#of course Ford will have a reaction to Stan's injuries

[sourour-rl]

What if when Stanford told Stanley to come up to his cabin, Stanley was in a bad shape?

[weirdmageddon]

five years too late let’s analyze this. the commentary has gotten me back into gravity falls reigniting thoughts and insights i came to years ago

i love everything about this commentary in general it hits the points of humor, genuine analysis of the characters, but most of all im so glad hirsch addressed that the droid not detecting any fear from dipper here doesnt make any scientific sense because that was a massive CinemaSins moment for me

IDK the fact that dipper can fucking stand after an airship crash because theres a bigger threat at hand is literally one of the defining capabilities owed to adrenaline lol...... IM SORRY im a biopsychology student if i dont point that out iwill seethe and die because that was just . its a grudge ive held for a long time about this episode but didnt rant about because it was something so minor and i’m sure nobody would care.

i was 13 when this episode came out and i’m almost 19 now, i had a special interest in biology and i still do but now i’m actually having college classes in biopsychology so i can give my arguments more oomph now. and i have to say, now that i know more about the brain and autonomic nervous system the more this scene bugs me, if that was even possible. and it says a lot of dipper and ford’s relationship.

if dipper clearly wasnt calm before, why would he be now just because he’s put up an outwardly confident facade? before he was in the flight but now hes in the fight. my boy just rode on top of a spaceship by nothing but a magnet gun that could detach at any time if it failed and then the ship crashed, he sustained injuries, is in emotional turmoil because he thinks his uncle is Fucking Dead and the threat of a security droid that detects adrenaline is on his tail and produces a Big Fucking Gun in response to dipper saying “i hAvE a MaGNeT gUn” and hes screaming and has his teeth clenched but sure there’s no adrenaline coursing through his body in that moment i can totally believe that

when dipper asks what happened, ford says “the orb didn’t detect any chemical signs of fear, it assumed the threat was neutralized and self-disassembled” but i don’t think measuring someone’s heartbeat alone is particularly relevant in detecting ... chemical signs of fear?? they dont really tell you this shit but noradrenaline (and maybe adrenaline too if the acetylcholine from sympathetic outflow always activates the adrenal medulla??, theres two pathways) is always active in small quantities to make sure your parasympathetic nervous system doesnt slow your heart to dangerous levels on its own, regardless of your emotions. it’s just a homeostatic mechanism. your sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems are CONSTANTLY modulating control of your organs on a see-saw, literally with every breath you take. simply standing upright causes specialized mechanoreceptor neurons in blood vessels to signal your brain to project signals to release catecholamines via the sympathetic nervous system to constrict your blood vessels so that blood is able to reach your brain and not pool in your legs. i have a deficiency in my body’s ability to adapt to this which is why i know so much about it. if i stand up my heart races to compensate. i’m not feeling fear, my body is just adjusting—albeit grossly and incompetently lol.

but what im saying here is that the security system is flawed. it’s a cool idea to have security droids detect fear, but in practice by detecting adrenaline, and not even directly by detecting the molecule itself—it’s done in a roundabout way by reading the heartbeat, could be a recipe for false alarms. like what if someone’s on beta-blockers. that’s not really an adequate way to measure “fear”; there’s so many variables that could interfere with the measurement the farther you abstract from what you’re really trying to detect. and besides, adrenaline is NOT just a sign of fear, it’s just for preparing the body for action. i know the sympathetic nervous system and adrenaline is constantly linked with the “fight-or-flight” reaponse to a stressor, but 99.9% of the time the sympathetic nervous system is used in your life is to balance out your parasympathetic nervous system to maintain homeostatic equilibrium for mundane things.

i think detecting amygdalar activation would be more efficient in detecting fear. the amygdala sends projections to the hypothalamus which then in turn modulates the autonomic nervous systems. but the amygdala is intensely activated specifically in response to a fear-inducing stimulus (it does activate in response to other emotions but they’re mostly negative and is most activated by startle and fear), and wouldnt be highly activated by many other confounding variables like measurement of the heartbeat could be. the amygala is one of the first stops directly from external stimuli.

to show you how integrated the amygdala is as the first step in registering fear after receiving input from sensory stimuli let’s look at the auditory-amygdala connection for example

see how the auditory thalamus projects to the primary auditory cortex and auditory association cortex? the cortex is where conscious awareness of what the stimuli is comes from. this is the “high road”. it goes sensing -> perception -> emotional response. but sometimes you can be startled without even processing what it is you’re sensing, like the startle response of an alarm or a phone ringing in a quiet house before you even register what it is. this goes sensing -> emotional response, without perception happening until after you’ve already felt the startle. that’s when it takes the “low road”. here’s a simplified version:

even if that were the case with these droids though it’s obvious dipper is still fearful on some level here. his body language, voice, expressions all give it away. for the amygdala, aggression isnt too off from fear so it would be detected equally.

the reason this is so important is because ford uses this as evidence for why dipper is special, “i did it?” “you did it. this is what i was talking about, how many 12 year olds do you think are capable of doing what you’ve just done?”

but like....did he really? i’m not saying this to shoot dipper down or make him out to be more of a wuss, he was incredibly strong-willed here and i dont want to take that away from him because it WAS growth on his part. but the underlying psychophysiological reactions of aggression and fear shouldn’t be that different and this was a total asspull. maybe the droid was so old that it fucked up. maybe dipper being covered in grime and dirt made it harder for the droid to measure the correct heart rate through photoplethysmography (im assuming since they use a camera and are non-contact).

and in all honesty everything i just said brings into question the interpersonal healthiness of ford’s judgements, what he thinks, his expectations, and how he communicates that. in this video alex already talks about how ford is projecting onto dipper. and i think ford may be projecting his expectations for himself onto people who are not him, and the fact that it’s on dipper here makes it far more unfortunate. you realize how much this boy idolizes ford, right? how much impressions matter? dipper even tells himself before he leaves in this same episode, “all right dipper, this is your first big mission with great uncle ford. don’t mess this up.”

even though it’s unstated, the implicit message dipper is perceiving from ford based on their dynamic is: “do you have what it takes for me to be proud of you?” and to accomplish this he must be like ford, even though he’s clearly not and he knows this. he says “i don’t think have what it takes. i was tricked by bill, i was wrong about stan’s portal, heck, i can’t even operate this magnet gun right.” then, by simple chance without even knowing what he did, he activates the magnet gun and pulls out the adhesive, which immediately takes the focus away from what dipper was telling ford about his feelings of inadequacy to ford saying, “yes! dipper, you found the adhesive!”

these thoughts of dipper’s hang in the air without resolve or comment from ford. we don’t know what ford would have said. but it then becomes painfully self-evident in the scene immediately after when the droids emerge and ford tells dipper, “they’re security droids and they detect adrenaline. you simply have to not feel any fear and they won’t see you”, to which dipper replies with an exasperated (and rightful) “WHAT?”

dipper goes in a panic trying to indirectly tell his uncle that this isn’t something he can do. and he is completely right and valid to be freaked out by that full stop. that IS crazy. you can’t control your fear. you can control how you interpret that fear in your higher brain regions but the physiological changes will stick around for longer than it takes to cognitively calm down. it’s easy for me to detach from my emotions to analyze them, but being able to do this does not come naturally for everyone. even i have an irrational fear of wasps and i can’t control it by detaching myself, my body is just automatically primed to get the fuck out of there. i know it’s stupid and i know it’s irrational and isn’t helpful to get myself worked up but i literally can’t stop how my body reacts no matter how i cognitively think about it. expecting composure from dipper in a situation like this when he’s being made to consciously be aware of his anxiety is absolutely fucking insane. look what you did, placing these cruel expectations on him, now he’s afraid of being afraid! this isn’t a case where two wrongs cancel out, they just stack on top of each other.

there’s a good reason these scenes were put side by side but it seems up until now it had remained unanalyzed.

what dipper fears from ford is disappointment. not living up to his uncle’s (quite frankly badly placed) expectations for a twelve year old with anxiety. not once did ford say or subliminally communicate “i don’t expect you to be able to do what i can since you are not as experienced as i am and that’s perfectly okay, no judgements”. you don’t put a child on bike before training wheels. you don’t throw a kid into a swimming pool without giving them swimming lessons. the way ford is doing it, there’s no room for trial and error or mistakes that are an opportunity to grow and learn; instead, it’s life or death. he only seems to pride dipper on what he can do while ignoring the underlying struggles that plague him and never making it known it’s okay for dipper to fail in front of his hero and that he won’t think anything less of him for it.

and that’s why i found the ending scene for dipper and ford’s adventure in this episode to feel so.. wrong. on a scientific and social level. because by the sound of it ford focused more on what dipper had done to dismantle the droid (the droid not detecting any fear) instead of how dipper displayed love and protection for him even if he was truly afraid. what if the science was accurate and the droid detected adrenaline while dipper was confidently standing up for his uncle. would ford still be proud of him regardless?

[mellicose]

Doctor ... WTF?

An impassioned rant about the steady decline of Doctor Who, the trajectory of the Thirteenth Doctor, and the righteous indignation after The Timeless Children, not only as a Whovian, but as a woman-

I love how certain people are spinning The Timeless Children as being good, yet the BBC has released (2)TWO statements basically telling fans the following:

“Doctor Who is a beloved long-running series and we understand that some people will feel attached to a particular idea they have of the Doctor, or that they enjoy certain aspects of the programme more than others. Opinions are strong and this is indicative of the imaginative hold that Doctor Who has – that so many people engage with it on so many different levels.

We wholeheartedly support the creative freedom of the writers and we feel that creating an origin story is a staple of science fiction writing. What was written does not alter the flow of stories from William Hartnell’s brilliant Doctor onwards – it just adds new layers and possibilities to this ongoing saga.”

Creative freedom, huh? Ask Joe Hill about it. Or Gaiman. The writers, including Chibnall, are only free to do what the Beeb and the other show investors tell them. 

They go on:

“We have also received many positive reactions to the episode’s cliff-hanger. There are still a lot of questions to be answered, and we hope that you will come back to join us and see what happens, but we appreciate that it’s impossible to please all of our viewers all of the time and your feedback has been raised with the programme’s Executive Producer." 

Uglylaughing.gif

There is a huge, monumental difference between 'not being able to please everyone all at the same time' and basically making a whole fandom, New and Classic, young and old, come together with the same level of disgust and disappointment.

I also find the people arguing "Canon? What canon?" about the Doctor now being the Lord and Savior of the Shining World of the Seven Systems to be foolish at best, and disingenuous at worst.

No canon?? So what have I been steeping myself in for years  - a vague approximation of a tale? Please. Of course, writers have embellished and alluded, but tampering with the unspoken but well-known 'no touch' rule about the Doctor's origin is ... well, it's canon, in and of itself...

...which Chibnall completely wrecked, and I can't imagine why. Hubris? By all accounts, he was a fan. I thought Moffat was a dick for bringing back Gallifrey, but now, to me, my disappointment then vs now is like comparing a fart to a shitstorm.

Please excuse the scatological references, but I'm using it deliberately. It is a swirling turd, which I and many others wish we could flush down and forget forever.

In another RadioTimes article - which basically is the BBC - amongst the usual apologetics, Huw Fullerton drops this little gem:

“The glory days of David Tennant et al were in a different TV landscape, and if the Tenth Doctor touched down now it seems unlikely he’d command anything close to the ratings he did over a decade ago.”

Yeah, you can all take a break to have a hearty laugh. Or throw up. Whichever. Did they just hint that, basically, the incarnation of the Doctor who continues to get as much love (if not more) than Four, who still consistently gets thousands of butts in seats in conventions worldwide, and has made the BBC hundreds of thousands of pounds sterling in merchandising “wouldn’t command the ratings he did in 2008?”

As Gary Buechler of Nerdrotic said in his response to this article: “Actually, if David Tennant had been given as many chances as Jodie Whittaker, it would’ve had Game of Thrones-level ratings.”

And I agree. Not because I’m a Tenth Doctor stan, but because it’s just ... categorically true. His seasons consistently got average rating of 7.5 to 8 million viewers - and this in a time before BBCiPlayer, so 7-day catch up ratings meant nothing. It was butts on sofas then, which, to me, speaks of a massive, sustained interest.

But Huw goes on to say that such things mean nothing. And that the huge, telling sink in both overnight and 7-day ratings between the 11th and 12th seasons, and the dismal 4.69m 7 day ratings for The Timeless Children - the lowest for a NewWho finale since its reboot - shouldn’t be taken as a loss of interest from the fandom.

Then, pray tell goodman, what does it mean? Does it mean that fans are following the Thirteenth Doctor’s adventures in spirit? Ratings are tanking. Outside of the precious few who blindly tweet and write articles about the show solely based on its now female protagonist, people are notoriously furious, especially after the execrable season finale.

Yet BBC’s Piers Wenger, who once produced the show, says “I don’t think it’s been in better health, editorially. I think it’s fantastic and I think that, the production values obviously have never been better.”

Right. Okay. So, putting Tom Ford makeup on a pig makes it haute couture, huh? The writing is appalling, and after two excruciatingly painful to watch seasons, the Doctor has failed to appear - all I’ve seen is borderline sociopathic navel gazing from an ‘alien’ wearing a pastel duster.

How dare you besmirch the unfailingly cool reputation of the long coat, Chibnall? Jodie? How?? 

I will not let someone piss on my head and call it rain ... ‘because it’s a woman.’ Assuming I’ll accept it just adds insult to injury. Who do they think we are, as female fans? I will not cosign garbage to further an agenda that is ultimately damaging one of my favorite things ever, Doctor Who. I agree that politics, and a positive moral, have always been a part of DW, but at it’s best the writing was so good that it only added to the entertainment. Now, the BBC is feeding us all the bitter pill, without the kindness to hide it in a piece of tasty cheese. It gives the impression that they believe we are already so indoctrinated that we no longer need artifice!

Well, not only am I not indoctrinated, but I refuse to ingest.

I refuse to allow people to silence me because the Doctor is now a woman, and so am I. That, I shouldn’t say anything, or complain, because it’s an act of rebellion on womankind, not only in entertainment, but in general. Well, to that I say ... er ... I disavow.

Disavow. Disavow.

And this from a woman who once criticized Peter Davison for saying that casting a woman was “a vital loss of a role model for boys,” taking it as a sexist comment when in truth, it was just a relevant narrative concern about gender-swapping the traditionally male-presenting Time Lord. Just changing a character from male to female doesn’t do anything but demonstrate a tone-deafness about the emotional and physical differences between men and women, which exist whether we want to address them or not. This is why genderswap reboots are terrible. They are trying to further the feminist agenda, while surreptitiously painting traditional, every day femininity as weakness, and something to be avoided at all costs. I reject the modern Hollywood representation of what a ‘strong woman’ is meant to be. I can be clever, yet sensitive enough to comfort a friend when they confide their fears about a cancer relapse. I can be funny, and not at the expense of the man in the room. I can be brave, but not at the expense of my friends. The mind boggles as to why they thought their current tack with the Doctor was going to be any good. The Doctor is a woman, but more importantly, she’s a Timelord. Where are they? Is the alien that we’ve known and loved for the last 60 years truly gone away, and Thirteen is from a whole different timeline? If so, I don’t want to know her. 

And it breaks my heart.

Why continue to support a corporation who thinks of me, the fan, as no more than a heartless, thoughtless consumer? A drone? A sheep who has no conscious idea of what I like or need?

I’m done. It’s been two seasons of absolute dreck, with absolutely no sign of a course-correction due to the overwhelmingly negative response. I may be many things, but I’m no masochist - even in the name of love. And Chibnall, knowing that many fans would go back to the classic stories to cleanse ourselves, went back to the beginning and took a giant shit there too. 

Oh, the cleverness! the absolute schadenfreude of not only tampering, but rewriting the Doctor’s origins! I suppose that tells me he truly was once a fan. But no longer. Even if it turns out that the Master is as full of crap as Chibnall and it’s all an orchestrated lie, I don’t care anymore. Every inexplicable, terrible thing that happened before has already exhausted my patience with the narrative.

As veteral DW writer and script editor Terrance Dicks said:

If you’re concentrating on putting forth a political message, rather than on doing a really good show, I think there is a danger, maybe, you can do both but it would be hellish difficult, and I think that there’s maybe a danger that the show wouldn’t as be as good as it could or should be, because you’re not looking at the right aims.”

It seems like all that has been lost in time. Big corporations are buying up beloved science fiction properties, and systematically destroying them by trying to mix their politics into the mythos. [see ‘the fandom menace’]

I say, don’t support things that make you unhappy, in the name of nostalgia. That’s how they continue to upset us, while lining their pockets with our hard earned money. Complaining amongst ourselves, writing emails, or making angry Youtube videos no longer works anyway. Now is the time to just ... let it go. No more special edition DVDs, novelizations, or pretty action figures. Hit them in the pocketbook. We will still have fond memories of better times. I will not let them hijack, retcon, and retool them too.

