the majority of it to bring out here, including a magic-imbued mosquito net that should contain the Mothman’s consciousness so long as they catch the majority of their moths.

He made that mistake last time, the Mothman managing to escape in the couple moths that his trap missed.

“So, you really were in, like, a different dimension for a bunch of years, right?” Wendy asks as she spreads some leaves and twigs over the net.

“Multiple dimensions,” he says as he carefully sets the trap’s trigger pole. “I travelled through thousands of them in my thirty years away from this one.”

“Dude, that’s nuts.”

“It was… pretty sick,” he says, shooting her a wry grin. Wendy groans.

“Well,” she says, “you just confirmed for me that I was right to never teach Stan slang, so thanks for that I guess.”

“Glad to help.” With the trap finally set and ready to go, he pulls the last item out of the bag: the bait, which he flicks on and gently sets down against the trigger.

“That’s a flashlight,” Wendy says, the statement almost a question.

“Indeed, it is.”

“Is it, like,” she says, waving her hands slightly, “I don’t know, magic or something?”

“Nope,” he says, backing off and giving the trap one last look-over. He has to hand it to the girl, she knew what she was doing.

“You’re serious?”

“Entirely,” he says. “It doesn’t take much to attract them. Back in the eighties, they used to hang around streetlamps and windows all the time. It’s a wonder they’re still considered a cryptid considering how blatantly out in the open they—”

He hears the tell-tale sound of fluttering insect wings, not too far off, but loud enough to make him pause. He glances in the direction and then down at his watch, the blip on the screen almost on top of them. Quickly, he motions to Wendy to hide and then does the same himself, crouching behind the nearest tree and peering around the side to watch.

It’s rather quiet for a few moments, the darkness starting to settle into the pines, the lit flashlight a lone beacon, just the sound of the pine needles whistling in the breeze and the far-off humming of the approaching cryptid. But that low hum gradually gets louder, turning to a white drone of hundreds of small wings beating in tandem.

A familiar dark shape emerges from the underbrush. Humanoid, but just barely. Ten-feet tall with two enormous wings sprouting from its back, two large yellow eyes reflecting the scattered light of the flashlight in the clearing. Their entire shape feels blurred at the edges, like someone drew a line of charcoal and smudged it, the hundreds of moths that make up their body shifting and moving amongst each other in a din of small beating wings.

The Mothman.

Ford hates to admit that the thought still sends an excited shiver up his spine.

They emerge into the clearing, glancing around and taking an immediate interest in the flashlight lying on the ground. They approach it slowly, cautiously, glancing around as if waiting for the ambush, eventually making it onto the net before moving to bend down to pick up the flashlight.

They stop.

Ford holds his breath.

“Stanford Pines,” a voice says, the sound a high whine broken up and mixed with soft clicking. The Mothman stands back upright, snapping its eyes right in his direction. Immediately, Ford’s mind starts swirling with potential fallback options to try to turn this in their favor. “Surprised you’re still alive after last week. Really think we’re stupid enough to fall for—”

“Suck mothballs, lamp licker!” Wendy screams from across the clearing, the Mothman whipping around just as a projectile of some sort (is that an axe?) flies out of the underbrush and hits the trap’s trigger dead-on, sending the net shooting upwards and capturing almost all of the moths above it. A shrill screech fills the air from the now-dangling mass of moths, but Ford is too busy gaping at the cashier girl as she emerges from her hiding spot.

“Nice shot, Wendy!” he beams, shaking off the shock and coming out to join her on either side of the now-enraged Mothman. She shrugs, retrieving the axe from off the ground and sliding it back into her belt loop behind her back.

“No biggie. My dad enters me into the annual axe-throwing competition every year. I’ve won the last 5 in a row.” Ford, having not known anything about this girl before today, is rather stunned. He certainly was not expecting that from the teen, let alone the nonchalance over it. “But anywho,” she says, turning her attention to the writhing mass in front of them. “About that money…”

~ ~ ~

About two hours after they left, Ford and Wendy arrive back at the Mystery Shack, Ford heading to the back of the house to find Stan and the kids, Wendy collecting her things and heading back out to go home, a crisp one-hundred dollar bill tucked into her pocket.

[orangeoctopi7]

A Time for Every Purpose

: Part 1 : Part 2 :

Mabel stormed up the stairs, tears streaming down her face. It seemed like every time she tried to take her mind off her troubles, every time she tried to cheer up, something came along and made things more complicated. Had it really only been two days ago that she’d been excited about turning 13 and planning their birthday party? Now she had much bigger concerns, like Bill threatening her family, and Ford extending the apprenticeship offer to Dipper and her.

What with the tears in her eyes and the thoughts swirling around in her head, Mabel didn’t see her brother coming, and collided with him as she scurried up the stairs.

“Oh, Mabel, have you seen Great Uncle Ford this morning? I need to ask him…” Dipper trailed off when he realized his sister was trying to hold back tears. “What’s wrong? Did Bill come back? Is someone hurt!?”

Mabel shook her head, wiping her face on the sleeve of her pajama shirt she still hadn’t changed out of.

“I did see Grunkle Ford this morning. He told me I could stay in Gravity Falls too, if I wanted.”

Dipper’s face lit up. Sure, he’d have to completely redo his pros and cons list now, but this took care of the biggest negative on it! “That’s great!” But then he remembered she’d come up here in tears. “...isn’t it?”

“No!” Mabel cried, trying not to break down again. “Now I have to choose between staying here with you in Gravity Falls or going home to mom and dad!”

“Well, now you know how I feel.” Dipper pointed out. “Isn’t this what you wanted, though? This way you don’t have to leave Gravity Falls behind. You get more time with your friends, a little more summer.”

“Maybe. I dunno.” Mabel sighed and sat down on the steps, very close to pulling herself back into sweater town. “That was mostly just wistful thinking because I was afraid that everything was gonna change. I didn’t think it would actually become reality!”

“Hey, I get it. This is a really big, scary decision.” Dipper sat down beside her. “But you don’t have to make it alone. I can help you make a Pros and Cons list if you want.”

Mabel turned to look at her brother. “Dipper, I know last night you said we had to talk about this when we were calm and not super emotional, but I don’t know if I’m ever gonna not be super emotional about this whole mess!”

“Well, maybe making a list will help.”

The colorful girl scrunched up her face. List making was more her brother’s thing, but maybe it would help for her to get on his level for a bit.

“Ok. As long as I get to use glitter gel pens to write it.”

* * *

Stanford stood in the empty kitchen, the phone in his hand blaring a dull dial tone now that Debbs had hung up. It slipped out of his hand and bounced against the counter door on its curly cord. The old inventor was reeling. What had just happened? True, he probably should have anticipated at least a little apprehension from the kids’ mother, but surely, after explaining the advantages and benefits of his apprenticeship, any parent would have been happy to give their children the opportunity to learn at the feet of an accomplished scientist? And not just any scientist, but a family member who loved and cared dearly for those kids! Instead, she’d acted like he was threatening to kidnap them!

Oh you fool, you’ve done it again. The negative part of Ford’s brain chided him.

The old researcher pushed the thought to the back of his mind, instead trying to justify his own reasoning. It was a pattern he’d seen again and again throughout his life. People left. It always happened sooner or later. Sometimes because they found someone or something more important. Sometimes because they realized the relationship was bad for them. Whatever the case, the outcome was always the same. Deborah was simply trying to delay the inevitable. 

“Sooner or later”, yes, and you’re asking the children to leave too soon. That’s what Stanley was trying to tell you, but of course you didn’t listen. 

“No. No, I’m not the one being unreasonable here…” He muttered to himself.

Wasn’t he? Stan, Mabel, Debbs, they’d all acted as though Ford’s desire to keep the children here was wrong. Even Dipper had been unsure about it. 

But you wouldn’t listen to any of them. You’ve only ever hear what you want to hear. Just like with Fiddleford, just like with Bill!

Perhaps the pattern of people leaving didn’t apply to everyone. Only to him.

“What is wrong with me?” He groaned as he slid down to sit on the floor.

What’s wrong with you? You’re disgusting! Of course no one wants you! The freakish hands are only the tip of the iceberg. You push away anyone with the misfortune to actually get close enough to care about you, but not without doing some serious damage first. Because you don’t understand people and their emotions and relationships. You don’t even understand your own species.

Ford dug his fingers into his hair and closed his eyes tight, trying to steady his breathing. It was true! That was why he’d felt so at home in Gravity Falls, studying supernatural beings. That was how he’d survived thirty years in the multiverse, hopping from one alien society to the next. 

The only ones who’ve ever really wanted you just wanted to use you. Bill, the Dean at Backupsmore, your father… Stan…

Stan… Ford wasn’t sure if he believed that anymore. Surely his brother wouldn’t have spent thirty years trying to fix the portal just to use Ford.

No, he was just fine using your identity to make a cozy little life for himself in Gravity Falls while you were gone.

That just raised further questions, though. Stan had a stable life here. He had to have known Ford’s return would mean giving up the identity he’d been living under for thirty years. Even if Stan hadn’t expected his brother to insist he shut his phony business down, he at least had to have known his livelihood would be endangered. Wouldn’t it have been easier not to risk it all and just leave Ford to his fate? The only possible explanation was that Stan cared enough, or at least felt guilty enough, to motivate him to continue trying for thirty years.

Still, as noble as Stan’s intentions may have been, he still put the whole world, no, the whole universe, in danger by reactivating the portal. How could he have ever expected Ford to be ok with that?

A small part of Ford couldn’t help but wonder if he would have done the same, had their roles been reversed. 

Then of course, there was Stan’s horrible timing. Ford had been this close to destroying Bill, to finally fixing his mistakes, when he was whisked back to Gravity Falls. It seemed like every time Ford got close to making a decisive strike against Bill, something went wrong. He only had himself to blame for the glue situation, but if Stan hadn’t...

It wasn’t like he had known.

He still shouldn’t have done it. It was far too dangerous.

If Stan hadn’t brought him back, he never would have met Dipper and Mabel.

Stan had put the children in danger on top of everything else.

If it hadn’t happened when it did, Ford would have died trying to take Bill down with him.

Ford had known the risks and had been prepared to make whatever sacrifice was necessary to bring Bill down. Stan had ruined his chance… hadn’t he?

You heard what Bill said. He hates you. Why can’t you just hate him back?

Bill always lies. 

There was an abundance of evidence that Stan didn’t hate him. That he actually cared quite a lot.

Ford curled in on himself, the warring thoughts swirling in his head blocking out the rest of the world around him. He didn’t hear his brother coming until the old conman appeared in the doorway, eyes blazing with fury.

“Ford!” Stan shouted, his voice charged with anger.

He hates you.

Ford’s fight or flight instincts took over, and this time they favored flight. He had to get out of there. He darted out of the room as fast as he could.

* * *

Dipper was glad that Mabel had accepted his help to put together her own Pros and Cons list. Not only was it helping him redo his list, she also came up with several negative points he hadn’t considered, like the fact that he’d be leaving behind his friends back at Piedmont Junior High. While Mabel definitely had more friends at school, there were still a couple of classmates that Dipper would consider his friends, although he wasn’t nearly as close with them as he had become with Soos and Wendy. 

Besides, he did kinda feel like he’d been neglecting Mabel over the past couple of days. He was just trying to figure all of this out, the rift, Ford’s apprenticeship, and Bill. Trying to comfort Mabel on top of all that just seemed like too much. Once he had the time to sit down and organize his thoughts, to really think things out, it became much less overwhelming. He trusted his Great Uncle to deal with the rift and Bill for now, and he was figuring out the apprenticeship thing.

It was interesting to see Mabel’s thought process as she put together her own list. She liked Dipper’s point value system, but they both scored the same things very differently. She thought getting to explore the caves behind the falls was only worth three points, tops, and she classified continuing to work at the Mystery Shack as a pro, not a con. 

Dipper decided not to share his doubts on whether Ford would allow Stan to continue running the Shack out of his home. Mabel already had enough on her mind.

"So, once you finish your list, you add up the points on both sides and whichever has the most points wins." Dipper explained.

"How do you know when it's finished?"

Dipper shrugged. “Just… whenever you can’t think of any more pros or cons, I guess.”

“But what if I forget something important?”

“Well, I mean, it can’t be that important if you forgot it.” 

Mabel sighed and started adding up her totals. Dipper did the same. Pros won out on both lists, although Mabel’s was by a slimmer margin. The boy laughed excitedly and beamed at his sister. She gulped. Despite what the numbers said, this still didn’t sit right with her.

“So we’ll both stay in Gravity Falls, together!” Dipper exclaimed. “I can’t believe it, this is like a dream come true!”

Mabel gasped. “Wait, that’s it!”

“What?”

“I think I finally figured out why I feel so wrong about this apprenticeship thing!” Mabel grabbed her brother by the shoulders. “You said you can’t believe it! Why?”

Dipper’s smile faltered. “Mabel, it’s just a figure of speech…”

“Yeah, but you used it now for a reason. Why?”

“Because…” Dipper stopped and thought about it for a moment. “Because if you’d told me two months ago that I was going to stay in Gravity Falls and work with the Author of the Journals, and that he was a long-lost relative, I’d think you were crazy.”

“Exactly. And I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Gravity Falls. I wanted more time with my friends.” Mabel agreed. “You said it yourself. Taking Grunkle Ford’s offer is a dream come true. Because staying in Gravity Falls is like living in a dream, or a fairy tale!”

“...What are you getting at here?” Dipper asked apprehensively.

“If we stay here, that’s not preparing us for the real world! We need to grow up in the real world first!”

“Are you implying that Gravity Falls isn’t real? That we’ve just dreamed up this whole summer?” Dipper asked incredulously. 

“No, of course not!” Mabel scoffed. “Sorry, maybe I’m not explaining this very well. Obviously, Gravity Falls is real. We’ve got real family and real friends here. And we’ve both grown up a lot over this past summer here. But would we keep on growing if we just stayed here all the time? Would we learn the things we need to grow up if we stay in a place where most of the grown-ups still act like kids? This is the kind of place where a nine-year-old can claim to be a child psychic and everyone believes him. This is the kind of place where the local kooky hobo is a genius inventor who builds death robots. This is the kind of place where a long-lost Grunkle can come out of a mysterious portal. This is the kind of place where a sad journalist like Toby Determined can have his own newspaper. Does that sound like the real world to you?”

Dipper grimaced. “Yeah, I guess I see your point. But… I thought you didn’t want to grow up?”

Mabel frowned and rubbed her arm sheepishly. “You’re right, I don’t want to…” She then looked up with renewed determination in her eyes. “But I know that I need to.”

The boy gave his sister a proud smile “You’re a lot more mature than most people give you credit for.”

“Thanks, Dip.”

“But…” His face fell. “I do feel like there’s so much more to learn about Gravity Falls… and I don’t want to disappoint Great Uncle Ford. I know he’d really love us to stay. I get the feeling he’s really lonely. The apprenticeship is everything I’ve wanted all summer… how can I just walk away from it?”

Mabel patted her brother on the shoulder. “Well, even if it’s not the right time to stay in Gravity Falls now, maybe someday when we are a little more grown up, we could move out here all year. So don’t think of it as walking away. Just think of it as saying ‘Not now’. And don’t worry about Grunkle Ford. He’s our family and he loves us! I’m sure he’ll understand.”