There is a telling paragraph hidden in the depths of the article, which makes my DW fangirl sink:

It’s not as simple as “the ratings are down so Doctor Who will be cancelled,” as for the publicly-funded BBC there’s an interesting question about exactly what ratings are for beyond bragging rights. Obviously they need to make TV that people want to watch – but which people?

Not us, Huw. That’s who.

[detectivejigsawpines]

Twinpathy (Pain)

Based on the lovely work of Artsymeeshee and RenConnor; little snippets of life indicating that even when they were apart (physically or emotionally), the boys were still connected without realizing.

The night he was banished from his home and told not to come back without a fortune, Stanley Pines went down to the beach with a can of gasoline that he “liberated” from a nearby station and his trusty lighter, and he set the almost-completed Stan O’War on fire.

There was no way he could take it with him, and he sure as h_ll wasn’t leaving it for that traitor to use.

Besides, it wasn’t like there was anyone who would care.

It took hours for the flames to finish consuming it; he stood there the whole time, hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides, and forced himself to watch no matter how much it hurt.  He barely even flinched when he got hit by stray sparks that burned his skin and made his damp eyes sting, as he watched all his dreams literally go up in smoke.

By the time it was reduced to dying embers it was almost dawn; Stan walked away to his car and curled up in the back seat, feeling more alone than he had in his entire life.

********

Ford barely slept.

For some reason he was just too hot; even if he kicked off all the blankets and sheets, he felt like he was burning up.

Even if he hadn’t been experiencing an odd temperature problem, there was no way he could sleep with the cocktail of rage, betrayal, uncertainty and not-very-well-suppressed guilt brewing in his skull.

His room had never felt so empty before, or been so quiet during the night.

Parts of his skin were actually stinging a little; if he was having a fever, it was like nothing he’d ever had before.  Not even cold water seemed to help much, but somehow he couldn’t work up the will to wake up his parents.  Not after they’d-

He shoved the thought away.

It wasn’t until dawn that the heat rushing through his system finally died down a little, but even then Ford couldn’t relax enough to sleep.  He went to school looking and feeling like hell, and passed it in a dull haze.

A week later, when he went to the beach (he hadn’t meant to go near the boat, he’d told himself that he wouldn’t, that there was no reason to go near it, but somehow his footsteps took him there anyways), all he found was an enormous chunk of ash.

And his gut churned with that cocktail again, as he realized his brother really wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

****************

Stan was beginning to realize that making that deal with Archer had been a mistake.

Namely because he was chained up and dangling by his ankles in a slaughterhouse, and one of Archer’s goons was approaching him with a cleaver in one hand and a meat hook in the other, and it wasn’t because he was planning on giving him a fancy haircut.

“It’s nothing personal, Pinowski,” Archer said solemnly, staring down at him.  “I like your moxie; really I do. But it’s bad business if I don’t make an example of you to anyone else with dumb ideas.”

“Yikes,” Stan grunted, face red from all the blood rushing to it, “you always talk like you’re Edward G. Robinson or something?”

Archer smiled thinly, and nodded to the guy who looked a little too enthusiastic about his grisly task.

By now, though, Stan had managed to put the paperclip he’d been using as a substitute cufflink to good use, and when the thug got close he swung his fist, with the chain wrapped around it.  It hurt, but it was worth it to knock him into Archer, sending them both to the floor like ninepins. Frantically Stanley began wriggling like a worm on a hook, trying to reach his ankles before they could get up.  Instead he found himself sliding backwards, his body thudding into one of the dead cattle dangling behind him like one of those stupid balls on strings that you can smack two together and the ones at the other end will move-Newton’s cradle, that’s what Ford had said it was called.  Ugh, of all the times for him to be remembering his brother-

He barely managed to dodge the cleaver, which was swung with a vengeance at his neck, and almost on reflex his arms flew up, catching the thug’s other wrist.  Despite his efforts, the hook pressed stubbornly forward, catching into the flesh of his stomach and digging in. On the bright side, it brought the thug close enough for Stan to pound an unexpected fist into his gut.

Eventually, of course, Stan managed to get away.  But not without a somewhat-gaping hole in his stomach, and a need to run quickly before the police and the fire department showed up at the slaughterhouse to find out what the heck was going on.  Together, these were not the most pleasant combination in the world.

********

Far away at a second-rate college, Ford nearly fell out of his desk with a gasp of agony, clutching at his stomach.

At once Fiddleford was at his side, asking frantically what was the matter.

“I-I dunno-something hurts-”

“Have y’got yer appendix removed?”

“No-never had to.”

“C’mon, let’s get ya to the doctor.  Maybe it became inflamed or somethin’.”  Fiddleford pulled his friend to his feet and slung his free arm over his shoulder, shepherding him out the door.

Surprisingly, the doctor found nothing wrong with his appendix.  Nothing seemed to be wrong period, except for the unexplained throbbing sensation.  Eventually he just gave Ford some painkillers and sent him back to the dorm to get some rest.  Ford speculated on the possibility of it being pain for an injury that he hadn’t received yet or something else supernatural like that, and gulped down some of the medicine with water so he could get back to work.

(Far away, in a remote field where he’d managed to hide his car until the heat died down, Stan felt the burning ache in his clumsily-stitched gut miraculously recede a little, even though he hadn’t managed to steal painkillers yet.  Maybe life was giving him a break from being its chew toy for a while.)

****************

It had been a long week, and the coming one wasn’t looking any better due to impending finals.

Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept instead of either studying or drinking copious amounts of coffee.  Of course, sleep was a terrible waste of time that he avoided whenever possible anyway, but he had to admit that sometimes it was a necessary evil.  If nothing else, because it helped get rid of throbbing headaches like the one filling his skull right now. But dang it, this was important! The sooner he graduated, the sooner he could get into the important research he wanted to study.  And he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he got anything but the best possible grades.

Rubbing his gritty eyes under his glasses, Ford made some fresh coffee and forced himself to focus on his notes.

********

It was the worst hangover Stan could remember having in years.  He slumped back against the brick wall behind him, eyes closed, wishing he was dead.

...Which happened more often than he wanted to admit, even without hangovers.  But at least this time he had a semi-decent excuse.

He didn’t even think he’d drunk that much; certainly not enough to make his skull feel like rocks were rolling around inside it and banging together.  Geez, it felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.

With a groan, he finally got up, grabbing the hat containing the few coins a few people had dropped in it (he was sure close to making those millions now, ha ha ha), and staggered to his car, collapsing in the back seat.  To his relief, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep fairly quickly.

(Ford began, after a few hours, to feel strangely refreshed; he chalked it up to his body adjusting to an alternative sleep schedule and double-checked his term paper.)

****************

As Stan got older, he noticed that his body would develop odd aches and pains, especially in his joints, and sometimes he would wake up feeling utterly exhausted, like he’d been boxing in his sleep.  It wasn’t too surprising, since he hadn’t exactly had a peaceful lifestyle in his youth and he was probably paying for it now. He just learned to deal with it all when he got up in the morning, and focused on the important things: fleecing the hides off customers, and trying to figure out that stupid portal.

Nothing else mattered.

********

Ford didn’t have many opportunities to wash properly while traveling through the multiverse, what with constantly hopping dimensions and fighting for his life here and there, but if he’d had a chance to look at his right shoulder, he would have seen that for weeks after he first arrived the skin was bright red, like he’d gotten a bad sunburn.  Of course, this being Ford he might have just dismissed it as an allergic reaction to something in his clothes or whatever.

****************

The Stan O’War II needed fresh supplies.  Again.

The Pineses went their separate ways in the busy port marketplace-Ford to pick up scientific gear, and Stan to get food and fishing tackle.

Ford was just fishing his wallet out of his pocket (and really missing the dimensions where currency had been rendered unnecessary), when he gasped and doubled over against the counter, clutching a hand to his cheek.

“Sir?” the shopkeeper asked, looking at him with concern, “Are you alright?”

He managed to nod and straighten up, handing him the cash.  “Yes, I’m fine, sorry. Just...a muscle spasm or something.”

That...was odd, even by my standards, he thought as he gathered up his things and headed for the boat.  It was almost like someone had up and punched him (and believe me, by now he knew what that felt like).

Stanley was not back yet, so Ford was about to make himself busy putting things away, when the sensation came again, except it was in his ribs.

And this time, he had an odd feeling that it had something to do with his twin.

It defied all the logic his mind prided so highly, but then again, things like the M Dimension and leprecorns defied logic and they still existed, so he just tucked his gun into its holster and hurried back onto shore.

The throbbing in his side became almost a pulse; like a dark version of “Hot and Cold,” it grew stronger as he turned certain directions, leading him to a remote corner of town with a big white van parked nearby-never a good sign.

An even worse sign was the group of men trying to force Stanley into the truck.

To be fair, Stanley appeared to be handling it reasonably well-several of them were lying on the ground, clutching themselves in various areas and groaning, while the ones still standing were sporting a lovely assortment of black eyes and bloody lips, among other injuries.  And while he was suffering some wear and tear himself, Stan was still weaving back and forth, using his feet and hands and fingers in ways that were not strictly fighting fair, but were doing the more important job of defending himself and not allowing them to move him any closer to the van.

And then one of them pulled a knife out of his belt.

Ford didn’t think twice.

There was a loud fizzing sound, a brief agonized squeal, and then the smell of charred flesh filled the air.

The group of thugs froze, and turned to see Ford marching towards them, outstretched gun still with a puff of smoke at the end just like in the movies.

“What the bleep-” one of them began to ask.

“Leave.  Now.”

None of the six men left standing needed to be told again.

To Ford’s slight relief, Stan looked surprised at his vicious conduct, but not appalled by it.  He just shook himself, adjusted his glasses and made his way over to his twin, “accidentally” stepping on a few of the people he’d brought down.

“Good timing,” he said.  “Sorry, I kind of lost the stuff.”

“That doesn’t matter; we’ll get it in another port.  Come on.”

“Just a sec.”  Stan turned back to the thugs lying on the ground, and began rifling through their pockets.

Ford rolled his eyes, but trained his gun on any of them who looked like they might be thinking about moving.

Once they were back on the boat, Stan happily counted their newly-acquired wealth, and began calculating how much they would need to use to restock their lost supplies.  Ford put away his gun and then busied himself with setting up what he’d managed to acquire.

“Who were those men?” he finally asked.

Stan shrugged.  “They said their boss wanted to see me, but I can’t remember who he is.  Probably just another in a long list of people I p_ssed off once upon a time.”  Then he added, “Thanks, by the way.” He still didn’t seem bothered by what his brother had done.

Ford gave him a small nod.  Then he said, “You’d better let me take a look at your ribs.”

Stan blinked.  “How did you know they’re hurt?”

It was Ford’s turn to blink.  “I-it’s how I found you. I...it sounds crazy, but I felt it.”

“...You felt my pain.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”  Ford gestured for him to take his coat off; Stan sighed, but complied and perched on the edge of the table, hiking up his shirt.  His entire left side was almost a completely solid bruise, with a few scratches where one of the thugs must have been wearing a ring or something.

“Pretty sure nothing’s broken,” he said.  “It’s just gonna hurt like h_ll for a while.”

Ford tested the sore places anyway to verify this for himself, as gently as he could get away with, before getting some disinfectant and bandages for the scratches.

He was almost done, when Stanley suddenly reached his hand over and flicked him hard on the ear.

“Ouch!” Ford squawked, ducking his head away.  “What was that for?!”

“I wanted to see if it worked both ways,” Stan said in a ‘duh’ tone.  He tilted his head, probably waiting for his ear to start hurting too.

“I don’t think it works like that,” the older twin scolded, rubbing his head.

“How d’you know?”

“I’m just guessing, okay?  Now hold still.”

“Bossy, bossy.”

Just then Ford’s eyes fell on a long, pale scar going down the right side of Stan’s stomach.

“What’s that?”

Stanley glanced at it, and after a long moment he managed to pull some of the memory together, prompted by the sight of the injury.  “I...I think I got that a long time ago when...when some guy tried to kill me with a meat hook.”

Ford was nursing a memory of his own, of having sudden unexpected pain but the doctor not seeing anything wrong.

Interesting...

[ladylynse]

MariDanny anon: Thanks again for the prompt fill! :3 And yeah I getchu, I'm just not really partial to anything since I like most of your stuff (especially your crossovers). If you wanna write something I'd prefer, maybe continuing (or posting a preview of the next chapter/s? or just talking about some upcoming stuff?) of "Le Fantôme", "Down the Rabbit Hole", "Whirlwind", or maybe "Illusory"? Thanks again!!

Well, considering I have about two sentences of the next chapter of Whirlwind, about 350 words of Down the Rabbit Hole, and I haven’t touched Le Fantôme in a year (though in that case, I blame the fact that I keep rewriting the first scene I posted to tumblr and getting discouraged)…. Yeah. Pick one, and I’ll write more and post a preview of the next chapter. (Don’t let my lack of progress on the MLxDP crossover dissuade you from picking it if it’s your favourite; I have large portions of that fic planned out.) 

As for Illusory, I probably won’t wind up continuing that one. I mean, I might, but it’s unlikely. So here’s what would happen, if I did:

It would focus on Dani with the grunkles and cover the reveal of her secret to them–though I keep debating how the truth would come out (whether she tells them, someone else tells them (maybe an enemy threatening them?), they figure it out, etc). She wouldn’t trust them at first, of course. She doesn’t really trust any of them. That’s why she’s pretending to be two different people. But try as she might, that won’t last forever.

They might write off a few slips–surely one must try to pass for the other in order to keep the nature of their arrangement intact, and they’ve pretended to be one person for a long time–but not this many. Not Phantom never responding to her name the moment she’s the slightest bit distracted. Not Dani using Phantom’s powers instinctively (thankful as they are for her pulling her out of more than a few scrapes). Not the panicked look on Dani’s face the first time they ran into someone she knew, a monstrous wolf ghost who spoke fluent Esperanto and didn’t seem to make any distinction between Dani and Phantom.

They don’t call her on it, though, even when they begin to suspect something closer to the truth than the story she’s spun for them.

Mabel and Dipper hadn’t told her everything. They haven’t filled in very many blanks, as they don’t know what to make of her at first. But she grows on them, faster than either of them expect. She’s brave, she’s foolish, she takes risks–and, the first time she takes an injury when protecting them, they realize that she reminds them of themselves. Not just her sense of humour or her determination, but her loyalty. Because she’s grown to trust them enough to take care of her, and they’ve done the same with her. They never really noticed it happen, but it did.

She stops avoiding them on the quiet days. They talk, exchanging harmless stories and–especially in Stan’s case–telling tales. They become more friends than they ever have before, and Dani begins to relax her guard during their training sessions. They start to see more of Phantom coming out in her–though whether that truly is because Phantom’s becoming more comfortable with them or for another reason entirely remains to be seen. They know she’s running, know they’re both running, and are able to pick together from her offhanded comments more of the reasons why.

Both of them sit Dani down–and Phantom, the rare time they can catch her–and assure her that she can talk in confidence if she ever decides to share her story, and they each share more of their own, pieces they haven’t even told each other.

It makes Dani realize that they no longer treat Phantom differently, despite her being a ghost; their wariness towards her ghost half vanished so long ago, she can barely remember more than their first knee-jerk reactions.

And that’s why she might decide to tell them the truth.

And then, depending on how I was feeling at this point in the story, Cujo might turn up with a message from Danny, or Vlad might track her down. In the former case, Dani would say she needs to leave to help her family, and Stan and Ford would insist on going with her, if only just to accompany her on the journey. Danny will realize Dani’s found a family who loves her, and he won’t worry as much about her, though he’ll of course assure her that he wants to visit with her when she can. 

In the latter case, you can bet the Pines twins are going to be pulling everything they can to fight off Vlad (Plasmius, most likely), and they’ve survived Weirdmageddon and fought demons, so they’re prepared to do what they can against this ghost. Vlad, naturally, won’t go down without a fight. And a duplication and dual possession later, he’ll threaten Dani and try to reassert control over her.

Except she’s not the same little girl who ran away from him.

And Ford, especially, is really good at fighting possessions now.

So Vlad’s arrogance will be his downfall, and Dani will beat him, and he’ll know he can’t reclaim her as easily as he tossed her away. If he gets it into his head to try again (which he might because he’s Vlad), if he didn’t learn his lesson the first time, he’ll soon learn he can’t mess with any of them–and that Dani certainly isn’t his to reclaim. 

Because she has a family now.

Danny is part of it, but Vlad is not.