Dipper sighed and nodded. “I hope you’re right. Ever since Ford offered me the apprenticeship, I haven’t felt ready. He said I shouldn’t worry, because I’ve already accomplished so much, but I guess it’s not really about doubting my own abilities. It’s just not the right time in my life.”

“Guess we should go tell him, then, huh?”

“Oh yeah!” Dipper smacked his head. “I was heading downstairs to ask him to help Wendy with Bill-proofing her house. Maybe we can talk to him about it after that?”

Mabel nodded. “Yeah, making sure Wendy and her family are safe is more important. And it’s like Grunkle Ford keeps saying, we’ve got all week!”

* * *

After leaving Soos to look after the giftshop, Stan made a beeline for the kitchen where he knew his brother had been using the phone just moments ago. That nerd was about to get the talking-to of his life!

“Ford!” Stan called as he stormed down the hall. No response. 

He pushed the door open brusquely. The kitchen appeared empty, and the phone was hanging off its hook.

“Ford?” He called again. Suddenly, a figure shot out from behind the table. Stan barely had time to register that it was his brother before Ford dashed out of the room. What the heck had he been doing hiding practically under the table?

“Oh no, you’re not gettin’ off that easy!” Stan grumbled under his breath as he followed his brother. Sure, he wasn’t as fast as Ford, but the nerd had scrambled away so frantically that it wasn’t hard to follow his trail.

Unsurprisingly, the string of jostled furniture and scuffed floors led straight to Ford’s room. Also unsurprisingly, the door was locked. Stan rolled his eyes and slid a bobby pin out of his sleeve. What was even the point of locking a door that was so easy to pick?

Stan’s frustration with his brother evaporated as soon as he opened the door and got a good look. Ford was sitting in the corner of the sectional couch, curled up on himself. It wasn’t too far off from Mabel’s “Sweater Town”. The old researcher’s breaths came in short, shallow gasps, and he was eyeing his brother with the sort of caution a normal person would give an angry moose.

Was Ford… having a panic attack?

“Hey…” Stan said softly, approaching his brother with caution. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Ford took a deep breath, and Stan could practically see his brother bottling up his emotions as the old nerd’s face became blank.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.” Ford said stoicly.

“Sure. And you bolted out of the kitchen just now because you saw a spider.”

Ford's blank expression flickered for a moment as annoyance crept in. "You startled me."

"Obviously." Stan rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I called Debbs back after she hung up on you."

"You were eavesdropping on me?" Ford accused coldly.

"Yeah, and it's a good thing too! I managed to smooth things over with her so the kids can still come back here next year, and you're still allowed to spend time with them!"

Ford didn't reply. He just kept staring straight ahead, stoney-faced.

"She just wanted me to have a talk with you. About you and the kids."

“She doesn’t have to worry. I doubt either of the children will want to spend time with me once they hear about this.”

Stan scoffed. “This isn’t gonna make the kids wanna stop spendin’ time with you, not by a long shot.”

“Perhaps not.” Ford agreed. “They’re still children, quick to forgive and forget. I’ll have to separate myself from them for their own good.”

“Wait, what?”

“Your original assessment was correct. I need to stay away from the kids. If not to protect them from the physical danger that comes with my line of work, then to protect them from the emotional danger of growing attached to a damaged man who doesn’t understand the simplest of human interactions.” He explained in a detached tone. 

"Ohno you don't!" Stan retorted. "I didn't just stick my neck out for you, just so you could push the kids away! Those kids love your guts, and it'd hurt 'em a lot more if you just suddenly cut them off!"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about." Ford said clinically, as though he was explaining the problem with one of his experiments and not his own insecurities. "I have no understanding of the thoughts and feelings of others. The fact that you had to talk their mother into allowing me to continue spending time with the children confirms it.”

Stan heaved a sigh. "You still don't really understand why Debbs said no, do you?"

"I understand perfectly."

"I don't think you do." The old conman shook his head. "It's like I keep telling you, they're just kids. They still need their mom, and she still needs them."

"Yes, you were right and I didn't listen to you. Just one of many signs that I'm unable to properly interact with other human beings."

"I'm not finished! The thing you're not getting is just because you can't wedge your way into their parents' place, doesn't mean you can't be in the kids' lives at all! You're still a part of this family."

"And yet Deborah took my offer as a threat."

"Debbs doesn't know you from Adam, Ford! Of course she freaked out! I couldn’t explain the whole situation to her, but I did tell her those kids are the best thing that’s happened to you in 30 years.”

Ford couldn’t deny Stan’s statement. “I can’t do it again!” His prior panic finally burst out of its bottles. “I can’t stand to hurt another person I care about because I don’t even realize what I’m doing wrong until it’s too late! And I don’t even listen when someone tries to explain it to me!” His flare of anger died down, and he curled back in on himself again. “What is wrong with me?” He moaned.

Stan cautiously took a seat on the other end of the couch. “Nothin’s wrong with you.”

The old researcher scoffed. “A lifetime of my experience says otherwise.”

“Look, just because you’re not good with people doesn’t mean something’s wrong with you. Not everyone’s a people person.”

“This goes far beyond not being a people person. I’ve hurt everyone I’ve ever come into contact with.”

“Wow, exaggeration much?”

“How can you joke about this when you’re one of the people I’ve hurt the most!?”

The two brothers froze as Ford’s words hung in the air. Stan was at a loss. Since when did Ford feel like he hurt Stan instead of the other way around?

“See, you can’t even deny it.” Ford continued when Stan didn’t have a response. “It’s just eas-- It’s just safer if I just stay out of everyone’s lives.”

“You can’t just cut yourself off from the world, genius.” The old conman finally found his words again. “You’re the one who was sayin’ you don’t wanna be alone anymore.”

“...I don’t want anyone else to get hurt either.”

Stan paused as he tried to think of how to handle this. “We still gotta stop Bill, right? That’s not something you can do alone.”

“I’ve been doing it alone for thirty years.”

“Yeah, and that’s worked real well, hasn’t it?”

“I was about to end him!” Ford shouted. “I was seconds away from taking the shot, when you opened the portal again and whisked me away!”

“...Oh.” Stan squeaked. He didn’t know how else to respond to that. So he just moved on with the conversation. “Listen, even you’ve gotta admit, you’ve had more success with those kids' help. Dipper helped you get that alien stuff you needed. Mabel pointed out the glue problem you never even realized. If we’re gonna take down this Bill guy, your best bet is to work with us, whether you like it or not. And yeah, maybe it’s risky, but isn’t it riskier to just sit around waitin’ for Bill to make his move?”

Ford just stared coldly back at his brother. “You’re not going to apologize?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “I’m not gonna apologize for saving your life, no.”

The old researcher frowned and furrowed his brow, but he didn’t seem surprised by Stan’s response. He sat there thinking for a few moments before finally speaking again.

“I can see the logic in needing to work together to stop Bill. The children have proven to be incredibly resourceful in that department. And in less than a week, they’ll be returning to California. I suppose it won’t matter after that.”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “For cryin’ out loud, they’re just one state over, not on a different planet. All those arguments you were makin’ about the kids still bein’ able to stay in touch over the computer? That applies to you too, genius. You can even drive down and visit if you want.”

“It’s not about what I want. It’s about what’s best for Dipper and Mabel.”

“Heh, well, good to see we’re finally on the same page there at least. But I’m tellin’ ya, being their mad-scientist uncle is what’s best for them. And what’s best for you too.”

Ford was torn. He wanted to believe Stan’s words, but it was hard to ignore that negative part of his brain, telling him that Stan was a liar, and digging up all the times he had hurt people before. He pushed it to the back of his head for now. Better to focus on stopping Bill and protecting the rift. Speaking of which….

“If we’re both here, who’s guarding the lab entrance!?” 

“Relax, I left Soos to keep an eye on things.”

Stan’s reassurance was immediately undermined by the sound of a fight breaking out in the giftshop.

* * *

“Hey Soos, you seen Stan anywhere?” Wendy asked as she reentered the gift shop. 

Soos was clearing out the old inventory. After Mr. Pines’ Mystery Science Brother came in and asked Wendy questions about her dream, it had been a quiet day at the Mystery Shack. 

“He was here a minute ago, but he said he had to have another talk with his brother.”

Wendy rolled her eyes. “Of course. Well, I’m just gonna take off then. I gotta take care of some stuff. Let him know I decided to take the day off after all if you see him.”

“You got it, dude.” He assured her as she left.

Soos had been wanting a word with his boss himself, but whenever the handyman was about to ask Mr. Pines a question, Mr. Mystery was suddenly busy, giving a tour for just two people, yelling at his brother, or listening in on an important phone call.

It was clear that Mr. Pines was hiding something, and not the usual somethings Mr. Pines would hide, like incriminating evidence or suggestion cards. No, Soos got the impression that Mr. Pines was hiding something specifically from him. It wasn’t all that strange for Stan to avoid talking about anything that even remotely resembled feelings. But it was strange for Stan to avoid talking about what they were going to do for the off season. And even stranger for him to refuse free labor. True, there was a bunch of major drama going down in the Pines family right now, but it wasn’t like Mr. Pines to let it affect how he ran his business.

“The Mystery Shack has needed to be rebuilt like four times in the last two months. Maybe Stan’s just worried because all this reconstruction is costing too much money.” Soos reasoned to himself as he worked alone in the giftshop. But he didn’t quite believe himself.

The bell over the giftshop door jingled, distracting Soos from his thoughts. He quickly ran to the cash register, ready to serve another customer. “Welcome to the Mystery Shack dude!”

“Hello.” A short man with a grotesque face and a tiny 1930’s style reporter’s hat replied.

“Oh, hey Toby! I see you got away from that griffin!”

“I was indigestible!” Toby Determined said as if he was proudly proclaiming he got a new haircut.

“That’s cool. What brings you here?”

“I’m here to interview you, actually!” the reporter explained. “Rumor has it that Mr. Mystery has a long lost twin, and you’re the man with the inside scoop!”

“I mean, it’s kinda supposed to be a secret.” Soos hesitated. “I’ve only told Wendy, and my abuelita, and the mailman, and everyone who was at Greasy's Diner during the lunch rush last Saturday…”

“You’d get to be on the front page of the Gravity Falls Gossiper!” Toby enticed in a sing-song voice, holding up today’s issue for good measure.

“I’ll do it!” Soos declared.

“Perfect! Now, to start off, I’ll need to take your photo!”

“Oh hey, when’d you get a real camera?” Soos asked as Toby pulled out a large camera with an even larger flashbulb.

“Oh, uh, just recently.” Toby chuckled nervously. “Now, you stand right over there, next to that display of bright, shiny, reflective crystals. And I’ll stand right here, next to this clearly out of order vending machine.”

Soos struck a pose where Toby had told him to stand. “Oh, dude, wait--” He remembered he was supposed to be guarding the vending machine just as the reporter snapped the photo. The camera’s flash reflected and refracted through the crystals, blinding the handyman.

“Ah! My eyes!”

“Ah! Also my eyes!”

Unfortunately for Toby, he hadn’t stopped to think that maybe he should protect himself from the flash.

“Uh, dude, could you do me a favor and not touch that vending machine until my eyes adjust back to normal?”

“Never!” The determined reporter declared. “The man in the color-changing clothes and funny goggles told me I could be with Shandra Jimenez forever if I brought him the magic sticky ball hidden in the secret basement!” 

Toby felt around blindly for the machine’s key-pad and started pressing buttons randomly. Soos followed the beeping sound and tackled the little man to the ground. 

“Not cool, dude! You are officially banned from our FCLORP team!” 

“No!” Toby whined. “You guys are the only people who tolerate me!”

“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you tried to break into Dr. Pines’ secret lab, dude! Which, uh, which he totally doesn’t have. That… that’s not a real thing.”

Toby obviously didn’t believe him, as he continued to struggle against Soos for access to the vending machine. Soos easily stopped him by just sitting on top of him.

“Y’know.” the handyman mused as his eyes began to adjust back to normal. “Dipper and Mabel put up a much harder fight than you. I’m just sayin’ you might wanna start doin’ more exercise and stuff. I know a place at the mall that teaches karate! I’ve been goin’ there since I was ten.”

“Let me go!” Toby demanded as he flailed his arms and legs uselessly.

“No can do, dawg. I promised Mr. Pines I’d hold down the fort while he’s busy taking care of family junk.”

Soos didn’t have to keep Toby at bay for much longer. For the second time that day, Dr. Pines burst out of the Employees Only door. He had his blaster drawn, and Stan wasn’t far behind him.

“What happened!?” Ford barked, aiming his blaster down at Toby’s wriggling form. “What is that thing?”

“Uh, I think Bill got to Toby.” Soos explained.

The old researcher grimaced. “Bill must have used some sort of magical artefact to mutate him!”

“What? No, he’s always been like that.” Stan corrected him. “What’d the triangle promise you, Toby?”

“Triangle?” The reporter asked in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“He said a dude in color-changing clothes and funny goggles told him he could be with Shandra Jimenez forever if he got the magic sticky ball in the secret basement.” Soos recounted.

“And nothing about that seemed suspicious to you?” Stan asked.

“Well, not particularly…”

“Why am I not surprised.” The old conman rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Somebody’s pullin’ a prank on you, Toby. The Mystery Shack doesn’t have a basement.”

“Oh, but he was so convincing!” Toby whined.

“He is very convincing.” Ford said gravely. “Where were you when he found you? Do you know where he is now?”

“He just came into the printing room while I was finishing off this morning’s publication. He told me to bring the ball to the dump.”

Ford scratched his chin thoughtfully, considering all the information before him. “It’s probably a trap. I doubt Bill expected this attempt to work.”

“Really, what gave you that idea?” Stan asked sarcastically. “Hey Toby, if you leave now and promise not to come back, I won’t press charges.”

“Hooray!”

“Oh, and gimme a call if you see that, uh, prankster again.”

The reporter agreed and left. Ford immediately began pacing.

“This was almost a disaster! If Bill had sent a competent pawn instead of this distraction, the rift would be broken by now!” He rounded on Stan “Why did you leave the secret entrance unguarded!?”

“I didn’t leave it unguarded, I left Soos.” Stan defended. “And yeah, he’s a goofus, but he got the job done, so I don’t see what you’re complaining about.”

“Aw, thanks Mr. Pines.”

“Don’t get mushy on me, kid.”

“Everything turned out alright this time, yes.” Ford admitted. “But what if Bill sends someone or something more dangerous than a tiny goblin man?”

“I can totally handle it, dude.” Soos assured him. “I’ve fought puhterodactyls, haunted animatronics, and ate my way out of a creepy monster made of candy.”

“Really?” Ford looked at the handyman like he was just seeing Soos properly for the first time.

The conversation paused when Dipper and Mabel entered the room.

“Here’s everybody. Hey Great Uncle Ford, can I ask you a favor for Wendy?” Dipper asked. He then took in Ford’s frantic pacing and Soos’s rumpled clothes. “What’s going on?”

“Toby Determined just tried to break into the lab.” Stan replied nonchalantly, like he was commenting on finding gnomes in the trash again.

“What?” The young twins cried in unison.

“Was it Bill?” Mabel asked in concern.

“It couldn’t have been, the barrier spell is still up.” Dipper reasoned. “Right?”

“The barrier is still intact, yes.” Ford assured them. “It appears Bill convinced Toby to find the rift while possessing the same time travel agent as before.”

“Poor Blendin.” Mabel worried.

“I can’t believe Bill actually tried to use Toby.” Dipper said incredulously. “I mean, he can’t have gotten very far.”

“He didn’t.” Stan said simply.

“I sat on him.” Soos added.

“It seems like Bill is trying to set some sort of trap.” Ford explained. “Bill told Toby to bring the rift to the dump. I suspect he shared that information knowing that Toby would get caught, and that we would interrogate him.”

“That’s weird. Why would Bill want us to go to the dump?” Dipper wondered. “Unless…” the boy’s eyes widened and as he glanced at his sister, he knew the same awful realization was dawning on her. Neither of them had heard from McGucket since the party at Northwest Manor, the day before the portal reopened. 

“Unless what?” Ford asked eagerly.

“Uhhh…” the young twins hemmed. They’d purposely forgotten to tell Ford about what happened to his old friend. How do you tell someone their best friend had driven himself insane and was now a homeless coot living in the dump? Although, considering Ford read Dipper’s entries in the Journal, the old researcher probably at least had an idea of how far McGucket had fallen.

“You remember your old research buddy, right?” Mabel asked awkwardly.

“...What does Fiddleford have to do with this situation?”

“He… kinda lives in the dump now.” Dipper’s reply pitched up at the end, almost like it was a question.

Ford stared at them agape for a moment. “I’d gathered that his mental state had deteriorated since I left, but… from what Dipper had written, it seemed like he was still working in robotics. How--why is he living in the dump!?”

“I think he’s just really bad with money.” Mabel shrugged. “He won a sweepstakes earlier this summer and he’s already spent it all on junky cars from Gleeful’s Auto Sales.”

“Yeah, I think he just used them for parts to build the Gideon-bot.” Dipper added.

“And you both believe he’s still at the dump?” Ford asked, distraught.

“Well, that’s where he’s lived all summer.” Dipper said slowly. “But… neither of us have seen him since the night before you got here.”

The old researcher finally stopped pacing and sat down heavily in the chair behind the cash register, running his fingers anxiously through his hair.

“Even if it is most likely a trap, that’s bait I can’t ignore…”

“We have to go find him and make sure he’s ok!” Mabel insisted.

“Yeah, but we can’t just walk right into an obvious trap!” Dipper exclaimed. 

“So just sneak in.” Stan suggested. “It’s the dump, not the State Penitentiary.” 

Ford shook his head. “Bill can’t be snuck up on, he has eyes everywhere. Our best hope is to take a direct approach and be prepared for anything.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course you would wanna go in guns ablazing.”

“Says the man who thinks every problem can be solved by punching it!”

“Ok, ok.” Dipper held up his hands, hoping his Grunkles would be able to stop fighting long enough to come up with a plan. “But launching a full-scale rescue mission is probably exactly what Bill wants. We can’t leave the Shack and the Rift unguarded.”

“Eh, Soos can probably watch it again.” Stan said.

“Sure thing, Mr. Pines.”

“Actually, I think Soos’s abilities might be better suited for our rescue mission.” Ford suggested. “We’ll need an unpredictable element. Someone who Bill is likely to underestimate. I think you’d be better to stay and guard the lab, Stanley.”

“Fine by me.” Stan shrugged. “I honestly couldn’t care less what happens to Old Man McGucket.”

Ford scowled at his brother, but held his tongue for now.

“I think we’ll need more than just Stan to watch the Shack.” Dipper reasoned. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, kid.” Stan said sarcastically.

“It’s not like I doubt your skills, I’ve seen you punch dinosaurs and fight zombies, but Bill is really dangerous, and we can’t afford to take any risks.” The boy looked around the giftshop. “Where’s Wendy?”

“Oh yeah, she took the rest of the day off.” Soos remembered. “She said she had to take care of some stuff.”

“Aw man.” Dipper groaned. The lumberjack’s daughter would have been the perfect person to help Stan guard the Shack. She was cunning and resourceful and could bury a hatchet’s blade three inches into a tree from ten feet away.

Mabel tugged on her brother’s vest. “Dipper, you should stay here with Stan.”

“What? But I wanna go with Great Uncle Ford! And, uh, I was the last one who saw McGucket at the party!” The boy protested, trying to throw some weak logic behind his desire.

“I know, but… but…” The girl threw her arms around her brother as she failed to keep her voice from trembling. “I’m so scared that Bill is gonna hurt you again! Please, can’t you just stay here where you’re safe from him?”

Dipper returned her hug. “I don’t want him to hurt you either. Maybe both of us should stay?”

Mabel shook her head. “No, somone’s gotta go make sure McGucket’s alright, and if it is a trap, Grunkle Ford’s gonna need all the help he can get.”

“Just promise you’ll be careful.”

“Don’t worry, brobro, I’ve always got my secret weapon!” Mabel assured him, pulling out her grappling hook.

“I’ll make sure she’s safe.” Ford promised, making pointed eye contact first with Dipper, then with Stan.

“Yeah, you better. Otherwise it’s your funeral when her mom finds out.” Stan grunted.

“Does everyone have what you need to defend yourselves?” Ford asked. Mabel held up her grappling hook, and Soos grabbed a shovel out of the Shack’s utility closet. “Then let’s go! We’ll discuss a plan on the way there.”

[detectivejigsawpines]

Abyss-finale (Raise a glass to freedom)

...I have never been drunk in my life. Because I don't drink. Therefore my knowledge of how to be drunk is very limited, and mostly based on the idea that it's similar to being very, very sleep-deprived (which I have been on probably far more occasions than is healthy for me). My suspicion is that if I did drink, I would be either a very giggly drunk, or a very angry drunk.

Reading the chapter to the end will clarify why this is valid.

“You what?!”

Shermie and Ford both stared at Stan, aghast, as he continued to scramble eggs after telling them how he’d essentially bought himself from their father.

Stan grinned.  “You shoulda seen the look on his face-it was even better than the time when we went to that restaurant with the triple-decker steak.”

Shermie snorted, hard.  “Oh wow...I always knew you were crazy, Stanley, but this-this exceeded even my expectations.”

He did a little theatrical bow, twirling the spatula between his fingers.  “That’s what I do best.”

When their mother came down, however, some of his ebullience-a lot of it, in fact-dissipated at the look on her face.

Ford’s stomach twisted in a hard knot, because even he could see that level of heartbreak.

Stan winced, and turned off the burner.  “...Hey, Mom.”

Mom looked up at him sadly for a moment, before at last whispering, “This isn’t gonna be fixed, is it?”

Stan let out a sigh that was equal parts sad and frustrated as he set down the spatula he’d been using.  “Whaddya want me ta do? Beg and plead for him ta say I’m part of the family again? It wouldn’t work, Mom, and even if it would…”

Even when he had still been mad at his brother, Ford knew he wouldn’t have wanted him to sacrifice his dignity to that extent.  He wanted it even less now, when he understood better what had happened and wasn’t a stupid hormonal teenager.

Mom was trying hard not to cry now.  “Stanley…”

“Am I gonna lose you too if I can’t make things up with him?” Stan suddenly asked.

It snapped Mom out of her despondency somewhat: her eyes widened, and then she jabbed a finger into her son’s chest.

“Stanley Pines!  What kinda mother ya take me for?!  What, ya think I’m gonna tell ya ta shove off just cuz your pa’s got a big stick up his-”

The rest of her words were muffled in Stan’s shirt as he pulled her into a hug.

“Just checkin’,” he whispered into her hair.  “Love ya too, Mom.”

********

Pa came down a while later, and sat stoically through breakfast, before telling Shermie, “Pack up the car when you’re done.  We’re leaving.”

Shermie blinked.  “Already?”

He nodded.  “Gotta get back to the shop.  The rubes ain’t gonna fleece themselves.”

The oldest son sighed.  “You got it, Pops.”

Pa gave him a sharp look at the slight insolence in his tone, but then went back to eating the eggs.

Since they hadn’t brought much, it didn’t take them long to get ready to leave.  Mom held both her boys tightly, wringing out promises for them to call her more often, and then Shermie took his turn for some more affectionate noogying and apologies for not getting to spend more time checking out their home.  Then they were putting their things in the car, leaving them alone on the porch with Pa.

Ford wondered if he was going to say-well, anything.

An apology was most likely too much to hope for, but-well, something.  Something to prove that he was a human being, not a robot.

All he did, though, was give a small nod, and then turn away and head for the car.

As they watched it drive back down the road, Ford said, “...We need to go to Dan’s place.”

“What for?”

“I need a drink.”

********

On the Corduroy cabin’s front porch, Dan poured out more of his family’s home-brewed liquor and handed it over.

“Sounds like you guys had a rough time.”

“...Wasn’t so bad, not after I gave ‘im the money,” Stan muttered into his glass.

“Ya shouldn’t’ve done that,” Ford scolded; his words slurred more than usual, finally making him sound like a Jersey boy for once.  “‘S wasted on ‘im. Prolly never even spend it.”

Stan shrugged, and held out his glass again.  “S’not my money anymore. I don’t care.”

The part of Ford’s brain still capable of rational thought wondered what exactly was in this Corduroy family recipe.  Dan had said it was apples...or mostly apples. Definitely had apples in it. It was powerful stuff, whatever it was; they’d only been doing this for half an hour and he’d already reached the point where the edges of his vision were going in and out of focus, and he needed to sit down even though he was already sitting down.  He squinted at Dan.

“How’re you handlin’ this stuff so well?  You’re lit-ral-lit-little-little-er-ally younger’n we are, you’ve had less years ta build up a tolerance for drink.”

Dan smirked.  “Guess I’m just manlier than you.”

Ford glared.  “Ha. Ha. You even drinkin’?”

Dan pointedly poured himself a glass of whatever-he-called this stuff (Crumble?  Scramble? Something like that), from the same bottle they’d been using, and gulped down a shot.

Stan whistled appreciatively.  “You’re good.”

“Got a lotta Scottish in my blood.  Makes it easy.”

“Nice.”

****

“...I shoulda stood up ta him better,” Ford muttered finally.

The other two stared at him.

“He started sayin’ all this crap about you bein’ a-a bad influence an’ stuff, Stanley, and I tried ta defend you, but I just...froze up.  I failed you again.”

“What?  No, nononono, don’t do that ta yourself.”  Stan scooted his chair over next to Ford’s, not heeding the horrible scraping noise it made on the wooden boards, and slung one big arm over his shoulder.  “S’not your fault, ‘kay? Dad’s-Mom says I got pershonality, but he’s got one too. Big one. Size’a New York City-big. Not an easy one ta go up against.”

“What, are you-are you sayin’ I don’t have personality?”  Ford gave Stan a wounded look.

“No, no, ‘course not.  Jus’ not a pers’nality used ta fightin’ people.  ‘Specially not Pa.” Stan squeezed him. “Not your fault.”  He ruffled Ford’s hair...and then gaped at it in wonder. “Whoa.  Your hair’s real...floofy. Heh heh. Floof, floof, floof.” He continued playing with it, giggling, until Ford swatted his hand.

He felt a little comforted by Stan’s words...but not much.  “S my job,” he insisted stubbornly, staring at the middle of Stan’s three faces floating before his eyes on the assumption that it was the real one.  “Needa...fix things. Last time-you were homeless cuz I couldn’t get over myself an’ help you, so I needa-”

“Hey, I shouldn’ta hung around your project, so I wouldn’t’ve broken it, so you coulda gone ta the dumb science college.  You’re more important than a boat, Sixer, an’I made ya feel like-likit was the other way ‘round.”  Stan suddenly snatched the bottle off the table, began chugging down the rest of its contents.

“Hey!  No fair, gimme that.”  Ford grabbed for it, leading to a sloppy tug-of-war that ended with the-grumble?  No, scumble, that was the name of this stuff-splashed all over both of them.

Ford put the bottle back on the table with a resigned sigh, and then wrapped his arm around Stan.

“You’re more important’n a college, St’nley,” he murmured, letting his heavy eyes droop shut.  “Shoulda remembered that too…”

****

Soon enough they were both snoring, completely passed out on each other.

Dan threw away the empty bottle, and went inside to grab a blanket, which he draped over both of them.  Then, as the effects of the scumble finally started to hit him, he just made himself comfortable stretching out on the porch.

********

When they wake up, all three boys are VERY hungover. Stan and Ford end up staying until they're feeling well enough to stand and walk home without throwing up, while Ford tries to deduce the ingredients for a hangover cure Fiddleford came up with in college. As best he recalls, it included a raw egg, Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce, but he could never get his friend to divulge the rest of it. He resolves to experiment until he deciphers it on his own-as soon as his head stops feeling like it's all stuffed with rocks that keep rolling around and banging into each other.

Stan has a few nightmares while he’s sleeping them off, but he doesn’t remember them that well when he wakes up, just being surrounded by a lot of indistinct whispers.

[kingofthewilderwest]

Useless Fiddleford McGucket headcanons because I’m bored and sleep deprived and want to talk about my favorite so NYEH sue me

Fidds is the baby of a large family, something like the second-to-youngest out of seven kids. I mean, he doesn’t have the backbone an older sibling would have. More older brothers than older sisters (four bros, he makes five boys). He’s got one younger sister, but other than that, he’s the youngest. He’s even young when taking cousins and extended family into account.

He’s got a MOB of cousins. There’s still a hoard of McGuckets back in Tennessee.

He started the chewing tobacco habit in his early teens.

He was always the most interested in banjo of the musical instruments and started that around eleven. But he also knows a fair amount of folk percussion elements (musical spoons, hamboning, etc.) and learned a little fiddle by proxy. As in, he never TRIED to learn the violin, but he had a cousin or friend who played, and they showed him a few things.

One time someone in college mentioned that Fiddleford should’ve been a fiddler, and McGucket mentions he DID pick up “just a little. sorta.” When they put a violin in his hands, he cranks out a few heavy bluegrass bars that are legitimately good, and everyone else in the room is like, “I hate you.”

He didn’t learn to read music until he was in college, though. Encouragement from Ford. He’s still not good with reading music.

McGucket started post-secondary at a community college because of tight finances in his family. He transferred to Backupsmore as a junior, and for him, that was a legitimate step up. Four year out-of-state university!

He lived in the dorms his entire stay at Backupsmore. This was the one period where his “early to bed, early to rise” lifestyle got strained. He still went to bed earlier and woke earlier than most students, but he was busy enough it could get late. He’d unwind by playing banjo, which quickly made him That Annoying Person UGH in the dorm community... he learned to go outside, play the instrument in a nearby clearing/parkish area on campus, where he wouldn’t bother others.

Fiddleford is two years older and two grades above Ford. They had lots of class overlap because Ford started taking upper level courses early.

Fiddleford majored in mechanical engineering and figured a Bachelors would suffice. He looked at schooling from more a humble and practical perspective: he’d rather apply his mechanical knowledge in the real world than sit in abstract academia. But Ford convinced Fiddleford he was brilliant enough he should go for grad school, and he did (at Backupsmore, too, naturally).