[invisibletinkerer]

Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 17)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8 – Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19

Length: ~5000 words

AO3: archiveofourown.org/works/13715520/chapters/43355552

The brightly pink futuristic communicator probably wasn’t controlled by a sapient artificial intelligence or captured fairy, despite Stanley’s disingenuous claims to the contrary. It did, however, seem to involve a magical force field that created buttons based on the symbols that appeared on the screen. The screen – which, unlike any TV or computer screen Stanford had ever laid his eyes on, didn’t seem to have any raster whatsoever. Or any CRT depth requirements.

There were also purple kittens and little hearts everywhere.

It was mesmerizing, but also vexing. He had more of an idea how the alien drones worked than this thing. Perhaps Fiddleford would—no. He shut that thought down.

Stanley was no help either – his reaction to Ford’s wide-eyed quizzical stare was an amused smile and a shrug. “Beats me,” he said. “I could make something up about it if ya like.”

“No, thank you.” Ford sighed and handed the device back to his brother.

His old brother. Because this was the future. His old twin brother, whom, as it happened, he didn’t actually resent. Maybe he’d only ever wanted to resent him, as if that would make their estrangement easier to bear. Stanley was far from the only one with a tendency to make bad life choices.

Maybe Bill wouldn’t be able to destroy the world. Maybe Bill wouldn’t even be able to kill him. Perhaps Stanford Pines was stuck in the future and there was nothing about that he could understand.

It was too much – right now it was just too much. He’d figure it all out later.

If the sealed briefcase containing the rift bought him enough time.

Another deep sigh and he forced himself to his feet, one hand on the pillar for support. “I’m well enough to walk,” he told Stanley. “Let’s go home.”

 * * *

 Stan groaned involuntarily when he got back to his feet, the throbbing headache in the back of his head returning with some revenge for being ignored for so long, but he didn’t care. He still felt kinda drunk on the sort of relief that nerdy types like Poindexter here would probably call by some fancy name in Latin.

Ford didn’t hate him. Ford forgave him.

Ford was alive, the demon had scuttered off to wherever demons go, and Stan felt like there had been a weight around his neck that he’d been so used to carrying around that he’d hardly even noticed it until it was gone. Or at least it was eased to the point that he felt lightheaded. There might be a bit of a smile on his face that he just couldn’t get rid of, so nevermind if his head hurt a bit.

He kept close to his brother, ready to support him if he’d need it, but he seemed to be steady enough. The tranquilizer thing was probably wearing off completely as they walked. He barely seemed any worse off that he’d been this morning – not saying a lot, sure, except that that demon had been an outrageous liar.

And – praise the ancient alien overlords – Ford set a slow pace, hopefully actually thinking about conserving his strength for once.

It felt surreal that this whole thing had happened in a spaceship. The reflections from the flashlight in in Ford’s hand created moving, unreal shapes on the walls, blurring in and out of focus as his thoughts drifted. Stan hated those aliens. Buncha jerks, trying to arrest people for what? Post-mortem trespassing? Or would that would count as graverobbing? Nah, could hardly be robbing if you didn’t steal anything. Well. Didn’t steal much. This time.

It took a few moments before he noticed that Ford wasn’t at his side anymore, but a few steps ahead. Dammit, he was supposed to make sure his brother didn’t overexert himself before he was properly recovered. “Hey.”

Stanford stopped and turned around. “Stanley?”

“Don’t run off.”

“I wasn’t—” Ford paused. “I wasn’t running,” he repeated with a slight frown. “In fact, I was walking slower than I could have.” He raised his arms and flexed the fingers on his left hand to demonstrate. “The effect of the sedative has worn off almost completely.”

Stan scoffed at that. “Yeah, well, you’re still weak, and also hurt. So take it easy.”

Ford pulled his coat tighter around himself and gave Stan a strange look while he caught up. Hardly the wild-eyed paranoid stare of last night over tacos, but still suspicious.

“Stanley,” he said eventually. “There’s blood on your head.”

Stan reflexively put up a hand to the offending spot. The bump he’d gotten from crashlanding in that bubble prison thing protested the touch with another sting of pain, and Ford was right, there might be a bit of crusted blood in his hair. Crap.

“So I might be a tiny bit concussed,” he blurted. “No big deal, just a little headache. I’ve been through a lot worse in the boxing ring.”

Ford looked at him.

Stan looked back.

“That’s—”

“I’m not—”

Stan broke first. He burst out laughing. He’d all but forgotten about that head injury in his worry about Ford – and it really wasn’t a big deal, he knew what a serious concussion felt like, but yes, it was slowing him down – and now Ford was worrying about him. It was—it was stupid, and also, somehow, hilarious.

Ford cracked a smile, then finally chuckled drily, shoulders shaking. After a long moment where neither of them could get a word out, Ford finally pulled himself together. “Have I ever told you that you’re a knucklehead?”

“Careful, Poindexter,” Stan said, wiping his eyes with one hand and rubbing the bump on his head with the other. “You could almost start to think we’re related.”

“That would be a disaster.”

“You’re right about that one.” It was so easy. They were together again, after everything. Something in Stan’s stomach clenched, like he still couldn’t believe this was real, he’d done it and Ford was going to be okay. “I guess I could take a painkiller,” he added, putting the bad down. “Water would be nice, but we don’t have any left.”

Ford blinked. “What happened to it?”

“Used it up for—” Stan nodded towards what was under Ford’s shirt.

Ford’s expression closed up for a moment. “Ah.”

Stan found a pill in the rapidly emptying first-aid kit, swallowing it dry and hoping it would help. He offered a second pill to Ford, who took it after some hesitation.

Before he could pick up the bag, Ford grabbed the strap. “I’ll carry the bag the rest of the way,” he announced.

Stan put his hands over Ford’s and stopped him. “I have a bump and a headache – I’m not dying.”

“Neither am I, and you’ve been carrying it all day.”

Stan huffed. “You mean other than the hours I spent waiting for your unconscious butt to come back to the land of the living?”

“Yes. That—”

“Forget about it,” Stan said, taking the bag from Ford. “I’m still in better shape than you are.”

Ford threw his hands up with a frustrated grimace. “I was just trying to—”

“It’s not that heavy,” Stan said, pulling the strap over his shoulder. “But thanks for the offer, I guess?”

Ford’s shoulders slumped slightly. “You’re sixty, you have a concussion, and you’re still in better shape than me.” He folded his arms over his chest, clenching his fingers in the fabric of his coat.

“Yeah, well, you’re gonna recover and get as strong as you like, and I’m only gonna get older, so don’t be too jealous.” Stan grimaced and patted Ford on the back, earning him a slight twitch and then a sigh. “Come on, Sixer. Let’s get out of here.”

 Of course, the problem with that plan was that ‘out’ also meant ‘up’. Stan didn’t say anything when they reached the first ladder – the one in the elevator shaft – but he stopped and gave a low whistle. He might have misremembered just how far down they had climbed, but better to be impressed than intimidated. He could do it – going up couldn’t be any worse than going down, a little bruising never stopped him before, and he was over his fear of heights anyway. But Ford had strained himself just walking too fast through the forest this morning, and being shot, possessed, and then unconscious for a few hours wasn’t the kinda thing that made people stronger. Maybe they should try to—

Ford was already squaring his shoulders, starting the climb before Stan had finished the thought. To be sure, it wasn’t like he could think of any realistic alternative, so Stan followed and hoped for the best. Maybe he just wanted to get it over with.

It wasn’t fun. It didn’t take long for Ford’s breathing to become audibly labored above him, and Stan could feel the strain in his own legs. At one point he accidentally looked down, and he wasn’t sure if that’s what triggered the nausea or if the concussion had something to do with it, but he hated the whole situation with a passion. His headache only grew worse and his fingers cramped around the rungs, eyes staring at the wall inches from his face.

His head bumped into something.

Seconds later, when Stan’s heartbeat and the throbbing in his head had both calmed down to the point where he could hear himself think, he realized that it had been Ford’s shoes. Ford had stopped right above him and wasn’t moving.

“Sixer?” Stan’s knuckles were white on the rung before his eyes. “You okay?”

“I made a mistake.” Ford’s voice was breathless, trembling with exhaustion.

Stan bit back an angry retort. He kind of felt like this climb was a mistake himself, but if Ford felt that way—He wouldn’t admit that if it wasn’t bad. Stan’s shoulders cramped even tighter than they had been. “Right,” was all he said.

Ford said nothing for several moments.

“You’re not allowed to fall,” Stan managed. He wouldn’t be able to catch him. More like they’d both be done for.

Maybe that would serve them right, but it didn’t make him feel any less sick.

“I don’t intend to,” Ford said. “I just—just need to rest for a bit.”

Stan stared at his own hands, for a moment completely unable to get his eyes to focus. “Sure. I can wait.” He sure couldn’t help. He could barely help himself, hanging above a void that would crush both of them to bloody pulps if they didn’t hold on.

It took the better part of an eternity, but they did finally reach the end of the ladder and the higher level of the spaceship. Ford crumbled against a piece of broken machinery, panting and trembling, and Stan found himself lying on the floor and trying to unclench his cramping hands after all that clinging to flimsy pieces of metal and trying not to fall to a very bloody death. He was mostly unsuccessful.

“You know,” he said hoarsely, “I told Mabel a while ago that ladders cause more deaths than guns. I mean—I made that statistic up, but I’ve decided I believe it.”

“That’s—not very scientific of you.”

“Still not a scientist, Poindexter.”

Ford breathed a quiet chuckle, then stayed silent for a while. Eventually, he said, “Do you remember that time when we went into that condemned office building on Gasoline Street? I think we were thirteen.”

“Yeah.” He could kinda see why Ford would think of that one. “I picked the lock, and you were really disappointed when it was already emptied out.”

“You were disappointed too.”

“Sad but true. No treasure that day.”

“So we decided to go to the top floor—”

Stan groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

They’d went up a rickety old staircase for five or so floors before a section of the support decided that the weight of two stomping boys was too much to bear. A whole section of the stairs had basically crumbled, leaving a gap of ten or fifteen feet right where Stan and Ford had been walking seconds ago. Stan had been in shock and refused to move a muscle for several minutes, though he distinctly remembered Ford snapping his fingers and saying something like “So that’s why the building was condemned!”

Getting back down had been the challenge, that time.

“Besides,” Stan added, “that wasn’t even a ladder.”

“No, it was just a broken staircase. But you hated that, too.”

Stan sighed and rolled over on his back, finally able to uncramp his arms and relax. “Yeah, I hated it.” And despite all that, it was a fond memory.

Ford took a deep breath. “Stanley—” He seemed to be hesitating.

“Yeah?”

“The ladder to the surface is even longer than this one. I might be able to make it if I have to, but—”

Stan hid his face under his hands. “—but that’s a big maybe,” he finished. “Yeah.” He took a deep breath of his own. “But we do have to get up there somehow, unless we wanna go without food and camp here tonight.”

“Not an option,” Ford said sharply.

“Yeah, agreed.” Stan sat up, slowly, supporting his arms on his knees. Maybe he could get Soos to— “—wait, what did you say?”

“I said there’s an alternative to climbing. And at this point I believe it would be easier on both of us.” He raised a hand slightly, watching it tremble, and sighed. “Relatively, of course, but I’ve done it before.”

Stan would definitely prefer not to bet both of their lives on that Ford could make another climb. He raised an eyebrow. “You saying we fly?”

“Correct.” Ford smiled slightly.

“Hate to break it to ya, Sixer, but we’re still people, not birds.”

“Well,” Ford said, patting down his trenchcoat like he was double-checking something. “I assume you still have the second magnet gun?”

“It’s in the bag.” A heartbeat. “Oh.”

Yeah, that thing Ford had done when he came after the prison bubble Stan was pretty much flying, wasn’t it? Not like either of them had been in a state to look for that gun afterwards, either, and he half expected Ford to blame him for it being lost.

“Good,” was all Ford said. “We’ll use that to pull ourselves up.”

Stan was totally comfortable with that. Not the slightest bit worried that it might be like falling upwards and splattering yourself against a distant ceiling instead of a distant floor.

Ford rubbed his arm and continued. “It’s not overly difficult. The critical part is to aim it right, and then to brace properly for impact.” He gestured vaguely for emphasis. “And of course, not to lose your grip on the gun.”

“So...” Stan tried to work around his gut feeling that said nope and think of what it actually meant. “Sounds like it takes a bit of strength.” Also like there’d be no second chances if you failed. “If you’re not strong enough to climb, are you sure ya—”

“Strength and stamina are different things,” Ford said in that familiarly annoying way that he’d always used to point out people’s small errors. “But,” he relented, “I admit I’m low on both.” He met Stan’s eyes for a moment. “Which is why I believe—I hope that we can do it together.”

 It was somewhat terrifying, but in the end, Stan had to agree that climbing at this point wouldn’t be any less life-threatening, it would just drag it out for longer. And there was only one magnet gun, and like hell he would let Ford do it alone when even Ford himself admitted he might not make it.

Besides, Ford’s determination to do this thing was actually contagious. It would be a lot less grueling than another climb, and it would definitely get them up faster than any other possible plan.

Ford had to be the one to aim since he had some experience with doing this, but Stan was stronger, so he’d hold the gun’s handle, with Ford using his free hand to point it right. Ford’s right arm went over Stan’s shoulders and Stan used his left to hold onto Ford around the waist, trying but probably not succeeding in avoiding at least the alien blaster wound if not the infected cuts. Ford didn’t complain, though.

Stan might be clinging a little too hard as they raised the magnet gun.

“There,” Ford said, keeping Stan’s hand somewhat steady.

Stan pressed the trigger. He had exactly enough time to realize that he now knew what it felt like to be a bullet before they both slammed into the wall right below the ceiling and Stan’s headache jolted into a minor explosion that made him regret every single decision that took him to this point. That only lasted for the fraction of a moment it took before he realized that they were an absolutely ridiculous distance from the floor and that Ford’s full weight together with his own was too much for one sweaty hand on the handle of a science gizmo to hold up. Any other thought was replaced by a panicked scramble for foothold to support them.

Ford had aimed true. The ladder rungs were right there.

A second later Ford’s feet had found the ladder as well, and Stan could breathe again. Nevermind that they were packed together on the same part of the ladder, hanging right below the where the wall met the ceiling and the ladder entered the narrower chute – way too high to think about, and still a bit to go before the safety above.

“Whoa,” was all he could say.

“That’s—accurate.”

“You okay?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“Never better.”

“There seem to be—” Ford looked up. “Six rungs to go to get us up into the shaft.”

“And then we’ll zap to the top.”

Ford nodded seriously.

“This is gonna be awkward,” Stan muttered. Of course, that might have been a feature. The fact that it was awkward did distract a bit from the fact that it was dizzyingly high. And it was only six steps. Somehow they climbed them without losing track of either the ladder, the magnet gun or each other. Ford’s eyes were half-closed, focused on the task, and Stan could feel his own muscles stiffening again, but it just a little bit.

Once they were inside the chute it might not actually be safer, but it sure felt that way. Between the two of them and the duffelbag sitting on Stan’s back, it was cramped enough to almost seem snug.

Ford leaned his forehead against the wall for a moment while Stan looked up. The square of summer sky above was a warm blue, and not that far away now.

“I’m ready to get out of this dump,” he said and gave Ford a tired smile.

“It’s not a dump,” Ford said. “It’s a wreck.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But—Good.” Ford wrapped one arm around Stan’s back again, supporting himself partly on the chute wall and readying the magnet gun. “I’m ready to get out, too.”

The second jump felt less violent – maybe because it was shorter, or maybe the cramped space made them go slower, but in any case it didn’t hurt much at all. Stan pulled himself up onto the ground, then turned to give Ford a hand.

They both stumbled several steps away from the hole before promptly sitting down on the grass next to each other. Stan found himself chuckling softly. “There we go,” he said. “Ain’t no stopping the Pines.”

“Heh,” Ford said, then fell silent. He seemed to want to say something more, but it didn’t come out, so he closed his mouth again.

The silence was companionable, and Stan didn’t mind. The afternoon sunshine felt nice on his bare arms, even if it did outline a couple of new bruises very clearly.

“The rift is sealed,” Ford said eventually. “You’d need power tools to break it now.” He almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“Yeah,” Stan agreed.

“Bill is going to be enraged.”

“Meh. What can he do about it?”

“I don’t know.” Ford shuddered, looking at his hands in his lap. “No doubt we’re going to find out.”

Stan shrugged it off. “You know,” he said, “We still need to get back home before we can eat.”

“Eat?” Ford blinked like he had forgotten that food was a thing. “Right. Yes.”

 Ford insisted on covering up the entrance to the UFO again before they could leave, and once they were off, it was slower going than it had been in the morning. It was one thing to hike when you had slept and eaten and your stupid genius of a young twin brother was insisting that he was fine and even enjoying himself – but a bit different when you were tired and hungry and Ford’s face was carefully neutral even when he stopped again and again to lean against a tree, glaring warily at the eye-like marks on the birches and ashes.