Fiddleford and Ford have taught a class together. Initially, the teaching assignment was just for Ford. But Fidds suspected Ford wouldn’t get the human element down right in class (Ford would just lecture at a board, he’d do the bare minimum because he’d rather focus on his own research, he’d make coursework too tough because he had skewed ideas of what was feasible, he wouldn’t have the right Touch or interpersonal skills to talk to students worrying about grades, etc.), so Fiddleford suggested he slip in as a second instructor.

There were still more than a few... rough patches and learning moments... with that class.

McGucket married in his early 20s his senior year of undergrad.

Statistically unlikely as he knows it is, Fiddleford still buys scratch tickets and loses money from it.

Ford was the DM for the Dungeons Dungeons & More Dungeons group. All male group. Of everyone, Ford had to twist Fiddleford’s arm the most to play. Fiddleford was the person who attended the group the least (out on dates with Emma-May and such), but he did end up liking the game and coming without Ford cajoling. Admittedly he was more in it for the math than the fantasy.

That same group of people came up with the KBPS measurement (Knee Bounce Per Second). A bunch of hard scientists teasing McGucket about being twitchy turned into creating an official measurement for said twitchiness.

There has been at least one incident where Ford’s been stumped on an advanced physics problem for months and months, and Fiddleford looks at it and solves it in two minutes. 

Fiddleford has published papers under “Fiddleford Hadron McGucket,” full name, despite the middle name being unnecessary to distinguish himself (ergo why he introduces himself like that in Society of the Blind Eye).

He’s had problems with people not believing that’s his real name.

His dialect used to be a lot thicker - phonetically, syntatically, etc. A combination of people being mean to him about it, peers not 100% understanding what he said, and the education system saying he spoke “wrong” made him focus on trying to change it in his early 20s.

Fiddleford followed the early development of video games, but tried to downplay his interest in the topic.

He can solve that Cubic’s Cube in less than thirty seconds.

He’s not as much of a lightweight as you’d think when it comes to drinking. He can’t hold his liquor like a champ, but it’s not one-beer-and-he’s-out, either. When he’s had a little too much to drink, his social inhibitions drop so he’ll potentially say or do slightly embarrassing things (and Ford feels the second hand embarrassment BURNING. Especially when Fidds starts dancing. Oh yikes. It’s bad.)

McGucket is VERY DEAD without his coffee, and wanders around like a zombie in the morning until he gets that caffeine. You could almost put a yodeling bear inside the house, and he’d walk by it without blinking or realizing it’s there.

Fiddleford has a boring taste pallet and doesn’t like experimenting. He eats Fairly Standard “American” food, doesn’t diverge much outside that. Not into spicy foods, etc.

Fiddleford believed in ghosts long before he learned about Ford’s paranormal research or moved to Gravity Falls.

Fiddleford called Emma-May regularly when he was in Gravity Falls, first working on the project with Ford. The lack of contact made his wife realize something was up. The combination of his disoriented state, and a fear to not bother her or let her see him like this, meant he didn’t reach out for help when he should have. She was the one who went up to GF to see what had happened. I’m not going to go into all of how I think THAT went down, but the divorce decision happened fast enough that that’s why McGucket went straight from the office to the motel - he wouldn’t be staying with her anywhere.

I’ve toggled between several possibilities trying to explain to myself why Tate ended up in Gravity Falls when logically Ms. Dixon would have had sole custody over her son. One possibility is she raised Tate in California, so Tate didn’t see his father for most of childhood. If so, it would’ve been his own choice to go to GF as an adult. He had mixed feelings about his father, a lot of bitterness, some fears, no shortage of embarrassment, but just enough nostalgia to see what would happen if they reconnected. Ultimately it didn’t turn out great. But I feel like there’s a reason that, as soon as McGucket reached out to family at the end of the show, Tate not only accepted his father back, but moved in with him. For all their issues, Tate always did internally want his dad back.

One of the reasons Tate hides his intellect and avoids using it is because he doesn’t know why his father crashed and doesn’t want to risk following suit. Another part of it is distancing himself from the embarrassment he feels about Fiddleford.

Old Man McGucket doesn’t go to Gravity Falls events because of the planned activity. Half the time he doesn’t even know what the gathering’s for. He’s there because it’s a way to squeeze into human interaction. He doesn’t care if it’s a dance party for kids with music he wouldn’t listen to - it’s a way to be among other people.

This is 80% of the reason why he went through ALL that anime with Soos.

[littlemonstersau-blog]

The Feels Awaken, Interlude: Attack of the Clonesuit

Written by @jkl-fff, illustrated by me

PART I  - PART II [Interlude] (you are here) - PART III

————————————————————————————–

Ford, leafing listlessly through notes: … Suppose I could go out and look more into this anomaly … or that one, any of them, really —anything’d be better than just sitting here … moping. Yes, moping, that’s really what I’m doing right now. All that I’m doing right now. Moping … [sighs heavily, stands up and paces around room aimlessly; roving eyes land on a shelf of scientific glassware with several empty decanters among them; swallows drily] Damn, a drink would really hit the spot right about now … Gah, no! How pathetic can I be, wanting a drink now, after decades of sobriety! Still wanting a drink at all, just because … just because I’m missing the kids … Damn it, man, pull yourself together! [takes off glasses with one hand, slaps self with other] Are you a scientist or a sentimentalist?! [slaps self again] Focus on your intellect! [slaps self a third time] They’ll be back here soon enough to visit for Fall Break, you can look forward to that, so stop all this … this sniveling! [resumes pacing] … Gah, that Demon’ll probably sour their visit for me, too. Just like he’s soured everything else in my life of late … Besides, he’s already had too much influence over them as is, and them coming back risks him gaining even more of one; would be far, far better if they never came within 100 miles of him ever again … I can … I can go to them, anyway. Stan and I. We can go down to Piedmont and see them safely that way, or … or I can call or use that skyelp program just about any evening … Yes … Yes … So no more of this sniveling and moping and such …

Bill, through the elevator intercom: Hey, Stanford?! I’m coming down now, so … uh, put away the crossbow and the dirty magazines! Haha … ha … um, yeah …Th-that was just a joke, by the way! Except for the part about the crossbow, obviously, ‘cause I would appreciate it if you put that away instead of putting a bolt in this vessel! So, um … yeah, here I come! (79 Hells, that was awkward …)

Ford, muttering and jumping back to desk: Grrr! Now?! Pigcrap fucksnorkel, this is the last thing I need right now! [sits in an exaggeratedly nonchalant pose; turns and glares as Bill steps out of the elevator] What is it, Cipher, can’t you see I’m very busy?

Bill, holding up two cans of Pitt: Thought you might, I dunno, like something cold to drink? [sets one can down on the desk]

Ford: … Why are you wearing a sock puppet?

Bill, shrugging: I could ask you the same thing.

Ford: No, you couldn’t.

Bill: Sure, I could. It wouldn’t make sense, but I could. [cracks open own drink, takes a sip] So, um, how you doin’?

Ford: You still haven’t answered my question.

Bill, shielding his mouth with non-puppet hand, whispering: He just showed up on his own, and I can’t get him to leave no matter how many hints I drop.

Ford, turning away: A feeling I relate to on a deep, spiritual level. [pretends to resume reviewing notes]

Bill: Now you still haven’t answered my question. How you doin’?

Ford: … Tired. And getting more and more tired with every second I spend in your company. So I repeat, what is it? What do you want?

Bill, sighing, leaning against the desk: I just … wanna talk is all, I guess? It gets kinda lonely, y’know, without the Twins here. And I do know y’know about that.

Ford, hiding embarrassment: What are you implying?

Bill: C’mon, Ford. We all miss them. And, I dunno, that’s got me all sentimental about … [takes a deep breath, looks at Ford, lets himself be vulnerable] about other people I miss spending time with, too.

Ford, looking away: Yes, well, if you burn a bridge, you can’t really complain about not being able to cross back over again, can you?

Bill, through sock puppet: Bridges can be rebuilt, can’t they?

Ford: …

Bill, through sock puppet: Can’t they?

Ford: … Not some bridges. Now leave me alone, please, because I have a lot of work to do.

Bill, stiffening up: Fine, if that’s what you want. Sit down here and brood in the dark, ignoring all the people who’re concerned about your health and happiness.

Ford: Pff, right! Sure, you are.

Bill: I am, though! I’m concerned about your health! So are Stan, Soos and Melody, and the Twins would be, too, if they could see you like this—Mabel and Dipper!

Ford: I’m fine, Cipher. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Bill: Me and Stan’re especially concerned about you, I think. Prob’ly ‘cause we know you the best.

Ford, reddening: I asked you nicely to leave me alone once already. I won’t ask nicely again.

Bill, through sock puppet while stomping towards exit: I guess you would know about burning bridges, right? I mean, you’ve been slowburning a bunch of ‘em lately, haven’t you?

Ford, raising his voice: What’s that supposed to mean?

Bill, through sock puppet: How many years d’you spend missing your brother so much it ached, huh? I mean, you had me play him in your fantasies hundreds of times—literally. 872 times with him as a major character by my count over the years we spent together! [whirls around at the elevator door and points, which looks especially accusing and grotesque coming through a hand puppet] Yet, even though he’s back, you won’t even enjoy your time with him just ‘cause I’m around!? Just ‘cause he doesn’t spit and hiss at the sight of me like a Vampire at sunlight?! You murmur and grumble and carry on and act … act mean and bitter at him for that?! Well, Fordsy, if that ain’t slowburning a bridge, I don’t know what is!

Ford, stung: Y-you … Shut up, Cipher.

Bill, pointing petulantly at the sock: It’s not me. It’s him. [speaking through the sock again] And you’re doing it to everyone else! Including the Twins!

Ford, on his feet: Get. Out. Now.

Bill, whirling on his heel: We’re already gone! [storms back into the elevator and upstairs with it]

Ford, covering face to contain fury: That little, monocular— No, Stanford. D-don’t let him get to you … fffff … Don’t let … that smart-talking shitass—No, d-don’t … fffff … don’t … [eyes land on decanters again; desire for a drink spikes, which makes fury explode inside of him] Graaaaargh! [stomps over, seizes first decanter, hurls it at wall; it shatters] That greasepainted, crap-piling, illuminati fuck hat and [hurls second decanter at wall; it shatters] cyclopes poseur in a mustache-twirled, pan-licking ass wad [hurls third decanter at wall; it shatters] of a grephew’s face-stealing TURD BREATH! [stands huffing and puffing for a moment; leans against wall, slides down until sitting on floor, buries face in hands]

Ford, eventually beginning to calm down: Says he’s “concerned about my health and happiness”—pah!—right … Heard that one before, haven’t I?

[remembers from more than 30 years ago …

Bill, inside Ford’s mind: Uh, you sure this is a good idea?

Ford, scaling an improvised novi-wave receiver: Sure! *cough* Why do you ask?

Bill: Let’s just say I’m concerned for your health and wellbeing.

Ford, shifting a bag of materials, climbing higher: Huh. What for? I’m not *cough cough* sick at all.

Bill: Only ‘cause of the major storm—strong winds, pounding rain, and constant lightning—raging around you while you climb up a structure made of conductive metals that doesn’t have a lot of really solid hand and footholds for your gravity-bound meatbag.

Ford, laughing: Oh, that! Don’t worry, this’ll only take another *cough cough* minute or two.

[lightning cracks nearby]

Ford, still laughing: Whoa! Haha! That one was close! [foot slips on wet metal; catches self] Whoops! Heh, clumsy me … Better hurry up! *cough*

Bill, obviously worried: Y’know what? I think you should just leave it for now. Wait until the storm clears, do something about that wet cough like … like have some ginger tea!

Ford: The forecast said it’s *cough* to continue all week. If I *cough* don’t fix this now, we’ll lose all that work time.

Bill: Yeah, but if you fall and break one of your fleshsticks, we’ll lose even more time. Assuming a fall doesn’t, y’know, do worse. Like kill you. Also, you getting pneumonia is a thing that could cause us to lose even more time.

Ford, dismissively: It’s fine. I’ll be fine. *cough*

Bill, almost desperately: Hey, know what? Not being able to work the rest of this week might be an okay thing! Like, you could take a break. Relax a little, get several full nights’ sleep. Eat a few square meals at regular times with all that nutrient stuff you meatbags need, stave off scurvy and other illnesses you could catch as a result of skipping meals and sleep. Doesn’t that sound like fun? We could even have extra play sessions in your mindscape! Eh? Eh?!

Ford, tempted: You’re a *cough cough* good friend, Bill, but I need to concentrate on this right now.

comes out of his memory …]

Ford, sitting in the lab: Heh … I did fall in the end. Didn’t break anything, just got the wind knocked out of me and was bruised for a bit, but still … Was that when Cipher first recommended I get an assistant? Someone who’d help me build his infernal portal? [sighs, admits] No, I thought an assistant could help me build the portal. Cipher said I needed one to stop me “dying like an idiot during monster hunts” and make me “perform basic self-care for meatbags” from day to day. I was the one who thought it could be someone to help with the portal. [face turning red with shame] I … It was me who made the Electron Carpet to try to switch him— Fiddleford, someone I dared call a f-friend—with Cipher … That was entirely me … When I suggested we use it for that, he actually told me it was a terrible idea—told me Fiddleford was there to help keep my “moments of near suicidal dumbassery in check” and ease my workload, not increase both of them … [chuckles incredulously] That was the first time Cipher and I ever had an argument … He said he was worried about me, and the thing I invented the most was new ways to make him worry …

[remembers the argument, which ended with both of them screaming “FUCK YOU!” at each other in different voices until it stopped being angry and started being hilarious …

remembers flashes from times he and Bill worked together, succeeded together, advanced SCIENCE! together …

remembers flashes from times he and Bill laughed together, played together, bonded together, had so much fun together …

remembers flashes from times he and Bill spent inside Ford’s mindscape, and how good it felt to relive his memories of better times, to play out all his wild fantasies …]

Ford, resting head against wall, gazing at dark ceiling: Cipher’s not … not the only one who misses spending time with … other people … who misses the old days … And—Moses!— I’m so, so tired from always being on guard … from always reminding myself what he really is … what he’s done, what he could do if he got the chance … So tired from always keeping myself angry and bitter … from always stoking this animosity … So tired from always pitting myself against him … Well, against everyone else, too … [heaves self upright and dusts off coat; rubs temples; sighs heavily] Could I be entirely wrong about Bill? Is it really possible he has changed, and I’m just being a stubborn, old fool? Am I making everyone else … Am I making myself unhappy for no real reason? [sighs heavily again] Not the first time I’ve asked that question, and the answer’s the same as always. I can’t afford to take that chance—this whole dimension can’t afford for me to take that chance. And it’s selfish of me to even consider it, given the stakes … What’re my desires and my health and my personal happiness against the safety of this whole dimension for the rest of eternity? And … what’s the happiness of my family, even? [shakes head woefully] I want to believe Bill, but he has conned me before … Besides, he’s immortal; he can afford to play a long game, just wait until I die or waver … That’s why I can’t give in. I just can’t … ever …

[sound from overhead like heavy objects being rearranged]

Ford, flopping into chair at desk: Fffffuck, I wish … I wish there was a solution to this dilemma … a way to untie this Gordian Knot … More than anything in the world … [picks up Pitt, cracks it open, takes a swig; eventually looks at pile of shattered decanters] That’s going to be a bitch to clean up …

Stan, through the basement intercom: Poindexter, you down here? I’m comin’ down, so get out the crossbow and the dirty magazines! [takes elevator down to the lab, notices pile of broken glass and Ford’s drained expression] Yeesh, what happened here? You try playin’ jenga with champagne flutes, or something?