Neither of them noticed that they were no longer alone until someone cleared their throat.

Stan practically jumped, and he could feel more than see Ford’s head whip to the side in a movement mirroring his own. A burly, bearded, red-haired man in a flannel shirt stared at the from between a few ashen trees.

“Stanford Pines!”

“Yeah, what’s—” Stan started, while Ford spoke at the exact same time, “Yes, I—”

Stan and Ford glanced at each other, then back at the lumberjack. Stan suppressed a groan.

“Is that—Boyish Dan Corduroy?” Ford whispered. He was tense, but there was some incredulousness in his voice, too.

“Don’t call him ‘boyish’ unless you want an axe through your head,” Stan mumbled back. “But yeah.” Not the most unlikely person to run into in the woods, but it still took some bad luck to cross paths with anyone out here. He’d hoped to put off explaining Ford’s presence to the townspeople at least until after he’d talked about it with Ford, which he’d been putting off because there were bigger fish in the barrel. Like demonic possession and rifts in reality. Right now, Stan’s headache was still going strong in the back of his head, and Ford was staring at the man like he half expected him to turn into a monster any second. Not the best of moments for introductions.

Without warning, Dan raised two overly muscular arms and roared. “I’m a prophet!”

Ford took two steps backwards, but Stan reflexively put a hand on his arm, stopping him from bolting. Turning his attention to Dan, Stan sighed theatrically and crossed his arms. “You’re a what now.”

“A prophet.” Dan grinned with a lot of teeth. “There was two of you in my dream, and now here you are!”

“That’s great,” Stan said, “But there’s still only one of me.” He flicked his head at Ford. “He’s my nephew.” The lie was natural, easy, but something inside his chest still ached when he didn’t say brother.

Ford twitched. His hands were hidden behind his back, and he still looked ready to run. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. Nephew.”

“I see.” Dan held out his hand, and Ford predictably refused to take it. Stan had started to realize that was a pattern with him now. Defusing it before Dan would take offence, Stan gestured smoothly at Ford and Dan. “Dan Corduroy – this is Stanford Pines. The younger,” he added with a small grin that he really didn’t feel. “Ford – this is Manly Dan Corduroy.”

“Nice to meetcha. I see your family has no imagination for names.”

“They really don’t,” Ford said weakly. “Just call me Ford.”

“So you’re the dad of those runts running around in the Mystery Shack this year?”

“What? No, I’m—”

“Different nephew,” Stan said. “Son of a different brother, too. You know how it is with family – one moment there’s none, and the next they’re crawling out of the woodwork.”

Dan laughed. “I sure do! Well—” He started to turn as if to leave, but then he stopped. “Hey, Junior.” He glanced at the hole in the side of Ford’s coat, and the bandages barely visible underneath. “You get bit by something? If there’s a critter out there attacking people, I need to know so I can wrestle it.”

“No! No, that’s fine. It’s not that bad.” Ford shook his head, but Dan had already turned to stare at Stan’s bump and the dried blood.

He punched his hand with a fist. “Alright, accidents happen and it’s no other man’s business to ask about it, but you two ain’t gonna drive yourselves home looking like that. You’re coming with me, Pines.”

Ford glanced at Stan, wide-eyed and looking very uncomfortable. “Come on, we might as well,” Stan muttered, pulling at Ford’s elbow to follow Dan. “I’d rather get a free ride than stand around arguing.”

Dan seemed to be leading them a slightly different path than they’d been taking. Ford hesitated, but Stan pulled him along.

“Are you sure it’s—” Ford’s mumble was barely audible.

“Safe?”

“He’s not possessed, but—”

“He’s Dan flipping Corduroy. Not his style to consort with demons. You knew him, didn’t ya?”

“A bit. But he was younger then.”

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. If he wanted to hurt us, he’d do it right here, not go back to the road first.” He got where Ford’s paranoia was coming from, sure, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t annoying.

“What’re ya mumbling about?” Dan interrupted. “Speak up like a man, Stanford!”

Stan snorted. “I was just telling Ford that sometimes people in a small town help each other out.” He gave Dan a meaningful look. “Cause I’m not gonna pay ya for this.”

Ford flinched like he thought Stan was poking a dragon, but Dan just rubbed his beard. “Wouldn’t dream of charging. Still want that free pizza, though!”

“Eh. It might happen someday.” Stan turned to Ford. “See?” To Dan, he added, “He’s from New Jersey.”

Dan laughed. “Welcome to Gravity Falls, then!”

 Dan’s old Jeep was parked at a tiny unpaved road that Stan hadn’t even been aware of, actually closer than where he’d left the Stanleymobile. Ford got into the front passenger seat with some clear reluctance, but Stan figured there was no helping that. It was just a short ride, and as far as Stan was concerned, not having to drive was a luxury. He climbed into the back seat and rubbed the bump on his head while Dan started up the car.

“Y’know,” Dan said, looking sideways at Ford. “The more I look at ya, the more ya give me a bad case of déjà vu.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, I think your uncle even used to wear that same kinda coat way back before he even started doing the Mystery Shack business. Isn’t that right, Pines?”

“Could be.” Stan tried to be noncommittal. He didn’t like that topic of conversation, not for his own sake and even less for Ford’s.

“Wish I had some picture of him back then. Would be something to compare!”

“Yes,” Ford said steely. “We do look a lot alike.”

It was a relief when Dan just grunted and stopped talking for a while, not least because Dan’s voice was on the loud side of roaring, which didn’t help Stan’s headache any. Also because he was not up to explaining a highly incriminating backstory or bullshitting a family background that Ford might or might not take offence at. Not if he didn’t have to.

Ford drummed his fingers on the car window, then stopped with a cringe and hid his hand in his pocket again. It reminded Stan of how he’d acted back when he’d found himself among strangers when they were kids. Being worried about his hands couldn’t help his paranoia any, and Stan wished he’d stop, but he wasn’t going to bring attention to it right in front of Dan, either.

They were turning on the intersection of Gopher Road when Ford spoke up. “You said you had a dream about two Stanford Pineses. What kind of a dream?”

“Funny thing!” Dan replied, his voice filling the car again. “I was having a nap, and then I started feeling like someone was watching me. So I looked up, and I saw old Mister Mystery here. Except there were two of him. And it could be that they were both a bit younger, but I’m not sure. Anyway, then I guess I went up to ‘em and beat them up.” He laughed at that, but Stan started to listen more carefully. Maybe Ford shouldn’t have asked that question.

Dan rubbed his beard with a wry grin. “That’s the weirdest part. In the dream, it seemed like a good idea to rob you and run off with the bag you were carrying.”

Stan made himself laugh. “That’s hilarious,” he said, completely aware that Ford was stiffening in the seat in front of him.

“And then I looked up at the sky,” Dan continued, “And instead of the sun there was a big yellow triangle with an eyeball in the middle, like—”

Ford threw the passenger side door open, making Dan screech the car to a halt.

“What the hell, Junior!?”

“You’re going to let us off, now,” Ford intoned.

“We’ve got 200 yards to the Mystery Shack,” Dan said, confused, but Ford was already scrambling out of the car, pulling open the door next to Stan.

Stan wouldn’t have minded riding the last 200 yards as well, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Dammit, but Ford was in a panic and if there was actually some reason for it it would have been a lot safer to just not let it on, but it was too late for that. He scooped up the bag and got down to Ford, who ripped the bag from him and went off into the forest before Stan could even turn back to the puzzled lumberjack.

“Sorry,” he said, “But I guess my br—my nephew wants to walk the rest of the way. We’ll be fine, thanks for the ride.”

Dan frowned. “What’s in that bag?”

“A well-used first aid kit,” Stan said with a grimace as if the whole thing confused him too, then glanced after Ford. “I’m gonna go see to him. See ya later.”

[babybluebanshee]

Seared With Scars - Chapter 8 (Mystery Nerds AU)

“A company of believers is like a prison full of criminals; their intimacy and solidarity is based on what they can least justify about themselves.” John Updike

--- The ropes biting into Stan’s wrists brought back a slew of unwanted and unpleasant memories - the stifling heat of the trunk of a car left in the desert. The tight handcuffs slapped on him as he was ushered into a tiny, dirty prison cell with two guys who were bigger and much tougher-looking than him. The vice-like grip of an angry, uncaring nurse who warned him what happened to patients that stepped out of line.

All these memories flashed in his mind, churned up like chunks of a shipwreck in a frothing sea, each one a new exercise in fear.

But he couldn’t let that fear overcome him. He had to think. Every time he brought his gaze back to his brother’s prone figure, gasping on the ground under Matthews’ foot, he reminded himself what was at stake.

Those broken ribs could puncture lungs.

Those blows to the head meant traumatic brain injuries that needed attention.

The leg that was now a disgustingly twisted mess could, at best, not heal right, and, at worst, cause a whole host of infections that could-

No, he wasn’t going to think about that. He’d just gotten his brother back after ten years. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lose him again, especially not to the snot that stood before him and his friends, trying his damnedest to look tall and imposing, and called himself Blind Ivan.

Stan would have laughed at this young man, barely even an adult, trying to convince the world he was not to be trifled with if it hadn’t been for the way he looked at them.

His eyes passed over each of them lazily, like their presence before him was the most mundane thing in the world, something he dealt with every day, a simple chore that needed tending to. And yet, there was...something wrong in his face. Stan couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Maybe it was how, no matter which direction he turned, his eyes never seemed to catch the light. Maybe it was his skin, so ashen and pallid it made him look like a creature of the undead. Maybe it was his bony hand clutching Fiddleford’s knapsack, knowing exactly what was in it and why it was so dangerous that Ivan had it now.

It stirred a primal repulsion in Stan’s gut, that set all his instincts into overdrive to find a way out of this.

A quick glance at his immediate left showed him Fiddleford looked exactly the same as Stan felt. Guilt mixed ever so subtly with the apprehension as Stan recalled how he’d slung the little nerd around earlier, throwing all kinds of insults and threats at him. Now Fiddleford’s face looked like his entire world had just been shattered, and in a way, Stan supposed that it had.

Ivan, this person Fiddleford obviously thought that he could trust, was staring down at him like he was a fly to be swatted. Stan didn’t blame him for looking afraid.

“Get your hands off me, you bathrobe-wearing freaks!”

Helen, however, did not seem in the least bit intimidated by Ivan or any of the other cultists currently trying to restrain her. If anything, it all made her struggle harder, and most of that struggle was focused on her desire to break free and throttle Matthews.

“You absolute bastard,” Helen shrieked at him, lunging forward so hard that the cultist trying to tighten the rope around her wrists was nearly jerked off balance. Stan had never seen her so angry, not even after she’d gotten her first glimpse at the portal a few hours before. That had at least been brought on by the culmination of all the crazy shit she’d been forced to endure up to that point. Now, there was nothing in her eyes but cold, hard fury. “I believed you!” she yelled. “I gave you a second goddamn chance!”

“What can I say, Helen,” Matthews replied, flatly. “Thanks.”

Helen let out a low growl, reminiscent of a rabid dog. One of the robed figures tried to grip her by her arm, in an attempt to wrangle her back to a more prone position, but she merely shot her elbow back and up, managing to clock them square in the jaw.

The figure stumbled backwards, their hood falling back, but before Helen could take advantage of it, another cultist grabbed a clump of her hair and pulled hard. With a pained shouted, she was forced back into a kneeling position on the floor. The figure she’d struck slowly straightened up, the doughy face of Sheriff Leory Muggins glaring icily back down at her.

“Sure wish you hadn’t done that, Mrs. Stillwell,” Muggins said, massage his jaw where he’d been struck.

Helen stopped moving and her eyes went wide. “Muggins?” she breathed.

“That’s right,” the figure clutching Helen’s hair said, voice snide and mocking. Reaching up their free hand, they pulled back their own hood, revealing the grandmotherly face of the secretary from the hospital, her lips pulled back in a sneer through a jagged cross-hatching of scars.

She had seen them with Fiddleford when they first entered the hospital. That’s why she thought he’d be in Helen’s house. That’s why she’d been there, waiting to attack them.

She’d played them.

“Louise? Y-you…” Helen began. Stan could almost see the fight dripping out of her. “You were the one...the one in my house?”

“Sure was,” Louise replied, her tone sickeningly sweet. “And speaking of what happened at your house…”

In a blur of motion, Louise shot out her fist and punched Helen directly in her eye. Helen’s head snapped to the side as she let out a surprised cry of pain. Stan heard her glasses crunch under the force of the blow, then watched as they went flying from her face, shattering completely as they made contact with the floor.

Helen lowered her head, panting heavily. Stan watched blood drip from her nose and spatter on her pant leg. She didn’t look back up.

Any fear that Stan felt dried up in that instant, and he growled, “You’re gonna regret that, you hag!”

Finally, Ivan spoke up. “There you go, Stanley, making threats you couldn’t possibly hope to carry out,” he said, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the mayhem unfolding before him like a surgeon’s scalpel. “It would seem you and your brother share the idiotic tendency of trying to get out of problems you created by playing the brave hero.” Ivan’s smug grin widened. Stan wanted to claw it off his face.

“A pity,” Ivan continued, “that you’re not the only ones its gotten into trouble.”

Stan growled again, and barked, “I’ll show you trouble when I get out of this, you bald son of a bitch.” He then turned his attention to Matthews, and spat, “And once I’m done with him, I’ll be sure and fuck you up, nice and slow, you fucking traitor.”

Matthews didn’t respond. He just stared almost sleepily at Stan, right before digging his heel directly in his brother’s back. Ford practically spasmed beneath him, and let out a weak whimper of pain.

Stan forced himself to be still, even though the boiling heat of his rage still simmered inside him.

He needed to think.

Ford’s struggles were lessening. They were running out of time.

“You need not waste so much of your energy being angry with Dr. Matthews, Stanley,” Ivan said, taking a step closer to him. “He was only acting on my orders to finally bring our leader back to us. And then, of course, it dawned on me that this would be the perfect opportunity to reel in and dispose of not just one problematic interloper, but three, all in one fell swoop. All we needed was the proper lure.” He nodded his head in Ford’s direction. “And your brother more than proved effective for that.”

Ivan turned his attention over to Darryl, who’d been so quiet that Stan had almost forgotten he was there, and said, “But the person I really owe the most thanks to is you, Private Little.”

Darryl didn’t say a word in response. His expression didn’t even change. Despite the ugly bloody lip he’d received from the other cultists, payment for throwing his lot in with their enemies, his spine remained rigid, his eyes focused intently on the air in front of him. He gave no indication to Ivan that he’d even heard what he’d said.

“Had it not been for your bleeding heart and wavering faith, I would never have had the idea to...extend the olive branch, as it were,” Ivan continued, stooping low into Darryl’s field of vision, seemingly intent on getting some kind of reaction from him. He came within inches of Darryl’s face. “So, thank you, Private Little, for making all this possible.”

Darryl remained stonily silent, but Stan didn’t miss the flicker of shame in his eyes.

Ivan’s smile melted away, so quickly and so fluidly that it seemed almost inhuman, like the removal of a mask. “It does sadden me though, Private Little, that I simply must punish you for your transgressions against us.” There was not a hint of sadness at all in Ivan’s voice as he reached out a hand, his fingers ghosting dangerously close to Darryl’s neck.

“Leave him alone, Ivan!” Fiddleford called out.

Ivan’s hand froze in the air. Everyone in the room turned to look at Fiddleford.

It was like looking at a completely different man. Gone was the quivering, jumpy beanpole from before, trying to make himself small, avoid confrontation, appease rather than fight.

The man before them now had fire in his eyes; not an angry fire, but a righteous one, intent on stopping the cruel sideshow of horrors unfolding before him. His jaw was set in a determined line. He was straining to pull his arms free from the two cultists attempting to hold him down. Stan wondered where this side of this man had come from, so suddenly.

Then again, as he thought of the skinny nerd’s convictions at their kitchen table, the way he’d thrown back as good as Stan had given him when they argued, the finality of his proclamation that he was willing to stop Ivan by any means necessary...maybe it was safe to say this had always been a part of who Fiddleford McGucket was. And now he had reason to unleash it.

Ivan seemed to regard Fiddleford’s outburst more with annoyance than anything else, straightening up and turning that eerie gaze directly to this angry man on the floor. Fiddleford didn’t seem at all bothered by that look, and instead said, his voice as stern as if he were talking to an unruly child, “You got what you wanted, Ivan. You won. Your plan is over.”

Stan noticed that the room had gone completely still and silent. All heads - even Helen’s, despite her missing glasses and swollen eye - were turned towards Fiddleford, watching, waiting for whatever was going to happen.