Ford, sighing: … Had a … a temper tantrum, guess you’d say. Threw all the old decanters against the wall because they reminded me how badly I want a drink sometimes.

Stan: Well, darn. We could’ve sold those; some of ‘em were really nice crystal … But, more importantly, you feelin’ better?

Ford, taking a reflective sip of Pitt: … Not really, no. I loathe how much, even now, even still, sometimes I want a drink more than anything in the world … Makes me feel like … like …

Stan, walking up to rub his shoulders: Yeah?

Ford: Like nothing’s changed—maybe more like I haven’t changed— not really, even after everything … Mmm, that feels good, Stanly …

Stan: I can understand the feelin’, Sixer … Some days … Well, some days are just bad days. Some days, all the crap from the past tumbles outta the closet in your head, and there’s nothin’ much you can do about it. [leans down, lightly kisses top of his brother’s head] But there’s also nothin’ wrong with takin’ some time off from all the crap, either, on those days.

Ford: Yeah?

Stan: Yeah. I been thinkin’ we could use some time off. All of us. Chance to disconnect and decompress from day-to-day life, y’know. We should do a movie day—just spend the rest of today together watchin’ some far out flicks, not worryin’ ‘bout anything in particular. Whaddya say, Sixer?

Ford, wavering: All of us, you said? Well … [sighs] Yeah, sure, okay. Why the heck not? What’re we watching?

[anistarrose]

Distortion (Gravity Falls x Pokemon)

Summary: Ford’s search for a way to take down Bill Cipher brings him to the Distortion World, where he meets a surprisingly kindred spirit.

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: some self-blame and self-hatred

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440313

Another Pokemon Falls crossover, this time with Portal Ford!

***

Finding himself surrounded by shadowy trees that hung in the air like smoke, and staring down a massive waterfall that drew from a pool at his feet and ran upwards into the sky, Ford decided that he was getting really damn tired of gravity anomalies.

You’d think that falling through a punched hole in spacetime would be a singular sensation, unmatched by any other experience — but one of the first lessons Ford had had to learn was to never underestimate the vastness of the multiverse. There would always be yet another dimension where every too-light step would remind him of being lifted off the ground by a humming, crackling portal behind him, of bolts of blue-white electricity winding around him while gravity’s pull rendered him just as immobile and helpless as a Thunder Wave would —

At his side, his Ninetales let out a soft warning growl that jolted him back to reality, just in time to glimpse a shadow shoot across the clouded, dark blue sky. It vanished the span of a single pounding heartbeat, and Ford couldn’t help but look back to Ninetales, hoping for some confirmation that he hadn’t imagined the sight —

An ear-splitting screech filled the air, inhuman and indescribably enraged. Ford dove into the grove of spectral trees, Ninetales close behind him, but as his hand passed through one, they all faded away completely, leaving him no cover.

Yet as painfully exposed as he was, neither the shadow nor the screech returned. The dimension was left eerily silent, aside from the almost peaceful gurgling of the waterfall.

Ford stomped to the center of the floating platform, and yelled to no apparent target: “What is this place? Why did you guide me here?”

Naturally, there was no apparent reply. The waterfall kept gurling, and the illusory trees kept swaying in an intangible wind, but the dimension seemed almost completely devoid of any sentient life.

Except the shadow, of course — and Ford was already forming a hypothesis about that shadow, just as he did about nearly everything, but it seemed almost too incredible to believe. He wasn’t even sure if he would be thrilled to be proven right, or terrified.

He would make up his mind soon enough.

***

On many a rainy autumn afternoon back home, Ford would curl up in the top bunk with Rowlet and Vulpix while Stan would build a pillow fort beneath him with Meowth and Zorua, and they’d just sit peacefully together, drinking hot chocolate and sharing little tidbits from whatever they were reading at the time. Stan preferred comic books, loved the adventures of Crobatman and Captain Braviary and the Green Lanturn, but Ford…

Ford was always into mythology.

“Get this, Stan! There’s a Pokemon called Giratina that can travel between dimensions — and takes on different forms in the different worlds!”

“Huh, neato.”

“And here’s the coolest part — they say that in at least one of its forms, it has six legs and six spikes on its wings!”

“Really? Wow, sounds like you should try and catch one!”

“Well, according to the legend in this book, there’s only one in the whole universe — so catching it is probably off the table, but I’d still like to meet it. Except… except it doesn’t look like I’ll get a chance to, because…”

Ford’s face fell as he skimmed the next few paragraphs. “They say it mostly stays in a world on the reverse side of ours, because it was… banished there. It was just too… violent and destructive for our world, I guess…”

He didn’t say it, but he thought: Too much of a freak.

“Hey, lighten up! That just sounds like a spooky bedtime story someone made up to try and scare their kids into behaving,” Stan told him. “Or their little siblings. It seems kinda like something Shermie would come up with, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Ford said quietly. “These myths are usually pretty credible. I think it’s real.”

“Well, then I bet it’s just misunderstood,” Stan declared, unfazed. “You know, I bet you will meet Giratina one day — ‘cause you’re gonna clear its name! Find it an alibi! Show the world what makes the freaks and the weirdos the coolest of all of us, not the scariest!”

That got a smile out of Ford. “You’re right. And, you know… I always have wanted to travel to other dimensions…”

***

Ford quickly discovered that not all of the trees were illusions — but not before confidently walking into one and getting a faceful of rough, paper-thin leaves. He didn’t hear or see any more signs of Giratina — if that even was the shadow’s true identity. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be.

True, he had kept seeking out more myths about the Renegade Pokemon well into his college years, and would always be thrilled upon discovering a new tidbit of lore of even the most dubious credibility; and true, he had always clung to the improbable, self-indulgent dream that he might one day encounter Giratina itself and discover its true nature for himself —

But here in a dimension that bore an uncanny resemblance to the elusive Distortion World, subject of both shrouded legend and scientific speculation; here outside of idealistic childhood fantasy; here in reality where a hostile Legendary Pokemon could hurt or more likely kill him with ease, where his demise could spell the end for the whole universe’s best shot at escaping a demon’s tyrannical reign… here, Ford couldn’t help but be terrified.

Terrified and frustrated, that was, as he walked into the same damn tree for the second time.

“We’re just going in circles, aren’t we?” he realized aloud, and Ninetales gave a low murmur of agreement. “Just big, spacetime-defying circles. Shit, what do we do?”

As if on cue, something lit up near the edge of his peripheral vision. He instinctively whirled around to face it, but the light — a pulsating blue sphere, reminiscent of ball lightning — was already darting away, erratically weaving between floating trees and leaving behind a meandering, faintly glowing trail that arced between floating slabs of earth and across sideways lakes.

It was a familiar sight to Ford, having led him to this world in the first place.

“Azelf?” he whispered. There was no reply aside from the trail growing just the slightest bit dimmer.

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “I’ll follow you one more time.”

***

On many a day spent while wandering the multiverse, far from home and even further from peace, Ford would catch himself wondering if it was for the best.

Growing up, it would have taken more than twelve fingers to count all the times Ford was told he was cursed, or a bad omen, or simply a “monster.” Often, it wasn’t to his face — just whispered to his parents, or sometimes even his brothers, when the accuser didn’t think he was listening — but it was an omnipresent, inescapable constant of his childhood, something he had to learn to either tune out or shrug off.

Ironic, then, how it was only now that he was starting to believe it.

Now that he’d seen the lives he’d ruined. Now that he’d seen the destruction he’d invited in to his world. The way he’d torn Fiddleford away from a young and loving family and traumatized the poor man into starting a cult, the way he’d been so wrapped up in his own ego that he ignored all the words of warning from his friend, from his Pokemon, and eagerly put himself to work for an ancient entity of pure chaos and malevolence… “bad omen” didn’t even begin to describe the way he endangered everything and everyone he grew close to, the way he ruined everything he laid a hand on.

And yes, he was doing everything he could to fix his greatest mistake, to construct a weapon capable of destroying Bill, but his conscience simply would never allow him to do anything else. And yes, he sought out leads for ways he might one day be able to get safely home again, after Bill was dead and gone, but that was for his Pokemon’s sakes, not his own. He had left a world that he had never fit into, never done anything but endanger, and had he been adrift in the multiverse alone… he wasn’t sure he’d ever go home, even if given the chance.

***

Ford called Ninetales back into its Pokeball for a time, as he leapt between stepping stones across an unnaturally calm lake. Two twin rivers fed into it, twisting down from above like a double helix and generating a froth of bubbles that dissipated quickly, leaving the surface pristine like a giant mirror. For a moment, he thought that he saw a massive shadow reflected in it, looming and angular — but then he blinked, and it was just an all-too-familiar face that was staring back at him.

(His face, but not his face. Gaunt with exhaustion and weary from fighting off despair just like his, but not for the same reasons.)

Then the surface began to ripple, so subtly at first that Ford couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong, even as his instincts screamed at him to run. Cautiously, he crouched down and lowered his head to the water’s level —

Another screech tore through his ears, and he jerked his head up to see an invisible shape burst through the helical tributaries. Based off the massive explosion of water it displaced, Ford surmised it must have been gigantic, easily taller than he was and maybe as much as three or four times as long…

And now it was barreling straight towards him, its path made visible by the V-shaped wave it churned up as it flew. The spray from the lake seemed to interact with its body for a few brief seconds, revealing a glimpse of a set of long, thin wings — six of them, by Ford’s count.

He took a step backwards, nearly toppled into the lake, and then made a split-second decision as he righted himself. The creature had to be flying only just above the surface, in order to leave such a large splash in its wake —

Just before the point of the V reached his stepping stone, Ford jumped as high as his legs could carry him and slammed against something solid.

***

When Ford had nearly drowned while hiding from pursuers at the bottom of a lake, his oxygen tank leaking at an alarming rate, the hidden entrance to a submerged cave full of breathable air had felt like divine intervention — and the stories of lake-dwelling spirits, representing knowledge, willpower, and emotion, that he remembered reading as a child only reinforced that feeling.

Yes, it may it may have been a bit naive, a bit too optimistic, of him to get his hopes up for an encounter with Uxie in particular — but he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to the possibilities that a favor from the Being of Knowledge would offer him. He could ask for information about Bill Cipher’s history, or weaknesses, or even where in the multiverse he could find some of those stubbornly elusive components of his quantum destabilizer…

And besides, he was Stanford Pines. What lake guardian would take an interest in him, if not the one representing knowledge, and truth, and memory, and by extension science?

So when he noticed a pulsating blue light shining on the cave walls — not the golden-yellow of Uxie, which he’d been so desperately hoping for — he was taken aback. He froze in place reflexively as a glowing blue orb darted out from around the corner and circled him erratically, stopping inches away from his face for a second before teleporting a few feet back and taking on a less luminescent, more defined form. Two resplendent red gems rested near the tips of two long, flat tails, and another between bright, intelligent golden eyes that seemed to be constantly shifting, looking Ford over.

Azelf, Being of Willpower, was not the first Legendary Pokemon Ford had ever encountered, but it may very well have been the most unexpected.

“Why you?” he blurted out. “Can you help me defeat Cipher?”

Azelf took off in a flash, so quickly that Ford momentarily thought it had left the room before he noticed it behind him, circling one of the the larger puddles like a glowing, crackling blue whirlwind. He took a step towards it, and realized the puddle seemed oddly reflective — his mirror image was bright and vividly colored, albeit warped and distorted by ripples.

Azelf zipped by once more, narrowly missing his face, and he tried to take a step back but his legs felt as heavy as lead. With horror, he watched as the puddle in front of him sunk into the ground, creating a roughly conical and ever-widening depression that he almost immediately found himself on the slope of.

“With all due respect, Azelf,” he growled as he was dragged towards the center, “what the fuck?!”

After a moment of frantic fumbling, while continuing to slide towards the apparent portal — a cylindrical hole in spacetime itself, starlight from Arceus-knew-what galaxies flashing from within the tunnel’s navy blue walls — he managed to procure a grappling hook from his bag, and aimed for a jagged formation of stalagmites a few feet beyond the outer edge of the conical whirlpool. But his shot was instantly pulled off course as the wormhole’s gravity caught it, redirecting it down and into the distortion as Ford felt a violent tug on his end of the line. For the first time since the portal had appeared, he felt his feet move — dragged down the side of the cone and into the portal, where his vision went white and his body went weightless.

When he felt solid ground beneath his feet again, he was surrounded by gravity-defying waterfalls and wispy illusory trees.

***

His attacker became visible as Ford landed on it, his hands running over a red and black-striped back that felt rough, yet oddly immaterial. The sensation of touching rough scales was undoubtedly present, just not as vivid as it should have been to Ford’s senses. He nearly lost his grip as the creature — no, as Giratina, there was no doubt anymore — writhed and screeched in apparent surprise, but Ford somehow managed to turn himself around and grab one of the yellow ridges where its wings attached to its body, straddling its serpentine neck awkwardly as the six wings beat furiously around him.

Half-blinded by the spray as Giratina flew through another waterfall, Ford was guided by experience and instinct alone as he reached for a Pokeball on his belt. His Decidueye appeared in a flash of light, dodging red-spiked wings and a lashing tail to fly along Ford’s side.

“Use Spirit Shackle!” Ford yelled. “Immobilize the wings!”

Decidueye perched briefly on a floating stone and let three arrows fly. Two of them were lost to the gravity anomalies, deflected off in unpredictable directions, but the last one flew true — piercing through two of six smokelike wings, which spasmed as a purple aura spread down the tendrils. Giratina immediately careened off to one side, and Ford instinctively tightened his grip — a mistake, he realized a few seconds later, when the two of them crashed into the mirrorlike surface of the lake below and the force of the impact tore through him, ripping him off of Giratina’s back and plunging him into the water.

The cold hit him first, a wave of icy pins and needles that swept down his body, trying to inject him with numbness, with that atmosphere of lifelessness and hopelessness that permeated this dimension. He spluttered and thrashed, desperately trying to breach the surface, to find a handhold to pull himself to shore, but as second after precious second crept away without oxygen, he realized: there was no sense of buoyancy in this lake, no tug pulling him towards the surface. No way to know which way was up.

He forced his eyes open, and saw glowing red stripes lighting up the darkness. They coiled all around him, above and below and to every side, as two gleaming crimson eyes floated ever closer —

Enveloped in a bright blue aura, Azelf zipped through the water between them. It touched one tail to Ford’s forehead and the other to a spot right between Giratina’s eyes, then disappeared before Ford could even process what had happened.