Ivan blinked at him, then straightened himself back up to his full height. Although that meant that his hand was no longer anywhere near Darryl’s throat, he now began taking slow, deliberate steps towards Fiddleford. Stan’s stomach gave a lurch as he watched Ivan reach down into the knapsack and pull out the memory gun from inside it.

Fiddleford saw it too, but rather than showing any sign of fear, he kept talking. “Ya see?” he said. “You’ve got me, you’ve got the gun. You have everything you set out to get. No one else needs to get hurt tonight.”

Ivan closed the distance between them in a few steps, never once taking his piercing gaze off Fiddleford. It was the predatory gaze of a wolf that had just found an injured fawn in the forest, lean and hungry and ready to give itself up to whatever feral impulse came first.

Still, Fiddleford did not back down. “Stanford needs help, Ivan. If he doesn’t get to a hospital, he could die. I promise - I’ll stay here, things can go back to the way they were. I won’t fight you. I’ll do whatever you want. But you have to let Stanford and the others go.”

Ivan raised the gun until it was level with Fiddleford’s forehead.

Fiddleford kept his hard gaze trained on Ivan, but Stan saw the faint flash of his throat as he gulped, betraying his terror.

“I don’t want things to be the way they were,” Ivan said in a harsh, low whisper. “And I don’t want your pathetic, malfunctioning toy.”

With that, Ivan hurled the memory gun to the ground. It slammed into the stone, the sound of breaking glass and buzzing wires filling the space for the briefest of moments, before settling into a smoking pile of debris.

Ivan reached out and grabbed Fiddleford’s face, digging his fingers hard into the other man’s flesh, pulling him close. “You don’t understand anything,” he hissed. “You with your arbitrary rules, your moral pontificating about trauma and endurance and how resilient humans could be.” Ivan’s tone dipped into a high-pitched parody of Fiddleford’s voice, complete with exaggerated accent. “‘Humans were meant to deal with the trauma of the every day, and overcoming it makes you stronger.’”

He barked out a harsh, humorless laugh and said, “Trauma doesn’t make people stronger. It just breaks them, a little more every day. It never gets easier and it never gets better. You were content to let these good people suffer because of your self-righteous nonsense. I offered them real help. The only reason I wanted you to be returned to us is so you could fix the flaw of the gun and we could be done with you. We are better off without you.”

Ivan flung Fiddleford’s face away, and flounced to the center of the room. A pedestal holding an ornate wooden box stood next to a chair with straps on the arms. It wasn’t hard for Stan to put together that this must be where the Society conducted their freaky little rituals.

He was quickly proven right when Ivan reached inside the box and pulled out another memory gun. It was bigger than the one he’d destroyed, almost ridiculously oversized, but he realized this must be the original. He remembered Fiddleford explaining how this gun could hold any amount of memory, no matter how long or how long ago they happened.

They were fucked.

“What I want is to help the Society reach its full potential,” Ivan said, studying the gun in his hand as if it were a beautiful and rare flower. “We will help heal this town, make every scar it’s ever been seared with seem like nothing more than a bad dream. You and these interfering fools you call your friends are the one thing standing in our way. But I intent to change that.”

Ivan began to twist the dial. “None of you will be telling anyone else about what you’ve learned here,” he said as he reached Matthews’ side. He knelt down and, almost tenderly, reach out and lifted Ford’s head in his hand, by his chin. For the first time since the cultists had jumped them, Stan managed to get a good look at his twin’s eyes. They were glassy and distant, eyelids drooping down heavily, creeping ever closer towards unconsciousness. Without Ivan supporting him, Stan was sure Ford’s head would flop right back against the concrete.

“I believe we will begin with you, Dr. Pines,” he said. His mood seemed to have shifted again, and he almost sounded kind, compassionate, even as that evil grin split his features once more. “Perhaps, once I’ve wiped your friends’ memories, they won’t even remember why you need to go to the hospital.” Ivan chuckled darkly. “I can think of a few people here tonight who would love to watch you slowly die.”

Rage burned in Stan’s gut. He strained his wrists pathetically against his ropes. They wouldn’t give.

He was going to be forced to watch his brother die, and he wouldn’t even remember why.

Ivan pressed the bulb of the gun against Ford’s forehead, and began to ease the trigger.

“Do me first!”

Helen’s voice rang out like a church bell in the deathly silent chamber.

What the fuck?

Stan snapped his head in Helen’s direction, and saw her looking wildly at Ivan, tears streaming down her face. “Please,” she said, her voice now tiny and broken. “I want to join you.”

What the actual fuck?

Fiddleford looked about as stunned as Stan felt, staring incredulously at Helen, his mouth hanging open, probably burning to question what the hell she thought she was doing.

Then Stan remembered their conversation on the porch.

Every morning I wake up and it’s still there.

Oh god...she wouldn’t…

Would she?

Ivan certainly seemed very interested in the possibility. He turned his head every so slightly to look in Helen’s direction, carrion eyes narrowed and inquisitive. After a moment, he lowered the gun from Ford’s head, and once again stood to his full height. In a few long strides, he’d come face to face with Helen.

“This is a trick,” he said simply.

“No,” Helen said, sounding so very, very small. “No tricks, I promise. I just...I can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. You’re right. It doesn’t get easier or better. It never will.” Helen exhaled shakily, and bowed her head. Two fresh streams of tears fell from her eyes.

“Helen, what are you doing?!” Fiddleford cried. He looked like his world was crashing down around him.

“Trying to get some goddamn peace,” Helen yelled back, turning her burning, tear-filled gaze to him. “Ivan is right. You don’t care about how much people have suffered. How much I suffered. You’re nothing but a cowardly idiot who won’t do what’s necessary! I just...I want my mind to be clear…”

Dear god, he was so sorry he’d ever dragged Helen into this. What had he done?

Suddenly, Stan felt something poke him in the arm.

Tearing his eyes from Helen, he looked down, and saw a folded pocket knife. Darryl was jabbing it into his arm. Stan looked back up at the other man, and saw his eyes frantically jump from the knife to Stan’s face.

Stan stole a glance at Darryl’s wrists. The ropes had been cut.

He wanted Stan to do the same to his own restraints.

Stan looked back over to where Ivan was still scrutinizing Helen. It almost seemed like Ivan was specifically focusing his red, filmy eye over her, as if it held some power to see into her soul, strip her bare, and expose any falsehoods. Helen sniffed heavily, trembling under his gaze, anguish plainly written on her bruised face.

His heart ached at the sight of it. If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d get them out of here and make it up to her.

Darryl slid the knife into Stan’s waiting palm. He flicked it open, and with a flick of his wrist, turned up the blade and started sawing through the ropes.

Never once removing that piercing gaze from Helen’s face, Ivan said, “What is it that you have seen? Speak honestly, or you will live to regret it.”

Helen gulped heavily, and then replied, voice trembling, “My baby...I...I lost my baby.”

“When?”

“Two years ago.”

“How?”

A beat of silence as Helen drew a deep breath, and let it out shakily. Then she said, voice thick, “I miscarried. Seven months in. They couldn’t tell me why. It just happened. My little boy...my Richie…” Stan stopped sawing as Helen’s words were swallowed up by a sob.

Little boy? Helen told him she was going to have a girl. Christina...

Realization hit him like a rock to the face, and he frantically began sawing again.

“You have to help me,” Helen said, her voice raw. “You’ve helped all these people. You understand. I can’t live this way.” She lifted her head, and Stan saw those dark green eyes of her, usually so full of warmth and maternal love, now desperate and full of pain. “These...these horrible men...all they’ve done is make it worse. Dragged me into their deranged world. I realize now that nothing good can come from them. I can’t trust them. But I trust you.”

Ivan’s face softened, ever so slightly, and he turned to Louise, who stood dumbfounded behind Helen. “Untie her,” he said. “She is no threat to us.”

Louise didn’t move for a moment, a symphony of conflicting emotions playing out at rapid speed on her face. She managed to open her mouth a bit, as if to protest, but Ivan snapped, “Have you gone deaf? I said untie her. She has clearly seen the light. She will make an excellent addition to the Society.”

Louise quickly moved to obey, and undid Helen’s restraints. Helen didn’t move as her ropes coiled to the ground limply. Ivan reached out, offering his hand to help her up.

After a moment, Helen, her hand shaking like a leaf in an unforgiving winter wind, accepted it.

“There, there,” Ivan said, the way one might soothe a frightened child. “Soon this will all be over.”

Stan could feel the ropes under the knife start to give. Just a little more...

Helen’s face fell in pure relief. She reached up her other hand, and breathed, “Thank you. Oh god, thank you so much. I knew I could count on you.”

Then, with a furious shriek that echoed off the walls, Helen slammed her forehead into the center of Ivan’s face.

Ivan roared in pained anger and stumbled back, shooting out the arm that held the memory gun, obviously hoping to strike Helen with it. Instead, she caught his arm and began to wrench tightly, gritting her teeth as she applied more force. Stan got a good look at her eyes, and saw the furious hellcat from before, heard it in the angry yell she unleashed as she gave a final tug, and Ivan’s hand opened involuntarily.

The memory gun fell from his hand, and Helen caught it before it hit the floor. Before Ivan could recover from her attack, she’d thrust the gun in his face, finger itching on the trigger. Her hands no longer shook. Her tears had quickly dried. The desperate pain in her eyes was gone, replaced now with white hot fury.

“I would never want to forget my baby, you arrogant piece of shit,” she growled.

Stan felt another of the ropes snap as the knife sliced through it. Come on, he was almost there…

“This is how it’s gonna go, Ivan,” Helen snarled. “You’re going to untie my friends. You’re going to tell Ed to back the fuck off and let us take Ford out of here. And before we go, we’re going to make sure none of you ever threaten or hurt anyone ever again. Understand?”

Gurgling was the only answer she received. Stan turned his attention toward the sound, and felt his heart stop for a moment. Matthews, his eyes still far away and glassy, had moved his foot from Ford’s back to his neck. Then he started to press.

“Put the gun down, Helen,” he said firmly.

“Ed, if you don’t get the hell away from him right now, I swear to god I’ll make it so this bastard forgets how to fucking breathe!”

“Stanford will be dead before you can pull the trigger!” Matthews shouted back. “Now put. It. Down.”

Stan could see the indecision play across Helen’s face. The gun shook minutely in her hand.

“Face it, Helen,” Ivan said, his tone superior even as he was held at gunpoint and his nose gushed blood. “You can’t possibly hope to defeat us all.”

The last rope finally gave.

“Maybe not,” Stan said. “But I sure as shit can.” In one fluid motion, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his knuckle dusters, slipping them on like a worn, comfortable pair of gloves.

He launched himself at Matthews. In the blink of an eye it took to close the distance between them, he got a good look at Ford, still under Matthews’ heel. This close, he could see the evidence of the brutal assaults his brother had been subjected to - his face was a mess of black and blue, mixed with blood and tears. His glasses were cracked. The leg Matthews had smashed was twisted in a horrifying way, a way that made Stan want to vomit and weep all at the same time. And then there was that goddamn shoe, pressing into his twin’s throat.

There was no two ways about it. He was going to kill Matthews for this.

With a furious roar, he slammed himself bodily into the old bastard, then raised his fist. The brass knuckle made a deliciously satisfying crunch as it made contact with Matthews’ face, and sent him stumbling backwards, into a stone pillar. He wheezed as air was forced from his lungs when his back made sudden and forceful contact with it.

Beneath him, Ford coughed a few times, no doubt sucking in as much air as he could now that his airway was free.

Stan forced himself to look away from his battered brother and focus on the cultists now moving in to surround him.

He threw out his arms, welcoming them to give it their best fucking shot.

“Anyone else want a piece?!”

The chamber exploded in noise.

Muggins was the first one to move toward him, his face drawn tight in animalistic rage. Stan shot out a left hook, catching him in the temple. It disoriented the pig, making him sway dangerously. Stan finished him off with a good one-two to the side, then an uppercut under his chin. Muggins fell like a sack of potatoes.

Another cultist tried to come in on his right and blindside him. Stan whipped around to face them, and shot out his left arm in a cross, catching the hooded freak in the cheek. When they bent down, a natural response to nursing an injured face, Stan gave a small jump that morphed into an overhand, landing squarely on the back of the cultist’s head, and they crumpled.

The next idiot who came wide at him received a right hook directly to the teeth.

It was all coming back to him now.

A heavy weight was suddenly thrown on his back, and Stan was thrown off balance. Someone was shrieking angrily in his ear, attempting to get sharp fingernails close to his eyes. He tried to shake them off, but they held on as tightly as they could, and suddenly a fist was flying in his face, sloppily, but doing enough to distract him and throw off his rhythm. One of the fingernails caught, and he grunted in discomfort as they dug into his skin, dangerously close to the stitches on the side of his head.

Then there was a loud crack, like the snapping of a twig, and the weight slipped from his shoulders. Whipping around, he saw Louise laying there, her fingernails stained slightly with the blood she’d drawn from his head.

Standing over her was Fiddleford McGucket, brandishing a baseball bat. He looked quite proud of himself.

The disbelief Stan felt must have been evident on his face, because Fiddleford shrugged and said, “Fight like a hillbilly.”

Behind Fiddleford, Stan saw Darryl, grabbing a cultist behind the neck and jamming a knee right into their midsection. The cultist fell to their knees, and Darryl quickly slammed his elbow into the back of their neck, splaying them out on the cold stone.

Helen, Stan saw, had abandoned Ivan and rushed to Ford’s side, saying something to him Stan couldn’t hear. All the while, she frantically twisted the dial on the memory gun.

One of the hooded figures started sprinting towards her, clearly seeing her and Ford as easy targets. Helen saw them, then simply leveled the gun at them and fired.

A brilliant column of blue light shot from the bulb, the force of it actually succeeding in knocking Helen back a bit. It smashed directly into the cultist’s face, and they gave a cry of surprised pain. Then they stopped, as still and lifeless as a statue. Even after the blue light faded, the cultist didn’t move, simply standing there, swaying slightly.

Helen had wiped their memory.

Made perfect sense. If these guys wanted to forget so bad, Stan had no problem helping them.

Fiddleford came up behind the mind-wiped cultist and brought the bat down hard on their head, bringing them down like a felled oak.

“We need to start wiping as many of their memories as we can,” Fiddleford cried. “Helen, as soon as we bring them down, hit them with the gun, got it?”

Helen gave him a stiff nod, then turned the gun to Matthews’ limp body behind her. She barely had a moment to put a flicker of pressure on the trigger before a shot of red slammed into her side, knocking her away from Ford and Matthews.

As the tangled ball of limbs rolled to a stop, Stan made out Ivan as he pinned Helen to the floor, teeth bared and eyes wide in animalistic fury. He snatched at the memory gun she still clung to and held just barely out of his reach.

“Give it back!” he roared.

Helen didn’t reply, simply reared back her foot and slammed it into Ivan’s midsection. He fell back with a pained grunt, and Helen rolled away from him until she was on her side.

She lifted her head, and saw Fiddleford, currently bashing the bat into the side of a cultist whose hands were dangerously close to his throat. She called out, “Fidds! Catch!” Fiddleford turned just as she tossed the gun.

The world seemed to suddenly descend into slow motion as the gun arched through the air towards him. Fiddleford turned sharply and reached up.

Then Stan saw Ivan getting to his feet, and spring across the room. Stan could only yell out Fiddleford’s name before Ivan’s fist suddenly connected with the other man’s face.

As Fiddleford stumbled back, the gun sailed directly into Ivan’s hand, and he began sprinting. Within moments, he’d vanished behind the curtain that lead to the stairs back up to the museum. Stan didn’t even stop to think about it. He ran after him. He couldn’t let him escape with that gun. They could take down every one of these loons, but if Ivan got out of here and still had that memory gun, then all of this would be for nothing.

He threw open the curtain and bounded up the stairs, two at a time. His heart pounded away, like it was about to burst out of his chest. He never let his sights waver from Ivan, keeping them trained on that red robe swirling around that bony, colorless frame.

As they reached the upper level, into the room with the secret passage, Stan found himself wondering what Ivan had to gain from all this. It was an odd thing to wonder now, after everything that had just happened, but it still wiggled its way to the front of his thoughts.

Ivan claimed that all this - the violence, the threats, the attempts on their lives, even the Society as a whole - was all in the name of protecting Gravity Falls. But as he’d pointed out to Fiddleford, this town wasn’t as fragile and unsuspecting as Ivan seemed to believe. The town wouldn’t even be there if the people weren’t tough enough to deal with whatever was here and endure it. Gravity Falls didn’t need anyone to protect it. It’d done a pretty good job of that all on his own.

So what did Ivan have to gain? Power? Control? Pure sadism? They were indeed pretty powerful motivators, as Stan had learned from years of dealing with criminals. But Ivan had proven himself so different from the run of the mill criminal scum that Stan had dealings with in the past.

Ivan didn’t seem to take any pleasure from having the control the Society afforded him. If anything, he seemed to view it as a burden, a hard, thankless task that only he could perform, now that he’d deemed Fiddleford inadequate. And while he did seem to relish in swiftly dealing out retaliation to any and all who opposed him, he clearly had managed to get away with the secret of the Society for some time without ever having to resort to it. He didn’t need to, as what he was offering seemed to be enough to keep members coming.

So the question still remained: at the end of the day, when everything was said and done, what did Ivan get out of all this?

Stan didn’t have time to ponder it any further, as Ivan neared an emergency exit. He must have been running on pure adrenaline, as there was a sign next to it that plainly stated that an alarm would sound if the door was opened, which Stan knew would also immediately alert the police to their location. As little love as he had gained for law enforcement over the course of his life, Stan knew that right now, authority figures were exactly what was needed, because they generally had ambulances in tow. But the only reason he could find for Ivan to do something so monumentally risky to himself was sheer desperation.

And Ivan being desperate just made Stan’s job a whole lot easier.

He slammed himself through the emergency exit and followed Ivan out into the darkness. ---

As Fiddleford brought the bat down on the head of the last charging cultist, Helen heard the distant clanging of an alarm bell, so faint and far away that for a moment she thought her ears were ringing. It wouldn’t have been the first time, as she gingerly touched the cheek where Louise had socked her. Who would have thought that this roly-poly grandmother had such a powerful punch?

It gave Helen a bit of sick satisfaction as Fiddleford went over to help drag Louise’s limp body over to the ever-growing pile of unconscious cultists they’d started in the center of the room. She was, quite frankly, tired of the gut-punch feeling that came with every one of these crazed yahoos dramatically flinging back their hood to reveal themselves as someone Helen worked with and even considered to be her friends. It made one feel rather indignant.

She ached all over and her face felt like one big bruise. The world was a blurry mess, thanks to the fact her glasses now lay twisted on the floor, shattered beyond all hope of repair. Somehow, the fact that meant she’d have to schedule an eye exam and get a new pair just rankled her all the more, to the point where she had to fight the urge to go over and plant her foot directly into Louise’s gut.

Her exhaustion was overruling her desire for retribution, however. They still had to drag all these idiots back upstairs, after all. It was going to be difficult enough to explain this all to the cops. They didn’t need to throw in a hidden chamber hidden under the history museum, at least not right now.

She’d honestly rather just curl up next to Ford and go to sleep for the next ten years or so.

As if on cue, she heard Ford groan quietly from his current position in her lap. She absentmindedly ran her hand through his blood-crusted hair, trying hard not to catch any tangles and hurt him any further than he was. He’d already been unsettlingly still since Ed had brought him down with a swift, merciless kick to the leg, which was now most likely broken. Even after spending nine years practicing medicine, seeing people mangled by car crashes and attacked by wildlife, looking at her poor young friend in obvious, exhausted agony made her stomach turn violently.

“Shhh, Ford,” she found herself muttering. “It’s okay. Everything's gonna be okay now.”

A dark chuckle echoed through the chamber. Helen turned her head and saw Ed, cheek swelling where Stan had struck him, but very much awake, as he lazily swung his head up like a rickety theme park animatronic to meet her gaze. His eyes were still glassy and vacant. That same distance from before, that stare that made him seem so very far away, was there again, but was now saturated with sadness. There was something broken in those eyes.

Ed’s eyes were the eyes of a man ready for death.

It sent a shiver up dread down Helen’s spine.

“They’re pretty words, Helen,” he said. “But we both know that, without that gun, all this struggle has been for nothing.” The truth of those words taunted her, but there was nothing taunting in how Ed spoke. His voice sounded like it was being carried away by the wind, raspy and soft. He sounded as tired as Helen felt.

“Shut up, Ed,” was all she could muster. She wanted to look away, away from that horrible look in his eyes that filled her with an apprehension she didn’t fully understand. But she couldn’t. It was like a car crash; the morbidity of it was almost fascinating.

Fortunately, Darryl spoke up, breaking whatever hold the gaze had on her. “That’s about enough out of you,” he muttered. He entered Helen’s field of vision, a coil of rope in his bloodied hands, moving behind Ed to lash his wrists together. Helen briefly wondered why he or Fiddleford didn’t just knock Ed out the way they had all the others, but then Fiddleford came to her side, at just the right angle to see his face, drawn and serious and above all tired, probably more tired than any of them. His entire world had pretty much imploded on him in a less than twenty-four hours.

“You can do whatever you like,” Ed muttered. “But you know I’m right. I guarantee you that Ivan won’t give up that gun without a fight. And I also guarantee that oafish friend of yours won’t be coming back with it, if he comes back at all. Not when he goes up against Ivan.”

“Stan can take him,” Helen replied, ignoring another jolt of dread that tripped down her back.

“He’s nothing but a dumber, sweatier version of that freak down there,” Ed shot back, nodding in Ford’s direction. “And he won’t stand a chance against Ivan when he’s angry.”

Ford let out another groan from Helen’s lap, and when she looked down to console him, she realized that he’d shakily brought up his head just enough so he could look Ed in the eye. Helen could feel him trembling against her, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder, trying to get him to relax and save his energy. He ignored her, and ground out, “Y-you...don’t know shit about my brother.”

Helen couldn’t help but smile.

Ed simply sighed and fell back against the pillar as Darryl finished binding his wrists.

“At least we can trust Stan,” Fiddleford said, every word heavy and accusatory. He sounded like a father whose child had just committed a terrible crime, and had left him wondering where he’d gone wrong. “Which is certainly more than I can say for you. All that pretty talk about wanting to help us, about wanting to help Helen...and the entire time you were just lying to our faces.” He turned his steely gaze to Ed. “And you had the gall to tell me that I was lowering myself to Ivan’s level. If anyone here is no better than him, it’s you.”

Ed’s eyes flicked up to meet Fiddleford, and once again, Helen was unnerved by the utterly inhuman way it made him look. Like a rusted robot, going through the motions of its ancient programming, just waiting to break down completely.

“McGucket, believe me,” Matthews finally said, sounding exhausted. “I never wanted Helen to get mixed up in all this. I meant it when I said all I wanted was to help her. I understand the kind of pain losing the baby caused her-”

“You don’t understand dick, Ed,” Helen spat, fury bubbling in her belly. “You’re the one who joined this freakshow because of some lake monster.”

Ed let out a harsh bark of a laugh, and said, “If you really bought that I’d go through all this just because I saw some monster in the lake, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand anything.”

“What are you talking about?” Darryl asked, looking up from tying Ed’s wrists, a quizzical look on his face.

“I didn’t erase memories of a lake monster. I erased Andrea.”

“Andrea?” Helen felt her heart sink. “You erased your memories of Andrea?”

He shook his head, and said, “No. Not of her. Of her death.”

Oh dear god…

“Everyone believed me when I said that she was already dead when I came back from my rounds,” he continued. His voice quivered ever so slightly, the broken robot mask slipping further and further the longer he spoke. “But she was still hanging on. Not for more than five minutes, not long enough for me to actually be able to do anything. She was struggling to breath and I could tell she was scared and trying to claw her way back to life.” He gulped heavily. “And then, she looked at me. Those beautiful brown eyes locked on me and they were begging me to help and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her die!”

Ed’s shrill cry echoed through the chamber. Helen saw tears pricking at his eyes as she stared at him in disbelief.

He took a few shaky breaths, and then said, “It kept me awake for weeks before I found out about the Society. This group is the only reason I didn’t just fall apart after Andrea died. That gun was what kept me sane. She was my whole world, Helen, and in the end, I couldn’t save her. I thought you, of all people, know what it’s like to be able to do nothing as someone you love painfully slips away from you. I thought you’d understand.”

For a moment, no one said anything, and the only sound was Ed’s raw, pained gulps of air, desperately trying to hold himself together.

Helen pitied him, much as she was loathe to admit it.

She thought back to the details of that horrible night.

Richard was at a late dinner meeting, so it was just her and the kids. They were at the dining room table, struggling through algebra, notes on the Industrial Revolution, the next chapter of The Great Gilly Hopkins, and she was filling the dishwasher. Her back had been hurting a lot that evening, but she also had been forced to sleep on it for the last week or so, since Christina really didn’t like it when Mom tried to lay on her side. Maybe she’d just leave the rest of the dishes for Richard and lay down for a while.

She’d just started to turn when the pain blossomed through her, like someone driving a hot knife into her kidneys, and a pained yell was ripped from her. She felt something hot and sticky trail down her leg through the haze of pain. She heard chairs frantically scraping at the hardwood floors and then Daisy was standing in the archway to the kitchen, staring down at her mother in abject terror, making her look about ten years younger than she was. Helen wanted to comfort her, say anything to ease her daughter’s fear. But nothing came out expect another pained gasp.

It was only when Scott and Amanda started trying to get past Daisy to see what was going on that she moved. Daisy began ushering them out, telling them in an authoritative voice Helen didn’t recognize coming from her that they were not to look, to go wait in the living room.

Daisy dashed to the kitchen phone, nearly pulling it off the wall as she frantically punched three numbers. Helen heard her speak four words that, to this day, made her insides clench and her brain send her into a mess of panic - “My mom needs help.”

She gave her head a hard shake, and looked back over at Ed. He looked much more human now than when this conversation had started. But Helen knew what he needed to hear.

“You’re right, Ed,” she said quietly. “I do know what that’s like.” Flicking her gaze down, she found that her hand had found its way to her abdomen. She didn’t remember putting it there.

Ed’s face flashed briefly in a look of relief. No, she wasn’t going to let him think he’d gotten to her.

“But you know what else I know?” she asked, her voice firmer, clearer. “I know that my pain doesn’t give me an excuse to hurt anyone else. Look at what this society has gotten you to do, Ed.” Helen gave Ford’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Look at what you’ve done to a man who never did anything to you. You never even met Ford until this morning. And you’ve broken every oath you had to take as a doctor, all because the man who made it so you didn’t have to face reality told you to.”

Ed said nothing. He merely looked away.

“That gun, this group,” Helen continued, “they’re not helping anyone. All it does is make it hurt worse. Every time the memories come flooding back to you, it’s like living through it again. No one can live that way, let alone heal. Even if you had offered me a chance to forget Ed, I wouldn’t have taken it. It wouldn’t have fixed anything.” She sighed. “These things can’t just go away, Ed. But they do get easier. Get some real help.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and for a moment, no one moved. It was as if time had stopped, just to focus in on this moment of pure human misery, simmering between this group of people with scars invisible to the naked eye.

Finally, Darryl cleared his throat and stood up, brushing the dust from the floor off his pants. Then, he pulled his robe up and over his head, revealing a white t-shirt and black jeans underneath, the average street clothes he’d been wearing at Helen’s house hours ago. A pair of dog tags clinked together, on a chain around his neck. He tossed his robe off to the side, in the dark surrounding them. He didn’t watch to see where it landed. He merely reached down and grabbed Ed’s bound wrists, and pulled him to his feet.

“We need to head back upstairs,” he said. “That ringing sounded like the fire alarm. Gotta get all these guys back up before the cavalry arrives.”

“Can’t wait to see how you explain an unconscious group of bystanders,” Ed muttered. “With injuries made by an illegal set of brass knuckles, no less.”

Helen shot him a scathing glance, but he had a point. There was no way they’d ever be able to explain this to the authorities without coming off like a bunch of deranged psychopaths. Three of these people were practically pensioners. There was no way the police would believe that they were the ones who’d caused any of their injuries.

“I think I have a solution to that,” Fiddleford said, wandering over to the wall. He felt along the surface for a bit, before his hand hit a stone that gave under his fingertips. The wall pulled back with a rumbling groan, and revealed half a dozen more memory guns, all the same size as the one Ivan had destroyed.

Ed scoffed and said, “Those things? They can barely hold an hour’s worth of memory. How are they supposed to help you?”

Fiddleford ignored him. “Darryl, would you check and see if Muggins has his police radio on under his robe?” He pulled open the panel on the side of the small gun and began fishing about in the wires. Darryl bent over Muggins, and pulled up his robe until it was around his midsection. Sure enough, attached to his belt loop, was his radio.

“Well, what do you know,” Darryl muttered. “Muggins may be an idiot, but at least he’s a reliable idiot.”

“Give it here,” Fiddleford said, pulling a long red wire out from the gun, curling it about in his fist. When Darryl placed the radio in his hand, Fiddleford pried off the battery compartment, and dug his thumb into the guts of receiver, pulling out another, shorter wire from within it. As quickly as one might tie their shoe, he connected them, and the receiver crackled to life. He twisted the dial a few times, then set the device on the ground, in the middle of the small group.

The screen attached to the gun said “SOCIETY OF THE BLIND EYE”.

It began to whine.

Then he reached down and grabbed the hem of Ed’s robe. Ed only had time to give off a small, indignant sound as Fiddleford began tearing off a long strip, then tore that into two smaller strips. “Helen,” he said, handing the bits of cloth to her, “use these to plug up Ford’s ears. Then you and Darryl need to cover yours.”

She did as he said, but that didn’t stop her from asking, “What did you do?”

“I amplified its frequency,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’s still not as powerful as the original, but it should have a wider range now. Enough to store bigger memories from at least everyone in this room.” He punctuated that last sentence with a mischievous smirk at Ed.

Ed’s eyes went wide as the implications hit him.

The gerry-rigged memory gun whined louder.

“Say good night, Sally,” Fiddleford said, putting his hands over his ears.

Helen and Darryl did the same, right before a brilliant blue light flooded the chamber. ---

Twigs snapped under his feet as Stan sprinted through the forest, keeping his eyes trained on the billowing red cloak roughly a hundred feet in front of him. He beat branches away from his face as he moved deeper and deeper into the dense trees, ignoring them when he didn’t push them hard enough and they came back to slap him in the face. He tried to block out the feeling of the frigid night air constricting around him, leaching through his jacket and clothes like he’d been submerged in a cold bath.

He wasn’t going to let this bastard get away from him, not with that gun. He’d chase him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took, but he was not going to let all the pain they’d gone through - Helen’s heartache, Fiddleford’s mental anguish, Ford’s torture - go to waste because of Blind Ivan.

The branches suddenly parted as he stampeded into a clearing, hazy moonlight peaking through the clouds to illuminate patches of mud and dead grass beneath his feet. He whipped around, looking for that shock of red. It was nowhere to be seen.

No, no, he couldn’t have lost him.

“Come out here and face me like a man!” Stan shouted, his voice echoing in the inky darkness. “You can’t hide from me forever, you bony coward!”

A mirthless laugh answered him, though from what direction it came from, he could scarcely begin to guess.

Ivan was toying with him. Despite the fact he could have used this opportunity to escape, he still stuck around to taunt Stan, lord over him how much smarter he was than him for escaping him so deftly. And arrogance like that could be exploited.

“What the fuck is so funny?” Stan shouted into the night.

“The fact that you think you’re somehow in control of this situation,” Ivan answered. Stan still couldn’t pinpoint exactly where his voice was coming from, but that hardly mattered. All he had to do was keep him talking, and Ivan would do the rest himself.

“Your kind always think that they can solve their problems with their might,” Ivan continued. “Yes, I know your kind quite well.”

“You don’t know shit about me!”

Another chuckle. “Perhaps not as much as the others, but you present yourself so plainly, it’s easy to draw my own conclusions. And what I find is this - you’re young, but you bear the scars of an old man. Scars that only come through unimaginable hardship. They’re not from any singular source, but every one is as painful as the last. And the worst part is that no one seems to care. After all, your suffering has made you who you are. Toughened you up. Made you a man. Isn’t that right?”

Stan flinched at the familiar words of his father being flung at him, but he couldn’t let that or the thought of how Ivan knew about them distract him. He simply had to make Ivan think he was getting to him. “Shut up!” he screeched at the trees.

“You keep trying to reach out to someone, to help you deal with these scars, but they brush you off. They sympathize, but they never try to change anything, and you’re left all alone to deal with it.”

Stan shouted back, “At least I’ve got people in my life because they want to be there. All you’ve got is a gaggle of robed weirdos who stick around because they’re afraid of you. If I had to make a bet, I’d say you’ve never had anyone around you that you actually gave a damn about. You wouldn’t know caring for another human being if it bit you in the ass.”

Silence was his only answer. He feared that perhaps Ivan had finally grown tired of his game and retreated.

Then something heavy slammed into his back.

His face struck the dirt hard and bounced, and for a moment, stars danced in front of his eyes. But then he felt the cold bulb of the memory gun press into the back of his head, and he rallied all his strength to push himself upward, flinging Ivan up and away from him, close to another cluster of trees.