“What —” he gurgled, opening his mouth reflexively and not closing it fast enough to stop the water from surging into his lungs. He hacked and coughed, trying to whack himself in the chest with one hand and reach for his Pokeballs with the other, but he failed on both counts as his limbs grew heavy, and blurry spots danced across his already obscured vision —

Something lifted him above the surface and he gasped for breath, taking longer than he should have to realize that he was now kneeling upon Giratina’s head, just behind its golden crown.

You need to breathe? a raspy and faintly echoing, yet surprisingly soft voice asked him.

“Most humans do,” he choked out automatically, spitting coughed-up water back into the lake and recalling a concerned-looking Decidueye back into its Pokeball before the nature of the conversation sunk in. “Wait — Giratina? You saved me?”

Yes. Giratina went silent for a while, as it lazily drifted across the surface of the lake — how it could float despite the disorienting lack of buoyancy, Ford wasn’t sure.

Why are you here? it finally continued.

That was a good question, Ford thought, and also a question he wasn’t sure how to reply to. It was tempting to simply blame Azelf, but given how it was Azelf who had evidently opened up their current line of telepathic communication, that didn’t seem wise.

In a roundabout way, he’d ultimately ended up here for the same reason he ever traveled to any dimension, Ford figured, so that was how he decided to reply.

“I’m looking for a material that will help me save the multiverse,” he stated slowly.

Why does the burden of saving the multiverse fall to you?

It wasn’t the response Ford was expecting — though it may have been one that he deserved.

“I made a mistake. I was the one who endangered my home dimension in the first place, and now I need to fix things.”

Giratina didn’t respond immediately. What is the material? it eventually asked.

“Well, there are a few different components I’m looking for… do you have anything small that distorts spacetime either far more or far less than its mass would indicate?”

Yes. Hold on tight.

Giratina spread its wings and lifted into the air, Ford still perched atop its head. Columns of water and floating rocky islands flew past them as they ascended, and raced towards the blanket of foreboding purple clouds that stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon —

And then, they’d breached it, and were surrounded by stars — white dwarfs and red giant and everything in between, binary pairs dancing waltzes together while supernovas exploded into sizzling plumes of plasma. Yet they all ranged just from the size of a fist to a basketball, and floated by within arm’s reach of Ford, so close that he could feel their heat drying out his sopping coat.

Instinctively, he held out an arm to run a hand through a glowing red-orange nebula, and streams of gas danced around his fingers, swirling together to consolidate in his palm. He made a fist, and the contents of his hand immediately caught ablaze under the pressure — not quite hot enough to singe him, but bright enough that rays of white light escaped from the cracks between his fingers, illuminating all six of them like a beacon in the night sky.

Giratina dove back beneath the layer of clouds, and as they slowed to a more leisurely pace, Ford opened his hand again to see a system of six tiny stars all orbiting each other as they hovered just above his palm.

Will that work?

“...It’s perfect.”

They drifted past the double helix waterfall once again, close enough for Ford to make out his distorted reflection in one of the streams.

Life isn’t meant to stay in this world, Giratina told him. We should part ways soon… but before, I can open a portal nearly anywhere in the multiverse for you…

A pause. You know, I could open a portal to your home.

Ford looked down at the star system in his hand, and then back to his reflection… and then over his shoulder, to the still nowhere-near-complete weapon strapped across his back.

“I deeply appreciate the offer, but my team and I can’t. There are still things we need to do that… we need to keep traveling between dimensions to accomplish.”

You are banished by your own choices, then…

Giratina nearly came to a complete halt for a moment, and Ford cringed, so preoccupied with worrying he’d misspoken that he hardly noticed the sphere of ball lightning descending from the sky just a few feet from his face.

You have a fierce stubbornness inside of you. Azelf’s voice was loud and resonant inside Ford’s head, completely unlike Giratina’s hesitant, rasping whisper. And when you embrace it, it may often turn out to be to your detriment…

It shed the sphere of blue lightning, revealing its true form. Warm golden eyes fixated on Ford, and its tails twitched as an oddly human smile spread across its tiny face.

But our flaws often stem from our greatest strengths, and you possess exactly the dedication and endurance that are needed to save this universe.

“Thank you, Azelf,” Ford whispered. “I’m sorry for doubting your judgement.”

Have you decided where you wish to go, if not home? Giratina asked him.

“I suppose… Dimension 61-6,” Ford decided. That was the dimension he’d encountered Azelf in, a place that he still hoped would contain many more resources to help him in his fight against Cipher.

Alright. Giratina opened its mouth and breathed out a whirlwind of shadows that bore into the surface of the lake below, carving a conical depression in the water. A white glow lit up at the bottom of the funnel, flickering faintly as if beckoning Ford towards it.

“I’d be so lost without your help, Giratina. Thank you so much.”

Giratina’s head bobbed slightly, as if nodding.

I wish you luck with your quest… friend.

Before he could change his mind, Ford jumped through the portal.

***

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Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! I’ve been thinking about the Mystery Trio and how they correspond to the Lake Guardians for a while, and eventually settled on:

Stan is emotion (Mesprit): He can definitely be very stubborn, but that stubbornness is often derived from emotion, such as his love for his family. He acts closed-off sometimes, but emotions are the driving force behind so many of his actions, like restarting the portal despite the dangers and sacrificing himself to beat Bill and save his family.

Fiddleford is knowledge (Uxie): This one is probably the most clear-cut, since Uxie is capable of erasing memories. Of course, Fidds is highly intelligent and inventive as well, just like the traits Uxie is said to grant.

Ford is willpower (Azelf): Knowledge could of course be fitting for him too (and that manifests a little bit in the fic itself, with Ford hoping to meet Uxie), but I think willpower encapsulates his personality even better. He survived in the multiverse for 30 years with the sole goal of taking down Bill, and then endured a brutal amount of torture in Weirdmageddon but still refused to give Bill the equation.

[novantinuum]

Together in Wanting

Read on AO3, comments and kudos there appreciated

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Rating: T

Words: 2700~

Pairings: Fiddauthor

Story Summary: Ford overanalyzes every aspect of his strengthening crush on his roommate, and Fiddleford finally makes a move. (Content warning for some brief internalized homophobia.)

Very much inspired by an early RP with @the-ill-doctor, and my personal envisioning of how Ford and Fiddleford initially got together in our RP stuff. No context of that is needed to enjoy this, though. :D 

It only took the better part of a semester for thoughts of Fiddleford to become hopelessly and inseparably entangled within his mind. Like a single, minuscule spot of ink spilled on thick parchment— the property of capillarity pulling it through each and every layer, pigment spreading so deep one might never hope to separate the two again— whatever bewitching influence the man had unknowingly cast on him had grown and grown and created...

He shifted restlessly under his sheets, stealing away what were likely the last possible shreds of warmth his ratty bedding had to offer.  

Well...

It certainly created something new, Ford thought, anxiety buzzing deep through his bones. Something that wasn’t supposed to happen, not to him, not here. And yet, ignoring every hesitant voice that echoed at his peripherals instructing— no, demanding— that he come to his senses least trouble find him, something beautiful. Truth be told, he’d never experienced anything like this before, this... level of inexplicable attachment to another person. It was as intoxicating as it was infuriating. Here he stood, bottom of the pecking order— a college freshman, and one who didn’t have a lick of spare time to dedicate to paltry, fanciful matters such as these— and he just had to choose to be sweet on his own one-and-a-half-year older roommate!

Well, not that he had any choice in the matter. If it were up to choice, he’d probably have jumped ship that fated day he noticed all his thought patterns inevitably looping back around to that warm hearted, gregarious, confidence-for-miles southern genius. With every nervous flutter he felt within, it was almost maddening. Almost, if not for the payoff he received whenever he responded to his puns with an even dorkier one (Hey Fidds, what kind of ghosts haunt the chemistry lab? Methylated spirits) and his roommate’s laugh rang out loud and free.

Dear god, he loved the sound of his laugh. The breathy twang of his voice as he sang along with his banjo, as off key as it was. Hah, and to think he once scorned all of Fiddleford’s southern quirks...! What changed his mind? What became different in the four months they’d coexisted together, since that first day when Ford foolishly almost wrote him off as a brainless southern hick?

Oh, he remembered that day so vividly he could nearly recount the exact emotions that filtered through his being at every turn. When he first met Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, he hated him. He was utterly furious, because he was so low strung about everything, and so folksy, and taking up space in what was supposed to be his single dorm, his sanctuary from the rest of the world, but thanks to a housing mishap became sanctuary to two. He fell right into the insidious trap of judging him by mere appearance, right into blatant hypocrisy. The guilt he still felt for that was palpable, pressing down upon him like lead. Hopefully one day he’d find the right moment to apologize.

Still, it was all too unimaginable.

How could he possibly have known then what he knew now? That he’d fudge his first set of final exams and receive a few A minuses because he, Stanford F. Pines, couldn’t stop thinking about a man? Or that he’d be friends with him to begin with, after bemoaning over him ceaselessly to Ma that first week on the phone? What if he explored this the way he would with one of his experiments, conducted an unbiased scientific query focused on the origin of human romantic interactions within the temporal lobe of the brain? Could he ever pinpoint the moment, the precise variable, that sent that first ripple of nervous energy through his chest? Was it the day Fidds commented on a sketch of his DD&MD character and called them ruggedly handsome, not knowing that Ford based this elven sorcerer on himself? (Or did he know??) Maybe it was the first time he casually rest a hand on his shoulder— an action likely as natural as anything to someone from the tactile South, but entirely foreign to him. Or perhaps it was when they found a common interest in tinkering and stayed up until three am building an alarm clock Rube Goldberg would be proud of out of a busted toaster, some notebook spirals they salvaged from the trash, and an oven mitt?

How many hypotheses could he forge?

He shivered in the bitter January chill, his blankets no longer appropriate protection from the elements. He tilt his neck to catch a glimpse of his roommate, eyes squeezed closed and breathing evenly in the bed across the small dorm. The distance between them was only a few feet at most, but it might as well have been impenetrable. Ford sighed wearily, laying limp on his back, as if the weight of a loss he hadn’t yet experienced had already settled upon him.

Who was he kidding? All these thoughts he’d let enrapture his mind, these idle fantasies of what could be? Foolish. Shameful, that deep, terrified part of him whispered. For a number of reasons.

Reason one, his subconscious monotonously supplied once again. Reason one is that you’re not here at this dead-end school to entangle yourself in the lives of others. You’re here to prove your worth to your family and to academia, however you can. Reason two. He’s your roommate for the rest of the year. If you make a move, and you botch this up, life will become painfully difficult.

Reason three.

Reason three was most of his worries, and why he still hesitated to make any sort of advances. He already knew Fiddleford was... well, queer, as many of the man’s friends oft referred to themselves. But Ford? He wasn’t sure if... he never... How would he even...

True, he never felt any strong inclination towards the so-called ‘fairer sex’ as a kid. Even whatever throwaway crush he had on Cathy Crenshaw in the second grade seemed more manufactured than real, since every facet of society he’d encountered aimed to press upon him the concept of man and woman, groom and wife. But if he’d never experienced anything... romantically... inclined in the first place, then how on earth can he know for sure if that’s what this is? In the end, however, he supposed it wouldn’t be changing much about the way people saw him either way. He was already a poor, Jewish Jersey kid from a mixed family with a rare genetic mutation, why the hell not add ‘gay’ to the mix?

The minutes ticked on into endless oblivion, the only noticeable sound except for the low wind whistling at their window and the drunk laughter of those rowdy frat boys a few doors down. He nestled even further under his blankets, settling so they pulled all the way up to his chin.

He desperately wished he were braver. Truth be told, even if he could amass the courage, he didn’t know if Fiddleford would be interested. Again, his roommate was one and a half years older. They were both adults, sure, but was that still too weird? Would it be a deal breaker? At the very least, he counted himself forever lucky to have him as a friend and confidant, no matter what happened (or didn’t happen) between them. No matter what doubts assailed his thoughts, he would cherish each second he could get with him: Those few stolen moments on campus where Fidds would find him after class and they’d circle around the quad talking about DD&MD or the Apollo missions or that new academic journal on string theory Ford recently found for what felt like hours. Unique instances like last Friday, when they grabbed a bite to eat off campus together at Fidds’ impromptu request. Lazy evenings spent in the dorm not doing anything in particular, just progressing on coursework or personal projects, but always in each other’s welcomed company. Every bit of winter break, when Fiddleford kindly invited him to stay with his family in Tennessee so he didn’t have to hole up in the frigid dorms or return home.

He couldn’t help the hopeless, stupid smile that teased at his lips, his cheeks almost hurting from how wide it ran. See, and this was precisely why his feelings for Fiddleford couldn’t be downplayed as mere friendship or camaraderie! He never got this way thinking about his other DD&MD mates. Still, it was late, he was cold... letting his mind replay the same broken record all night long wouldn’t do him any favors. He yawned, and curled up to conserve as much body heat as possible.

“You still up?” a voice whispered softly from across the dorm.

He froze into a panic. All this time, Fiddleford wasn’t asleep?? Shit, shit, he didn’t notice him staring dazedly at his side of the room the whole time, did he?

“Yeah,” he replied on automatic, instantly regretting not pretending to be deep in slumber.

Fidds turned in his bed so they faced each other, head propped up on his pillow. “It sure is cold, huh.”

“It, ah... It sure is."

“An’ my blanket ain’t helping.”

“Uh, I- I could check if I have an extra?”

He didn’t. But oh, for Fiddleford, he wished he did.

“Y’know... with all that ice outside,” he drawled, “maybe we oughta work together to conserve heat. Mind if I... bunk with you, for the night?”

Never in his life had he been more grateful that he had the freedom to hide his blushing face under the covers. Jesus, Stanford, don’t go falling to pieces just yet.

“Bunk wi- with me?”

“Sure! I reckon that way, we can combine all our bedding and hopefully not freeze ta’ icicles in the middle of night.”

The unexpected proposal left his mind flooded with nothing but formless static, wholly undecided in its path. He... why would... What if they...

“Of course, only if you’re comfortable,” Fiddleford added quickly, and he knew he’d have to give a coherent response soon least he risk coming off as rude.

“I am!” he blurted out. “I mean, I- I’m not opposed. To the idea of it, to us, uh... yes.”

Nailed it.

His roommate grinned. “Be right over, then!”

He watched with a tumultuous mixture of dumbfounded shock (that such a proposition had ever occurred) and eager anticipation (that he would ever want to share a bed in the first place) as the man eagerly bundled up blankets in his arms and traversed across the room to him. While Fidds was taking care of that, he pulled back the corner of his comforter in preparation, as well as scooting himself clear to the wall. Gotta allow him as much space as possible, just in case his reasons for bed sharing weren’t the same as Ford’s reasons for his hands shaking like a leaf in sheer nervousness. Thank goodness he could excuse that away as the bite of the cold.

Fiddleford threw his blankets over the twin sized mattress, and true to form there was an instant increase in warmth. To think he’d nearly forgotten what such comfort felt like! After tucking the blankets in against the far wall— cute, real cute— he climbed in beside him. His long legs brushed against his, meeting with the hem of his sweatpants.

“Here, I can—“ he murmured, shifting his feet to allow him more room. “Is that—?”