As Ivan scrambled back to his feet, Stan saw his eyes flash in the moonlight, the first time he’d ever seen them catch any sort of light. And what he saw there was nothing but fury. This wasn’t just anger or gloating or frustration.

Ivan’s eyes burned with murderous hate.

Stan didn’t let him get any further than a low crouch before he sprang at Ivan and slammed him into the underbrush. They rolled over each other, both clawing and grasping, Ivan trying to shove the gun into Stan’s face and fire, and Stan trying to wrench it out of his grasp.

Then something solid and sharp slammed into Stan’s temple, right where he’d been stitched up, and his vision was flooded with white. He felt himself being slammed onto his back, and Ivan’s weight being pressed into his chest. As his vision cleared, he saw that Ivan wasn’t holding just the memory gun anymore. High above Stan’s head was a large, blood-stained rock. It must have been what Stan hit. And now Ivan was going to use it to smash his head in.

Acting on pure instinct, Stan shot out a fist, managing a hook right into Ivan’s right eye. The brass-aided punched forced Ivan from his position on Stan’s chest, and caused him to lose his grip on both the rock and the gun, and he fell to the ground with a thud.

Stan rolled just as the rock came down. The sound of rending metal and shattering glass caught his attention, and he looked up. The memory gun had landed directly on the rock, and lay broken in pieces. Ivan seemed to forget all about the pain from his injured eye. He simply gaped at the destroyed memory gun laying before him, occasionally sparking uselessly. “No,” he said quietly. “No...nononononoNO.” Suddenly his bellows filled the entire forest, and that burning gaze was back on Stan. “What have you done?!”

Stan took a moment to take in a few deep breaths and get his bearings. They’d managed to roll into another clearing. He faintly heard water rushing, and realized that behind Ivan was a cliff. Below it must have been the river that fed into the falls.

“It’s over, Ivan,” Stan said. “You’ve got nowhere left to run. You lost.”

The gaping devastation on Ivan’s face melted away like wax from a spent candle. From his throat bubbled up laughter, deep and unhinged. Stan felt the hairs go up on the back of his arms and neck, and he raised his fists in case this was the prelude to another attack.

But Ivan didn’t move, outside of his shoulders bobbing with his insane laughter. He raised his head to look at Stan, almost like he expected him to be in on whatever joke had played out in his head, like this was all some rollicking fun they’d partaken in together.

“You really think you’ve beaten me?” Ivan asked, his laughter now dying down into chortling hiccups.

“Look around, Ivan,” Stan replied. “You’ve got nothing left to throw at us.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Stanley,” Ivan said. Swaying slightly, he got back to his feet, not seeming to notice Stan readying himself to start throwing his fists again. “If you think that one night of your interference can stop what I have planned, you’re an even bigger fool than I imagined.”

Ivan stumbled back slightly, steadying himself a bit as he added, “I have plans, you see. Plans that I have worked too hard for too long to see stopped by the likes of you. You can’t possibly grasp the magnitude of what’s coming, Stanley Pines. Not like I can…”

Ivan took another step back. He was less than two feet away from the edge of the cliff. A gust of wind whipped around him dangerously, making him teeter closer to the edge. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to fall. Stan actually found himself taking a step forward, ready to lunge for him if started going over, not out of any sense of wanting to help. He just didn’t want an accidental fall to keep this twerp from getting the punishment he deserved.

But then Ivan turned his gaze back up towards Stan, and he stopped dead.

Ivan’s eyes were sharp and clear.

Ivan wasn’t in danger of accidentally falling.

He was backing towards the edge of the cliff on purpose.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stan called out, not even trying to hide how panicked his voice was.

“What I’ve always done,” Ivan said simply. “What is necessary.”

He took one more step backwards. Then he was over the cliff.

Stan rushed forward, though he wasn’t sure what he thought he’d be able to do. By the time he closed the distance between them, Ivan had vanished from sight.

He heard the splash as Ivan’s body hit the raging river below. Stan finally reached the cliff’s edge, and looked over. All he could see was swirling foam as the water settled back into its current. Ivan was nowhere to be seen.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t think of anything else to say or do.

He heard the wail of sirens drifting over the trees. He needed to get back, make sure that Ford was okay. Be there for him, the way he’d wanted to be there for him throughout this entire thing. He gave himself a shake it get out of the stupor that shrouded him.

He took a step forward, and stepped on something smooth and hard. He raised his foot and saw a tube, laying in the grass. It was white, with two brass nodes at each end. Ivan must have dropped it when they’d rolled into the clearing.

He bent down and picked it up. The moon offered just enough light to see words, scribbled shakily in dark ink on the side of the tube.

Preston Northwest’s Memories.

Who the hell was Preston Northwest?

Why did Ivan have his memories?

And why were they so important that Ivan would carry them with him, even as he jumped to his doom?

He glanced over his shoulder, to the cliff’s edge.

The raging current below offered him no answers. ---

Ford knew he was safe as soon as he opened his eyes.

Not just because his surroundings were a clean, bleached white, clearly not that awful, dank chamber under the history museum. Not just because the pain that had permeated his existence for the last several hours had faded to barely a dull throb.

It was because as soon as he opened his eyes, he was greeted by Stan’s tired smile. Blurred though it may have been because of his missing glasses, he’d recognize it anywhere.

Still, he wanted to hear it, out loud.

“Stan?” he said, his voice a pathetic, dried-out whisper. The single word seared his throat, but he didn’t care. He needed to hear it.

“I’m here, Ford,” was the reply. That wonderful, caring, supportive voice that sounded like a fork in a garbage disposal. It was music to Ford’s ears. He felt his hand being squeezed warmly, and it made him want to cry out of sheer relief.

“Here,” Stan said, reaching over to grab something from the night table. He leaned close, and slid Ford’s glasses back on his face. The world became clear again, despite the glaring crack in the left lens, and he could finally make out his surroundings. He was in a hospital bed, and a glance down revealed that his leg, the same leg Matthews had kicked in, was now entombed in a huge plaster cast, a foam wedge tucked underneath it to keep it elevated. An IV was at his bedside, no doubt responsible for the fact he wasn’t moaning in agony right now. The lights had been dimmed and the dark curtains drawn, although Ford could still see the pale gray of dawn peeking through.

But that wasn’t what Ford eventually focused on. No, what he focused on was the angry red gash at his twin’s temple. A line of neat stitches ran down the length of it, but it had clearly been a bad wound when it was received. Despite all his limbs feeling heavier than lead, Ford reached up and put his hand on the scar, and lightly traced his thumb down the length of it.

“Hey, don’t you start apologizing for that,” Stan said, reaching up to move Ford’s hand away, giving it another reassuring squeeze. “This had nothing to do with you.”

“I know,” Ford replied. “I still don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“How do you think I feel?” Stan asked, a smile creeping into his voice. “I’ve only been staring at your busted-up mug for two hours. Believe me, you’re no oil painting.”

Ford chuckled a little, forever grateful for whatever painkiller was being pumped into him by the IV by the side of his hospital bed.

“So, how are you feeling?” Stan asked.

“Like I got beat up by cultists,” Ford replied. “But the drugs help. And speaking of cultists...”

“Taken care of,” Stan replied quickly. “By the time the ambulance got there, none of them could even remember why they were in the museum to begin with.”

“Should we examine the moral implications of us stopping a group of violent memory-wiping fanatics by forcing them to violently have their memories wiped?”

“Who are we, the Justice League?” Stan scoffed. “Those nuts were gonna do a lot worse to us than just wipe our memories. You’re, ironically enough, living testimony to that.”

“Irony hurts like a bitch.”

“You’re telling me.”

A beat of silence passed between them, the question Ford wanted to ask and simultaneously never hear the answer to hanging between them. Finally, he took a deep breath, and asked, “What about Ivan?”

Stan bit his lip, obviously struggling with how he was going to answer. Ford’s stomach roiled a bit. Ivan had to have escaped. That’s all there was to it. Stan wouldn’t have been this hesitant if that wasn’t the case. If those words left Stan’s mouth, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to not vomit, out of sheer panic more than anything else.

“He jumped off a cliff.”

Ford blinked. That certainly was not what he expected Stan to say.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like,” Stan replied with a halfhearted shrug. “I chased him to a cliff near the river. He tried to fight me. He lost. The gun got smashed up, so I guess he panicked. Took the coward’s way out.”

“Then it’s really over,” Ford said. He wasn’t even embarrassed by how meek his voice sounded to his own ears.

“Yeah, it is.” Stan gave his hands another squeeze. Ford hadn’t realized until then that they were shaking.

Another beat of silence passed between them, this one less oppressive than the last. For that moment, Ford just let the relief that his tormentor was gone wash over him. It was better than the drugs.

Then, he asked, “Is everyone else okay?”

Stan nodded off to the other side of the room, and with a bit of effort, Ford turned his head enough to see Helen and Fiddleford, set up in a couple chairs against the wall, passed out on each other. Both of them were covered in bruises and cuts, evidence of their struggle against the Society.

“They pretty much passed out as soon as we got the word from the paramedics you were gonna be okay,” Stan said. “Can’t say I blame them. We really put them through the ringer for this. Helen, especially...”

Stan trailed off, for a brief moment, as if he were thinking hard about something. Then he quickly added, “Ford, she knows about the portal.”

Ford felt his stomach fall to his feet. He gulped a bit, even though it made his throat stick, and asked, “How did she take that?”

“‘Bout as well as expected.”

“She freaked out?”

“Big time.”

“Oh boy.”

“To be fair to her, she found out about it directly after the whole thing with the crazy old lady attacking us in her house, so...maybe she’ll be a little more open-minded about it when she wakes up?”

“I know intense physical abuse always helps me process any bombshell secrets my friends drop on me.”

“You’re lucky your face is already one giant bruise, smart-ass, or I’d knock that sarcasm right out of you.”

Ford gave a weak chuckle, but he couldn’t fight the shame that bubbled up in his chest. He’d hoped no one else would ever find out about that damnable portable, that gargantuan testament to his shame, let alone someone he trusted and respected like Helen.

“We never should have dragged her into this,” he muttered.

His inner turmoil must have shown on his face, because Stan reached out an put a reassuring hand on Ford’s cheek, tilting his head so that his twin was looking him in the eye. Stan’s gaze was alight with compassion and love. It made the shame twisting in a Ford’s stomach seem like nothing.

“Hey,” Stan said gently, “Knowing her, she would have found a way to get involved. She’ll come around to this. And I’m sure she’s going to be much happier about the fact you’re alive to help her understand it.”

As if on cue, Helen let out a sleepy sigh. Ford turned to look at her just as her eyes fluttered open. She shifted slightly in her seat, which roused Fiddleford. Both of them looked around the room blearily before realizing what was happening in the bed in front of them.

“Oh, Ford,” Helen breathed, on her feet and at the bed in the time it took Ford to blink. She sat on the edge of his bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close, and planted a soft kiss directly on his forehead. He leaned into it greedily.

“Don’t get too cozy, you little shit,” Helen mumbled into his hair. He could hear her voice getting thick. “I’m still mad at you for stealing my car.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled back. “I’ll get you some cash for the gas.”

She only responded by holding him tighter.

Ford turned his head slightly, and saw Fiddleford looking back at him, near the end of the bed. His face was a strange mix of exhaustion, confusion, and relief. Ford couldn’t help but think back to that morning - or rather, yesterday, he supposed - when he’d seen Fiddleford’s face for the first time in four months. The haggard, gaunt, lost little man in the alley seemed to have vanished over the course of a day. Every time Ford looked at Fiddleford, he saw a bit more of his dear friend creeping back to the surface, out from under the smothering electricity of that horrible device he’d created.

Ford wanted to say so much to him. He wanted to apologize, but Fiddleford had told him not to, that he didn’t blame him, not anymore.

He wanted to promise to be better, but the smile Fiddleford wore, that smile that always made him feel like he somewhere safe and warm, seemed to advertise plainly that Fiddleford always believed in Ford’s ability to improve, that there’d never been a doubt in his mind.

He just wanted to talk, and listen to that soft, kind voice - the one that knew and could sing every John Denver song ever written and talked endlessly about James Baldwin and theoretical physics - answer him for the rest of his life.

Instead, all he said was, “I’m glad you’re okay, Fiddleford.”

“You too, Ford,” Fiddleford replied.

Before Ford could think of anything else to say, Fiddleford had come up to his side. Helen, almost intuitively, had moved to the side to let him through. And then Fiddleford’s arms were around his neck again, his head buried in his shoulder. His hair brushed against Ford’s cheek like thistledown. Ford could feel that smile stretch wider against his neck, and he knew that Fiddleford was exactly where he wanted to be. Ford brought an arm up and draped it over Fiddleford’s back, holding his friend as close as his worn out muscles would let him. He wished he had the strength to hug him forever.

Too soon, Fiddleford pulled away, looked up into Ford’s face. Ford saw tears welling in his eyes as he said, “I said some terrible things to you, and I’m so sorry.” He sighed shakily, and added, “I’m responsible for how I reacted to what happened to me. And now I’m responsible for fixing the damage I caused.”

Ford reached up and put a hand on Fiddleford’s. “Maybe we could try fixing things together,” he replied.

Fiddleford nodded, smile as bright as a hundred watt bulb, and said, “Sounds perfect.”

“I’ve got a portal of doom in my basement that needs dismantling,” Ford said. “If you’re up for that, I mean. I’m a little...indisposed at the moment.” To illustrate his point, he gave his plastered-up leg a small wiggle.

Fiddleford chuckled, and said, “I think I can handle that. I imagine it’ll feel pretty good reducing that thing to scrap.”

“Well, you might wanna put the kibosh on portal talk for a while,” Stan interjected, “and start thinking about how you’re gonna be getting around the house with a pair of crutches. I’ve walked around on crutches enough to know that going up and down stairs constantly with them eventually makes your armpits go numb.”

“I’m not even going to bother asking why you’ve been on crutches so many times,” Helen said, voice flat.

“That’s for the best,” Stan replied.

“Well, I suppose I could move down to the couch for a few weeks,” Ford said. “Especially since we are gonna have a house guest for a while.”

Fiddleford looked at Ford like he’d just said he’d give him his kidney as opposed to his bedroom. “Oh no,” he said, a bit of color flushing to his cheeks. “I can’t ask a man with broken ribs to sleep on a lumpy couch.”

“You’re not asking,” Ford said playfully. “I’m telling you that’s what I’m doing.”

“And I’m siding with Fidds on this one,” Stan said. “I’ll take the couch. Since I’m on the bottom floor, you can take my bed, and Fidds can have yours.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Stan,” Fiddleford said, giving him a cheery smile.

Ford looked between them in confusion. Where had this chummy camaraderie come from? A few hours ago, Stan was regarding Fiddleford like a forest creature that had wandered into their house and wouldn’t leave. Now, he was returning the smile, with a kind of conspiratorial smugness, like he and Fiddleford were in on some kind of joke together.

“Who are you two, and what have you done with Stan and Fiddleford?” Ford asked, only partly joking.

“Hey, someone’s got to keep you from falling apart completely,” Helen chuckled. “And between the three of us, I think we can manage it.”

Ford laughed a bit himself, just as the door opened slowly. He saw Darryl peek in, and, seeing everyone was awake and talking and even looking rather upbeat, open the door to come in. “Glad to see you guys looking better,” he said with a toothy smile, a blue jacket slung over his shoulders. “How’re you feeling, Dr. Pi-I mean, Ford?”

“They tell me I’ll live,” Ford replied. He found it so odd how the light tone rolled so naturally off his tongue. Here before him stood a man who’d risked his own safety, just to help this group of people he barely knew, and had really no reason to trust. “Listen, Darryl,” he said, “I wanted to thank you. For everything. I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for everything you did for me.” “None of us can,” Stan added. “You were amazing back there.”

Darryl reached up to rub his hand down his neck bashfully, obviously trying to hide the faint glow that had suddenly risen to his cheeks. “There’s no need for that,” Darryl said. “I was just doing what was right.”

“So how’s everything going out there?” Helen asked.

“‘Bout as chaotic as you’d expect,” Darryl replied. “I don’t think anyone was ready for a bunch of injured amnesiacs to turn up in the history museum in the wee hours of the morning, let alone small-town cops.”

“Not even factoring in that the sheriff was one of those amnesiacs,” Helen muttered darkly.

“You got it,” Darryl replied. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small sucker. As he pulled the wrapper off and popped it in his mouth, he said, “Damn, my wife picked a bad time to convince me to give up smoking.”

Ford saw Helen and Stan exchange a glance over the bed. “You got two more of those?” Stan asked as he turned his attention back to Darryl.

Darryl didn’t reply, just pulled two more suckers out of the jacket pocket and tossed them to Stan.

Stan caught them, took one, and offered the other to Helen. She accepted it without a word.