“Yeah,” he said, settling in with a soft smile and resting his head on the pillow, nose mere inches from his. “Thanks,” he added, a flash of genuine appreciation in his eyes.

(Misty blue, he noted. Reminded him of the surf.)

Side by side, they lay together in pregnant silence for an unknown duration. Their overlapping heartbeats were the only identifiable sound other than the clock’s ticking, and the never ceasing whistling of the wind. Seems the frat boys, at least, had since gone to sleep.

“Ford...”

“Hmm?”

“You do know I like ya’, right?”

And with that, a jolt of electricity shot through his entire nervous system. His tongue went slack, and Fiddleford spoke again.

“Like, like like you?”

Oh sweet Moses, it was as if his stomach had turned itself inside out- but not in an unpleasant, sick in bed with carbonated water and soda crackers sort of way, not at all. No, rather the odd sensation was light and fluttery. His face felt curiously warm, a welcome change from the frigid conditions he’d suffered in all night up until now. Breathlessly, he tried to splutter out a response.

“Y-you... you mean to say that you—?”

“Was wonderin’ when you’d finally notice? No offense, but your head’s kinda been up in the clouds.”

“I—“

He closed his eyes, steeling his nerves.

“I- really like you, too,” he finally admitted, that fluttery sensation acting up again at declaring it out loud for the first time.

“Oh, we all know,” he said fondly.

His eyes shot open.

“We?"

“What, d’ya think the rest of the crew couldn’t notice? Ford Pines, ‘m sorry ta say you really ain’t as subtle as you think you are, pining away over here.” Fiddleford paused to reach across to his face, and brushed a stray bit of his brown hair behind his ear. He peered thoughtfully into his eyes. “You ain’t subtle, and neither am I, frankly. It’s why I decided to be the first to speak up ‘bout it, ‘cause lord knows it probably wouldn’t‘ve been you.”

“I’d say I resent that, but you’re probably right,” he said with a warm chuckle, already feeling a great deal more confident about the scenario than he did only moments ago.

That wonderful man simply had something about him, something about the upbeat, genuine way he talked, that could put even the most nervous of souls at ease. He couldn’t explain it, not fully, but whenever he was around him he felt inspired to do things he’d never before considered. To take risks, to experience new and better things, to say ‘fuck it’ and sign up for that cryptography elective he desperately wanted to take even though it didn’t apply to his major... To always make the best effort he could to take care of himself, to live striving with purpose regardless of when that purpose feels impossibly distant on the horizon, to laugh daily even when laughter is the last thing he feels he’s humanly capable of...

To fall in love...

“How long has it been,” he asked, suddenly curious, “since you knew?”

“Since I knew...? Knew what? That I liked men? That you had a crush? That- that I also had one?”

“Any of it, really?”

“Hmmm,” Fiddleford thought out loud, tapping his slender finger to his chin. “Well, I figured out I was queer back when I was a kid. Had a crush on this young mailman we used to get ‘round our parts, see. And I knew you had the hots for me ever since I overheard ya’ muttering all sorts of cute things in your sleep.”

A nervous “Heh, heh” was all he could manage in response. He leaned his head ever so slightly closer to him.  

“But me? Well, I s’pose it was... Apollo 12. Back in November. We were watching the launch downstairs, in the lounge, and you... you were just so passionate about it. ‘Bout the whole world ‘round us. All my days an’ I’ve never known anyone so in love with discovery, with askin’ why. Spending time with you’s been one of the best things in my life,” he admitted, blushing slightly.

“Same,” Ford agreed, grinning wildly, his cheeks the same shade of red. “So then, if we both...? What now?”

“For now, we sleep,” he said with a short laugh. “If we stay up any later, not even Cafe Cubano could wake us up in time for lecture, I’m sure."

“Ah, but you doubt the power of my ma’s famous Cafe Cubano.”

He snickered, and then— leaned over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight, Ford.”

The man rolled over then, a respectful offer of privacy within their already intimate arrangement. Ford beamed, still entirely giddy and awed in light of everything that had happened, dusting his fingers over the skin his lips graced.

“Goodnight...” he wished, his restless form finally finding a sense of deep, encompassing peace.

For tonight, at least, his slumber would be sound and dreamless.

[thedoublingcenter]

College Days in a Haze

[ @kingofthecon​ || Pulled from here!]

Stanley wasn’t about to question it or his imagination’s penchant for weird things. It must have been a side effect of trying to bring light to his and Ford’s childhood. Fat lot of good that did him, considering that he and his brother were no longer on speaking terms. It was funny and stupid how much he thought of his brother when he made it clear that he didn’t want to even be in the same zip code as him. His brother was self-centered despite how self-conscious he was. It was laughable, really–and there he went thinking about Ford. Ugh, feelings were stupid. He was supposed to be holding a grudge. He was also supposed to be helping out his inner weird with a Valentine’s day present. Yeah, that was apparently his life at the moment. “Yeah well, I’ll jus’ take your word for it.” Mainly because he didn’t know WHAT was going on at the moment. Setting the con-artistry and…other questionable comments aside, he decided to take everything he was hearing with a grain of salt even if he wasn’t one to judge. After all he’d been sort of fixated with the occasional dead animal in his childhood. He’d even told Ford all about the dead rat he’d seen floating in a bucket once. He’d been sort of fascinated by things like that, though that’d all been squashed when Shanklin had been hit by a car. He’d been attached and watching something close to him die had hurt. Some people dealt with death better than he did. He knew about taxidermy, courtesy of his twin, but that hadn’t made him feel better because it cost money and their Pa didn’t even want to dish out cash for his sons let alone a pet that Stanley wasn’t supposed to have to begin with… “Maybe hold off on the heart for when ya get hitched or somethin’?” He wanted to say never, but honestly whatever weird stuff was going on it probably would be rude NOT to present a still-beating heart after a certain amount of time with them dating? Is that what this was? He was assuming that since it WAS Valentine’s Day that they were at least, on some level, more than friends? W-why was he putting more thought…nope, the sooner he got this over with the sooner he could pretend that none of this weirdness, minus his time well spent with Fiddleford, out of his system. No need to get invested. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass on that invite, Tri-Guy. But maybe during Halloween?” A time that was appropriate for wanting to be freaked out despite the absurdity that came from people dressing up and trying to scare the mess out of someone i.e. one of his favorite holidays ever. “I wouldn’t mind teaming up for some sort of haunted house–no! A hut where dumb teens get murdered for making stupid choices like running up the stairs where they’ve blocked themselves from getting out of two story building without twisting their ankle or breakin’ their leg or something.” Just thinking about it…the scams he could pull, the suckers he could relieve of their hard earned cash. Maybe there was something to this whole con artist thing? …nah. “Wait, I actually helped?” The surprise was more so because it seemed like a really basic idea with all the things laid out in front of him like that. Maybe it was some sort of moral or lesson…that he shouldn’t overthink things because sometimes the most obvious solution was just as good as something super convoluted. It would certainly tie into him trying to talk with Fiddleford. He should just be himself. That’s what he was wanting to do when he came to college after all. He wanted to get out of Ford’s shadow and be himself, and yet here he was incapable of trying to just…talk to his crush like he had with Carla. It shouldn’t have mattered if Fidds was a guy or not. People were people? “Eesh, I do NOT want to know the story behind the soggy animal purse.” Luckily the information wasn’t coming anyway, and he was due for a wake up call since Mr. Top-Hatted Triangle was dismissing him with some…pretty interesting…conspira– Stanley sat up with a start, momentarily forgetting where the heck he was which was very unfortunate since he was sitting at his desk. Joining the waking world was disorienting already, but still being slightly sick didn’t help matters especially when he toppled over and onto the floor taking his chair with him. It clattered, loudly, and the most he could do was groan out a curse that might have impressed his old man. He had no idea what time it was nor did he have any idea of whether or not Fidds was even in their shared dorm. Hopefully it was early enough for him to be in class and not late at night like he hoped it was. He fumbled for much longer than he would have if he was completely sober and managed to right the chair before fumbling his way towards the bathroom - hand in the bird nest he called his hair while muttering about weird dreams though there was a pleasant feeling in his chest because he certainly remembered talking to Fiddleford, even if he didn’t really recall what it was he’d said…though he did vaguely recall laughter…? Weird dreams indeed.

Of course, Fiddleford had already been up for a few minutes- but seeing Stanley suddenly jolt awake had nearly caused him to ram his head into the wall as he started, words just barely catching in his throat out of surprised confusion. He finally managed to regain his bearings, re-adjusting his ruined glasses long enough to see Stanley basically bumbling towards the door to their shared bathroom. He spotted the chair, heard the mutterings.. Weird dreams? His own mind was still filled with fleeting images- many of them involving Stanley, and-- well-- a few... Things... That had his cheeks coloring as he thought back on them.

But even as he tried to grasp those memories, they started to flicker and waver- ghosts in the dead of night. He turned his head, spotting his alarm clock- which read a very painful ‘3:33 A. M.’. Early.. Very, very early. Too early for his first class, but late enough that he didn’t want to go back to sleep... But it was tempting, even as his memories grew foggier, fainter with each growing second. He was trying to grasp them, but they continued evading his grasp- dashing into the dump for thoughts as he tried (in vain) to hold on. That was when Fiddleford finally stood, mouth still moving slightly to try to figure out something to say.

“Didja have ah... ‘Weird dream’... Too?” He wasn’t even sure what he could qualify it as. Thoughts dashed through his head every time he tried to think back- a confession, a kiss, a steady light in the core of his very being that grew at the mere sensation of what he thought he remembered. He wanted to go back, but a paralyzing fear held him in the present. “... Ah jus’... Ah jus’ woke up...” He breathed out. Was Stan even listening? Should he even be trying? He wasn’t entirely sure.

One thing was certain: he probably wasn’t going to get any sleep the rest of the night. It was too late for anything more than a power-nap, given how alive he felt. It was strange, his body was all at once chilled to the bone with exhaustion and wired down to every last nerve with energy. He wanted to run and scream, and at the same time pass out on the bed and wake up in two weeks.

It occurred to him then that he probably shouldn’t be trying to ask Stan what was going on- after all, the other was going to the bathroom, clearly- conversation was probably the last thing on his mind. So Fiddleford slumped a bit in his bed, staring at his banjo resting beside the bed, the strings waiting for a good pluck while he tried to figure out what to make of his jumbled mind. There were only faint impressions now- but enough that he could piece together a general idea. A general idea around Stan, around love- and the thought worried him. Had something manifested in his dreams? Had he just... Had a wish-fulfillment dream? Maybe a nightmare? It would explain the fight-or-flight response he was feeling... If it could be called that.

Faded afterimages of sunlight drifted from the curtained window (they really needed thicker curtains), the faint blue a reminder of just how early it truly was. Although really, ‘early’ and ‘late’ were subjective at best... He readjusted his glasses, before silently taking them off with a hint of a laugh. He hadn’t needed to adjust them... But it had been done out of habit. He looked them over, the cracks still quite visible- so small, so hard to spot from a distance... But up close... Clear words and images.

“... Di’ som’ne break m’glasses?...”

[hollycrowned]

among all this meta I’d like to bring up an inconsistency that always bothered me: how much did McGucket know about Ford and his connection to Bill? in the flashbacks in TLM, it seems that young Fiddleford did know about Ford and Bill, as we have this very telling shot:

but in Journal 3, it seems that Ford never admitted to Fiddleford that Bill was the source of all his ideas:

“I internally debated whether I should tell him about my Muse. F is a very superstitious man...Although I have always wanted to tell someone about my divine experiences, I worry that he might think I’ve gone mad all these years in seclusion, or worse--that I’m tangled in some kind of unsavory black magic. No matter...some secrets are best kept that way.”

Later, just before they test the portal, the topic is brought up again:

“Again, he questioned me about where I got the idea for this portal, and I considered telling him the truth...until he showed me something that shocked me.”

McGucket then offers the research paper for Ford to publish, Ford refuses, and the next day they test the portal. Fiddleford finds out about Bill the hard way and quits the project.

and so it seems that Ford never admitted the connection exactly, despite Fiddleford’s suspicions that something was up. if this is the case as written in journal 3, then how could the scene in TLM have happened?

I wonder this, too, because in that same episode it’s shown not only that Ford collected so many Bill-related artifacts, but that he kept them in the second level basement study:

which he presumably shared with Fiddleford while working on the portal—that’s what we see in the flashback, at least. it would make sense, then, that McGucket would’ve known all about Bill and Ford as we see in TLM.

but if we stick to what’s established in Journal 3, where Ford never admitted to McGucket his connection to Bill, then where do all those tapestries and prisms end up?

maybe the attic room wasn’t always used as storage.

[shadowofthelamp]

Let Me Help

So, after some introspection and realizing why Ford matters to me, I decided that the self-insert fic I was planning to do anyways should work off of that. Set in the 80′s, during the time Ford had locked himself up to study more about Bill post-betrayal. 

I’m going to do another one in a bit that’s a bit more huggy and comforting, but I wanted to get a base and try and get 80′s ford nailed down.

Gravity Falls in the winter is kind of peaceful.

Well, it's a small town in the middle of nowheresville, Oregon- of course it's going to be quiet. There's the occasional gnome attack, but you'd gotten used to them and the other various supernatural creatures ages ago. You'd grown up here, after all.

However, one thing was new this year- the mysterious scientist who lived in the woods. Not Fiddleford, he came into town often and was happy to chat with people, everyone knew him by now. He had an accent, he had helped Susan fix the broken oven in the diner, and he had fun stories about his farm when he was a kid.

No, his partner was the mystery. S... S something. Stanley? Samuel? Whatever it was, he only ever appeared to buy supplies then sweep back to his backwoods cabin out on Gopher Road. He wore a trench coat. You'd seen him approximately three times. Once in the diner, ordering coffee, once at the hardware store buying a blowtorch, and once in the middle of the woods with a net, chasing after pixies.

It didn't tell you much besides the fact he hadn't figured out that the pixies would come to you if you had honey.

Maybe it wasn't the best idea, but you hadn't always had the best ideas, you'd run out of books to read, and something in you itched for an adventure, but you found yourself traipsing through the December snow to that creaky house that already looked old at the end of the road. Fiddleford had always been so kind, and you'd always liked talking to the shy ones in class. S-whatever probably was the same. He didn't seem much older than you, after all. Maybe he just needed a friend.

...Those barrels out front probably were full of some kind of science goo. This was Gravity Falls, not some place that would end up on the news because somebody had toxic waste.

The floorboards of the porch creaked under your winter boots, and you knocked on the door twice. Snow plopped off the roof and unto the ground, crushing a solitary weed that had squirmed up through the frost. Footsteps clomped towards the door, but it didn't open.

"Who is it?" His voice was shaky, and you puzzled over a response for a moment.

"My name is Miranda, I'm just here to talk. Is this a bad time?"

"Who are you?" The doorknob rattled, but the door remained shut.

"Um, I'm... Miranda. I'm twenty two, I was just curious what you do out-" The door nearly slammed you in the face as he pointed a flashlight to your eyes, a snarl on his lips. The light burns, but he only leaves it on for a moment before being satisfied by whatever he did (or didn't) see.  

You regret coming the moment he tugs you in by your wrist, reminders of stranger danger floating around in your head. You can still feel the wind and snow swirling at your back, but he just tugs his coat tighter around him with his free hand as he narrows his eyes.

"Why are you here?"

"I... well, I haven't seen Fiddleford in town for nearly a week, and I've always been sort of interested in science, and... are you all right?" It had taken until you'd seen him in flickering light, but he didn't look very well. There were bags under his eyes, and his skin was sallow and sagging, as if he'd lost weight.

"That's a good one. You just happened to show up when you've never wanted to be here before?" His nails dig into your wrist as he flips your hand over, tugging off your glove and shining his flashlight at your palm. He yanks it up to eye level, and you stumble forward, barely managing to avoid crashing into him. "Fingerprints look legitimate..."

"Seriously, are you okay? It's freezing in here, you don't have any heat on. Is that a dinosaur skull? Why were you looking at my-" "Shh, he's- what did you say your name was? Never mind, it's not important. You shouldn't be here, why are you here?"

His eyes are twitching, and he looks like your friend after she stayed up two days straight during a particularly strenuous final.  "I was just... wondering, is all. About your fancy science stuff. I saw you chasing after pixies once, so... you like Gravity Falls for the supernatural stuff too, right? I have some stories-"

He sets his hands on your shoulders, squeezing in the fabric of your coat. "Listen. You don't want to be involved with me, with this. Leave, and don't come back. Tell everyone to stay away. This is dangerous, awful, it's a mess, it's a mess-" He's started shaking, and you set a hand on top of one of his. Something feels weird- does he have too many fingers?- but it seems to calm him down, at least a little.

"I'm not gonna hurt you. I'll... I'll go."

"Yes. Yes, go, that's a good idea." He lets go, raking a hand through his hair. It's slick, but more like he hadn't washed it in a few days than the shine of hair gel.

He ushers you out the door, and it isn't until it clicks shut that you realize a piece of paper is stuck to your boot. The wet snow has made half of it indecipherable, but the parts that are are scribbles of some kind of were-cougar. It's apparently a cougar that turns into a much bigger cougar on full moons.

Huh. You'd never seen that before. _________

It was two days before you found yourself on his doorstep again. You hadn't even gotten his name yet, but... he'd looked like he needed help. Badly. You'd been in that sort of place before, that place when you didn't want to admit you felt like shit and didn't care about life anymore, and if you could help someone out of there, you damn well were going to do it.

You had macaroni and cheese in a thermos. It wasn't very classy but it would have probably melted your mom's tupperware so it was better than nothing.

You knocked twice. "It's me again!"

"Who?"

"Miranda! I came a few days ago, you shined a light in my eyes?"

Something metal jangled before the door creaked open.

"What did... did I tell you to leave?"

"Yes, but I wanted to give you this." You hold out the thermos. "It has mac and cheese. I know it's not much, but it didn't look like you'd eaten."

He stares at you like you'd grown horns.

"You can look at my hands again, if you want."

"What do you care about hands?" His tone shoots to defensive almost immediately.

"Well, you wanted to see mine last time. Something about the fingerprints. I dunno what you were looking for."

He blinks before taking a step back, and you hear a series of crashes before he's pushing the door open the rest of the way. You take that as a cue to step in, nearly tripping over a cage that only went up just past your ankle. "Woah!"

"Ah, my- my apologies, I wasn't expecting- it was- nothing."  

Turning slightly to your left to the stairs shows three chairs- all different- and another cage twice the size of the one that almost made your teeth get acquainted with the wooden floorboards. Either someone had had a fit or he'd been blocking the door and needed to chuck them away to let you in.

"I know I'm probably intruding but... I noticed you didn't look so hot, last time. I know mac and cheese always makes me feel better."

You hold out the thermos again, and he takes it from you, setting it on a small table littered with printer paper.

"Oh. Um. Thank you." He stares at you for a few moments, scanning you up and down. Even in a puffy coat, you feel almost naked. "Why did you do that for me? I don't know you. Is this a trick?"

"I... I've been where you are." You swallow, about to continue, but then he suddenly smiles. It doesn't look like he's happy- his eyes are watering- but it shows off a chipped tooth and blood on his gums.

"You think you've been where I am? You know what- what I've been through? You... you couldn't possibly...!" His mouth extends to the point where you wince for his cheek muscles, but this feels like a horror movie. You take a step backwards as he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide and something that's both a sob and a distorted laugh forces its way out of his throat. His body starts shaking again, and you raise a hand to your own mouth.

Whatever is wrong with him, if he doesn't get help he is going to hurt himself. You know this for certain- and you knew a panic attack when you saw one.

"Hey, it's okay. Breathe." You can't force your feet to move closer, but you can ball your hands into fists and shove them into your coat pockets. "It's all right, let it out, take a breath." He's still wide-eyed, looking at something above you and a million miles away. "With me, in one thousand, two one thousand, out one thousand, two one thousand."

He squeezes his eyes closed, nodding his head far faster then the pace you're setting, but you try again. "In one thousand, two one thousand, out one thousand, two one thousand. Focus on my voice. Just think of the snow falling outside. It's nice and even and slow. Focus on your hands, squeeze your fingers, focus on how it feels against your palm... okay, let them go."

He took another deep breath before opening his eyes again. The right one looks more bloodshot than the left but they're both more grounded than they were before.

"...Thank you."

You force up a smile even though your heart is pounding. "You're welcome. I've had panic attacks before, I know they majorly suck. That's part of why I came- I wanted to know if I could help."

"Help?" He wraps his arms around himself, and you notice the elbow is burnt off the left sleeve.

"Yeah, help. I don't want anybody going through that junk alone, after I did." You take a few steps forward, and your boots crinkle more paper.

He takes a few steps back as you move, so you stop.

"No, no. No, this is a trick, I can't trust you, can't trust anyone, can't-"

"I promise, I'm not going to hurt you." You have a sudden idea. "How about I prove it?"

"How?"

You grab the thermos of noodles. "How about we split it? You know it's not poisoned or whatever, I'll know you're eating. That's the first thing I know I stopped, anyway- eating properly."

He stares at you for a solid fifteen seconds before nodding slowly.

"Fine."

______________

Over the next week, you learn new information bit by bit. His name is Stanford. He's been in Gravity Falls for six years now. He came here because it's one of the weirdest places in the world, something you think is accurate and also really neat. You can't imagine the town without talking squirrels or the occasional wandering vampire.

He's done something bad. He refuses to specify what, or to let you past the living room, but considering every time you see him he's got a new bandage somewhere, he's still beating himself up for it.

Your suggestion that he go to the hospital for a few days nearly gets a fork in your neck so you decide to not mention it again. You're pleased that he's gained a tiny bit of color, but the bags under his eyes only continue to get deeper. There are always mugs half-filled with coffee scattered around, but if you ask how long it's been since he's slept, he simply waves it off, that he has too much work to do.

You never visit for long- he usually shoos you out within fifteen minutes, but by the third time, you've developed a routine- he gives you a code word at the end of one visit, and you'll say it the next so he knows it's you.

Unfortunately, you never really learn what he thinks some mysterious 'other you' with sinister intentions could be.

A particularly cloudy Thursday, when he answers the door he's got a creepy grin on his face and his glasses glint gold.

"Hey! Come in, come in! I'm so glad you're here, I've been dying to show you something!"

He didn't even ask for the code word, but you step inside anyways. Maybe you were just dumb that way. Maybe you'd started to like the way his hands darted about, and how he looked when he explained something, lighting up and showing you a hint of what he'd used to be.

Maybe it was something more than just trying to prevent the continuation of a spiral like your own.

"What do you want to-" you start, but Stanford shoved something that smelled rancid into your face. It took a moment for your crossed eyes to adjust, and you saw fur and blood and white squirming maggots. Upon stumbling back, you realized it was a deer head, with the antlers replaced with a crown of rabbit's ears. Knives stabbed into both eyeballs, and blood drooled down the cheeks of the animal.

You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to look away. "That's... interesting. Very dark."

"Oh, that's nothing! Wanna see what I did to myself?" You nearly vomit as he drops the deer head (that hits the wood with a meaty THWAUMP) and rips back his sleeve to show fresh burns, ragged cuts zigzagging across them like a sick facsimile of stitches on a baseball.

"Wh-what..."

"I'm a bit out there, see!"  His grin grew wider. "It's not safe, y'know- one day I'm just curled up on a puddle of my own tears, the next I'm doing taxidermy on live animals! It's a toss-up, curly, and I think you might wanna stay away! That sound good?"

You nod mutely, stomach still turning with bile. The blood from the deer splattered unto your pants and shoes.

"Toodles!" He roughly shoves you through the door and off the porch, slamming it hard enough to make a single bird that had braved the winter fly off with an indignant 'CAW!'.

You shiver in the snow for a moment before coming to your senses and bolting.

[journalxxx]

Awesome And Emotional Multichapter Fics That I Will Never Write - 2

Summer 2013, Gravity Falls. The entire family is happily spending a few weeks together, the twins are overjoyed to meet old friends and relatives, the grunkles are taking a much needed holiday from crazy adventures and monster hunting. All is well, Stan is particularly happy in this period because seeing the twins again gives him life and things are going exceptionally well with Ford too, their relationship has just turned into something more than strictly brotherly and they're both nothing short of enthusiastic about it. Except, angst happens, in the shape of some former criminal partners of Stan's showing up in the remote town to demand his help with some particularly nasty business. Really, really nasty stuff, like human trafficking, stuff he got marginally involved with when he was young and in very bad waters, small unclear jobs he took for desperation without asking questions he probably should have bothered with, stuff he run away from as quickly as he could as soon as he caught wind of exactly what kind of business he was meddling with. For whatever reason, the guys need him specifically and immediately, and they have no trouble convincing him to join, they just need to rattle down the entire family's routine they have comfortably observed in the last three days to make it clear that he'd better just get in the goddamn car without too much fuss.

Stan complies, though obviously he doesn't want to deal with any of that shit. They only let him write a twenty-word note for the family so that they don't get alarmed (and they check it thoroughly to make sure it doesn't contain codes or weird stuff), then off he goes. Thing is, Stan probably could find a way to get in touch with Ford if he wanted to, but he doesn't, not really. Things have kind of settled between them, hell it's even a miracle that everything's worked out so well about their shared 'interest', but such a mess would obviously raise questions, very uncomfortable ones. And yes, Ford's been much less of a judgemental dick lately, but that doesn't mean Stan feels like offering him a full briefing about the shadiest endeavors of his youth. He'd rather try to see what these guys exactly want from him first, and see if he can discreetly foil their plans from the inside, in some way.

Mexico, a couple of weeks later. Stan succeeds. He manages to get enough details about the operation, he keeps his cards close and his best act, maybe he contacts an old policeman friend he trusts, maybe he rats them out to a rival criminal gang operating in the same field, probably both, anyway he manages to turn the whole operation into a mess and get most of the gang killed or arrested. Only most of it though, and, needless to say, the remaining members have a pretty clear idea on who tricked them and swear revenge. Cue to Stan having to move around constantly for a good week, trying to make them lose his tracks. He does phone home at this point, finding Ford and warning him to watch out and move the kids somewhere very safe because there are probably angry goons out for their butts. Despite the urgent questions, he refuses to tell him where he is or why, and he basically hangs up in Ford's face as soon as he's sure he grasped the gravity of the situation. By the end of the conversation, he's fairly sure he's screwed things up pretty badly, and he can only pray that the kids won't pay for that. The predictable but nonetheless satisfying plot twist is that the following evening, weary and on edge after a whole day of running around and barely managing not to be killed by yet another goon, he gets scared shitless and nearly shoots at sight the man quietly waiting for him in his shady motel room, which obviously is a very, very pissed Ford. Stan goes from scared shitless to relieved to absolutely horrified within the next five seconds because Ford's supposed to be protecting the kids from certain death, not running around in Mexico. Ford flatly replies that he is, and that in fact there are three photocopied clones of him (including the one Stan talked with on the phone), equipped with laser guns and full-body raincoats, patrolling 24/7 the area around the bunker where the kids are staying (which, during the last years, has been remodelled and updated by a tireless Fiddleford with a lot of spare time and money on his hands) Poor Stan will have to deal with a positively livid Ford who's had a pretty distressing fortnight, running around the country with little to no information to work with, only to arrive in Mexico shortly after the whole operation failed. And it failed rather spectacularly and messily, with lots of shooting and even a potentially disastrous fire when some goons had the very stupid idea to hide in a nearby gas station and nearly blew the whole block up. Ford had to spend an entire night sneaking into a hospital and inspecting half-charred corpses just to make sure that Stan wasn't one of the unidentified casualties. So yeah, he's in trouble. Being basically cornered, Stan can't help but fill Ford in about the shady dealing he's been caught up with and he's been trying to fix. The whole tale makes Ford's mood sink even further, but what really guts him is catching onto the fact that Stan didn't tell him anything out of sheer shame. Stan tries to sugar-coat it a little bit with the classic I-didn't-want-to-put-you-in danger excuse, which is kind of true, but also not really, since all the monster hunting they did together proved beyond doubt that Ford knows how to fend for himself and would have provided invaluable support to Stan in that situation. Ford doesn't call him out on that however, and, with a dejected tone that positively breaks Stan's heart, just suggests they both go to bed to rise early and think of a plan to deal with the most urgent problem at hand, namely the remaining goons. They following days keep them constantly alert and busy on a number of ploys to confuse and rat out the killers, including switcheroos, anonimous tips to the police, and assorted plans involving Stan acting as a bait and Ford leisurely sniping attackers from nearby vantage points. They both avoid talking as much as possible, until, while dealing with the very last group of minions, a stray bullet hits Stan's loins. Obviously he was wearing a bulletproof vest, so no lasting damage has been done, but the force of the impact does enough of a number on his back to force him to stay in bed for a couple of days before he can simply stand straight without crippling pain. At that point, there isn't anything left to do but talking. Stan overhears Ford talking on the phone and reassuring someone they'll be back soon: the kids, obviously - Ford explains later - but also the copies he had left to guard the bunker, which were no less concerned than the original. That leads to the dreaded topic of Stan's discreet escape, and how much that weighted on Ford's conscience. Considering their increasing and shared intimacy, he had thought they had finally moved past that awkward and messy emotional impasse they had been more or less consciously carrying on for decades, but apparently he was wrong, since Stan is still behaving as if he has something to prove to his brother (not being as much of a screw-up as he think he's been, at the very least), and since he doesn't seem to expect the same level of trust and acceptance he's granted to Ford. And obviously the majority of the blame for that rests on Ford's shoulders, for not noticing, for underestimating his past selfishness, bla bla bla... There follows a long and heartfelt conversation, which makes it clear that Stan's decision about taking on an entire crime syndacate by himself was a bit too rushed and inconsiderate, and that Ford hasn't lost his touch for guilt-tripping, both others and himself. The obvious conclusion involves lots of apologies and promises for the future - about trusting each other, about not judging each other, about making absolutely, irrevocably clear that their love and esteem for each other are too deep-seated to be swayed by inconsequential mishaps, both present and past - and obviously much needed cuddles and kisses, before hopping on the train back to Oregon.