It seemed to Ford that everyone had these little secrets together tonight.

Stan pulled the wrapper off his and asked, “So, what are we telling the cops, exactly? We need to make sure we keep our stories straight.”

“Officially, Ivan’s the main mastermind behind everything,” Darryl replied. “As far as everyone else from the Society is concerned, they were victims of a terrorist with a weird gun.”

“Not far from the truth, if we’re being honest,” Stan said.

Darryl smiled wryly and continued, “I even managed to convince them that you all were brave heroes who couldn’t stand by and let innocent people be tortured by some madman, so you gallantly stormed the place and beat the shit out of him.”

“And those were your exact words?” Fiddleford asked, clearly biting back a laugh.

“Well, the rookie cops may have started embellishing things a bit,” Darryl said with a shrug of his shoulders. “You know how things travel in a small town. Also, Ford, if someone asks you how you managed to wrestle Ivan’s trained attack deer with your bare hands, just know that I did not come up with that part.”

That finally drew a laugh out of the whole group. It was a marvelous sound, after all they’d endured. Honestly, it was all rather difficult for Ford to believe. All the secrets that had been spilled, all the conspiracies that had been blown wide open, all the wounds they’d been dealt, physical or otherwise - that had all happened over the course of one day. It felt like they’d been at it for years. Ford felt Helen lean up against him a little more, and he got a look at her face. Even once you got past the deep blue bruising, she looked utterly exhausted, absently swirling her sucker around in her mouth. Ford saw that she’d draped an arm over her abdomen. As much as he didn’t want to, he thought back to that dark chamber, heard Helen’s broken plea ringing in his ears.

Before he had a chance to stop himself, he said, “Helen?”

“Hmm?” She flicked her eyes down at him, sucker stilled for a moment.

He almost took it back. For a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to ask what he wanted to know. If it was true, he didn’t want to be the one responsible for upsetting her again. It wasn’t his place to ask that question.

But his mouth had other plans, and he said, “That...thing. About the baby? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but...was what you told Ivan true?”

Helen didn’t respond right away.

He’d fucked up. Oh man, he’d fucked up.

He averted his eyes from her and quickly added, “I’m sorry! Like I said, you don’t have to tell me. If you think it’s none of my business, just say so. I don’t -”

Suddenly a finger was pressed to his lips. He looked back up at Helen. She was giving him a lopsided smile. “Yes, Ford, it’s true,” she said. She gave the other three men a quick glance. “It’s not like everyone else in this room doesn’t already know.”

Ford wanted to say something, but then he looked again into Helen’s eyes. They were sad, as anyone’s would be when they had just admitted to something so heartbreaking, but there was something else too. To Ford, it looked remarkably like peace.

Stan sighed, and muttered, “We’re all just a bunch of sad idiots, aren’t we?”

Ford and the others gave grunts of agreement, but he saw that Fiddleford’s eyebrows were scrunched up in thought.

After a moment, he said, “I suppose it could always be worse.”

“Ugh, booo,” Stan groaned, rolling his eyes so far back in his head they might have been in danger of popping out.

“Man, you did not just say that,” Darryl said with a wry laugh.

Fiddleford gave them bother a withering glance, and said, “If you two would let me finish, I was gonna say it could be worse, because we could all be alone.”

No one interrupted him this time.

“I mean, we’ve all been through some kind of hell that no one else can really understand,” Fiddleford continued. “We don’t even understand each other’s trauma all that well. But we can at least be there for each other, when things get tough. We’re lucky in ways a lot of other people aren’t.”

Ford felt Stan’s hand tighten around his. Helen’s arm was back around his shoulder. Even Darryl had closed the distance between himself and the bed, and leaned against the edge.

Each of them had a pain unique to them.

They could drown out that pain together.

In that moment, Ford did indeed feel like one of the luckiest men on the planet.

---

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[pinetwiins]

A Drabble for Verse!Beta; Yako’s death and Dark!Ford’s Origin story.

Mabel & Stanley & Stanford / Dark Ford - (Me) @pinetwiins

Neuro + Yako @hellsgreatestdetective​

Bill Cipher (DAPPER) @joinwithmekid​

Please note - there is death in this thing, its long and also includes an old man dying from a heart attack. 

Neuro

Yako is thrown onto the sofa but her reflexes seem... off. She does not roll to avoid and hits the sofa hard. Neuro notices and isn't grinning so much. "What Bill chooses to do with the relationship I shall not protest again."

StanfordPines

wait what?? He is also very worried over yako.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill also notices. “Off day, Foodie?”

Neuro

Neuro waits for Yako to get up. She seems completely still for several moments before she suddenly moves, almost baffled at where she is. It's very not Yako behaviour.

StanfordPines

“hey... sweetheart... are you okay?”

Yako

"I'm sorry. I kind of blacked out there, what happened?" She tries to laugh it off, but she can't even laugh right. What the hell? "Maybe I was more badly hurt than I thought, but the medics had checked for injuries and said I was doing fine."

StanfordPines

he bites his lip and walked over to stand next to the couch. “perhaps... perhaps they overlooked something...?” He is very worried.

Yako

"I can't remember hitting my head at any point. Maybe I'm just tired. I should head to be-" She seems to have forgotten what she was saying.

StanfordPines

he feels his heart rate picking up.... he’s.... he’s scared...

Neuro

Neuro snaps a finger in front of her. She does not react for several moments.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill’s not shocked or worried at all, he just watches. He’s seen this happen hundreds of times - not exactly like this, but generally speaking. Death means nothing to him. Actually, he just giggles a bit at the fact she forgot what she was saying. “Yep, you should go sleep kid! Actually, sleep here. You’ll forget what you’re doing on the way to bed, don’t want that!”

Yako

"That's- that's a good idea. Thank you Will." She kind of just- shuts down there. She doesn't have the energy to be nervous about her own condition. Neuro looks worried for once.

DAPPER (bill)

“It’s Bill! Try and remember when you wake up!” He fixes his hair. “Don’t worry so much guys, she’s fine for now!”

StanfordPines

“Ya-Yako...? Heh... sweetheart, come on, you should sleep in bed...” he’s really scared, he’s freaking out right now.

Neuro

"...For now, you just said. So you know what's happening."

Yako

Yako is already fast asleep, barely breathing.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Course I do! I’ve seen this more times than there are grains of sand on Earth.” He’s still pretty nonchalant.

StanfordPines

”Bill....” he swallowed hard and kneels down, taking her hand. “Hey, yo-you’ll be okay... you’ll see... we’ll... we’ll go on an adventure, on the stan o war...” his voice cracks as he try’s not to show his panic.

Neuro

"So it's death?" Truthfully, he did not expect it so suddenly and so... lamely. "But why now of all times?"

August 3, 2018

Yako

"Yeah... tomorrow..." She mumbles vaguely to herself, curling into her side. She can feel herself drifting, smiling in her sleep.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Dying but not dying isn’t natural for fragile meatsacks. All that death’s finally catching up to her. She’s still got some time, but this is probably the gentlest path of it happening I foresaw, so you should probably not wake her up. Don’t want Neuri’s human to suffer, do ya?”

Neuro

"Ah... all those instances. The universe is reclaiming it's debt. Shame... she was a good detective." He's not necessarily angry, rather disappointed. Ghosts still existed, no? Perhaps she would return as one. He could be hopeful that god would give him this one mercy. "I suppose it's only right we look for the rest of her family."

StanfordPines

”Stanley.... oh gosh Stanley... Yako was the only one other than the kids keeping him sane and-“ not wanting to kill himself...

Yako

Yako just sighs in her sleep, waking up again. She looks annoyed."Too loud." She announces puffing out her cheeks and getting up. She does not seem to recognise anyone.

DAPPER (Bill)

“Well, so much for the gentle one!” He shrugs, leaning back in his seat.

StanfordPines

to his knowledge he hadn’t been speaking very loudly... he put on a forced watery smile. “So Sorry Yako, do try and sleep again.” He murmured.

Yako

"Dun know 'ow ya know ma name Mister but A ain't sleepin' 'ere." She's just sulking. Strangely seems more energetic than before. "Ya got food?"

StanfordPines

”Um... Yako... I’m your Grandfather... well adopted... tell me... how old are you? You seem to have memory’s missing...”where did this energy come from?

Yako

~"Whaaaaa ya arna grandda 'e's got a mullet and a silly voice. A can copy it!" She clears her voice. "Hey kids and welcome to the MYSTERY SHACK!" She poses dramatically but yelps at her own arm, rubbing it. "Though 'e's been sore recently, 'e 'urt 'is back." She pauses at the question then raises nine fingers, pausing, and adding another. "Ten in three days! We're gonna fix the roof an' 'ave a party!"

StanfordPines

he laughs at the imitation. “I’m his twin brother... Stanley is upstairs he will be down-“ he’s cut off by the creeking of the stairs.

Yako

She gasps really dramatically

StanleyPines

”hey! Pointdexter! I hear someone copying me! Hah! Is that Yako at it again?”He gets to the bottom of the stairs and walks into the room.

Yako

"E 'as a twin!? Awesome! Are ya psychic! Grandda ya never said ya had a twin!"

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill’s just gonna watch this all play out. He’s not messing with time or what’s supposed to happen, he doesn’t care enough to. Actually he would if Neuri wanted him to do something but that’d be difficult to accomplish at this point of the death process.

Neuro

Neuro's going to let Yako spend her last moments with her family. As much as he would like to undo it... even he follows a few of the rules.

StanleyPines

He blinks and looks at her. “Hey Peanut... are you okay? I’m pretty sure I told you about that... the lab under the house?”

Yako

She gasps even louder

StanfordPines

”I’m- im sorry Stan...” he whispers as he stands next to him. “She’s dying...”

Yako

"A LAB!?!?" She is flapping her arms in excitement. "Grandda's so cool! Can A see. A'm gonna see!" She's up like a lightning bolt trying to find the door.

StanleyPines

”the hell you on about?” He hissed back not wanting to believe him. “Hey! Sweetheart! You can look later! Come back in here!”

Yako

~"But A wanna solve the mystery shack mystery!" She's persistent but sulks back when he calls her forward. "When did ya get so grey? Did ya dye ya hair by accident? A thought we were fixin' the roof today?"

StanleyPines

”from what I can see sweetie, is that ya memories are being wonky, going from past to future, but no matter, come sit with me on the couch.””you know how I know? Because you’re not currently 10 years old.”

Yako

"Don' give me science speak secret scientist A shall uncover ya yet!" She announces proudly, marching forward. "Course A'm not ten A'm nine silly." She plops herself onto the couch next to him, kicking her feet back and forth. "But  ma legs really 'urt they're cold!"

StanleyPines

“....lie against me sweetie...”his voice is shaking slightly

Yako

"Sure thing!" She does just that and... seems to fall asleep for the longest time. She is icy to the touch. Her breathing is shallow, and she is barely moving at all. Then she seems to jump awake suddenly, rubbing her head. "Just a bad dream..." She looks around "This isn't my office?"

StanleyPines

“....no, it’s the shack sweetheart.... you okay?”

Yako

She seems startled by the man and jumps away from him, blinking in surprise."I'm terribly sorry sir, I do not know how I got here."

StanleyPines

”Peanut? Are you okay?”

Yako

"P-pardon? Do I know you, sir? As far as I'm aware I just bought my office in London yesterday how on earth did I get here?" She gestures vaguely to the entire building.

StanleyPines

“ya memories are being wackie... ya 25 years old Yako, your in the mystery Shack and I’m ya adopted grandpa.”he wonders how many times he’ll have ya repeat that...

Yako

"I'm terribly sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken. I haven't even turned twenty-one and... my grandfather passed away some time ago. Look if you're trying to con me into some sort of vacuuming business I'm not interested I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself and how the hell do you know my name?"

StanleyPines

he laughs at that, his signature laugh. “I used ta sell vacuums.... I’m telling the truth Peanut. A car knocked ya over sweetie, I was fine, just a concussion and a back that now won’t stop giving out on me.”

Yako

"Look, sir, I don't like this game your playing." She responds, a warning tone to her voice. "But if Dylan sent you over you can kindly tell him that the next time he bothers he his messenger boy is getting a bullet to the head, understand?" She keeps rubbing at her eyes, as though she's tired and she is, trying not to yawn in front of the threat. "And he can keep his murder sprees the hell away from me." She does end up yawning and hates herself for it.

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill appears to be thoroughly amused by this, a smirk on his face as he watches the death play out. To the untrained (and maybe even the trained) eye, he looks like the heartless dick he’s proclaimed himself to be. Beneath that, though, is something entirely different. His well constructed wall of assholery hides a small, grieving voice. He doesn’t care a lot about Yako. She was just another fleshbag about to die. The most important she’d become to him is his boyfriends human. Even so, there are internal tears behind the laugh of amusement he lets out, tears that no one can see or hear. Why, you ask? Why is he feeling this way? He’d never admit it out loud, but this reminds him of the death of his only friend. The death that originally set him off on the path of rejecting reality, the death that eventually caused him to destroy his dimension out of his own denial. Stan’s reaction to this situation.. well, it reminds him of his own. Absolute denial, down to the very end until it’s too late. He wants to tell Stan to tell her goodbye while he still could, but he says nothing, staying silent for the most part aside from the occasional laugh.

StanleyPines

“who the fuck is Dylan?” He grumbled. He didn’t like this, he wants someone to convince her... plus he hasn’t changed that much....

Yako

"You should know he bloody well runs the city god down mobster bastard almost killed me yesterday I swear his aim's improving." She whines more to herself than others, slumping down on the sofa. "Damn, I'm tired.Talk about a shitty start to a shitty day." She tries to rub away the exhaustion but her hand stops midway through reaching for her face. It then slumps back down. Her mumbling falls silent.

StanleyPines

his heart rate picks up, he’s still denying it but it’s getting really clear something is really wrong.

Yako

"I think I saw my grandda today. I know it must be a hallucation, doctor, I've seen lots of them recently. People that aren't there, people that have died or are not real at all. How am I supposed to deal with it?" She leans into the sofa, then lies down on it. "But I'm certain I saw him. He was older and greyer but he had these two kids with him. Mason and Mabel. Yes... like the Gleefuls, but what am I supposed to do? Do I just pretend I haven't seen it at all?"

StanleyPines

”ya really must be hallucinating if ya think I’m a doctor Peanut.”

Yako

"Oh ha ha, real funny. Just don't tell the Gleefuls, I don't want any more canon fodder for Stanford to creep around like the gremlin he is." She grumbles, scratching at her neck. Her skin appears to be crumbling away. "I'm going to try something, just to be sure it's a hallucination. See it was in a mirror in the manor up in the attic. Nothing special about it, but if I can confirm I can't walk through it I should be fine. But if I can... if I can I get to see my grandda again, right?"

DAPPER (Bill)

Yep, Bill laughs some more. The exact opposite of his internal emotions. “You know, I’m enjoying this one far more than the one you all just prevented!”

StanleyPines

He kneels down next to the sofa and strokes her hair. “Of course ya can sweetheart.... he’d love ya see ya...”

Yako

"Yep. I'm going to give it a shot today!" She grins up at the man. It slowly fades still and her eyes slide shut. The skin is clearly paling and crumbling away, disappearing like ash. When she next opens her eyes she looks exhausted. "Hey grandda what's up?"

StanleyPines

he gives a watery laugh, eyes watering... “ya dying pumpkin... ya skin is ash and I’m loosing ya by the minute...” the tears started to fall.”Ya memory has even been through ya deaths from start to now...”His chest was hurting, burning, but he ignored it.

Yako

"Oh." She begins to chuckle. "Out of all the things that would kill me this does it. Talk about a rip off I want a refund." Part of her arm crackles and disappears. She reaches her spare arm out to ruffle his hair. "Hey there don't look so glum you think death will stop my nagging. I'm like a puppy, you can't be rid of me. I'll find a way." She laughs this time. She's sure this is how Neuro almost died, but she doesn't have a back up plan. She didn't expect this at all. Her legs begin to disintergrate. "You'd think they'd have the decency to leave a body this time"

StanleyPines

“....I also think I’m having a heart attack....” he murmured softly face scrunched up in pain...

Yako

"Well shit we need to call a doctor." She uses the last of her strength to grab the phone but Neuro grabs it before her, dialling in the number for an ambulance.

StanleyPines

he could already feel his limbs growing numb/cold. “Hah... I think it’s too late.” He said with a strained smile, his breathing short.

StanfordPines

“Stanley...?!” Ford finally noticed something wrong.

Yako

"Damn it this is supposed to be my dramatic farewell I'll see you in hell moment don't you ruin it by dying first." Oh great now she's crying you were supposed to be fine. "I'm going ahead you bastard. You get to a hospital and get better so I can haunt your ass."

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill didn’t see the heart attack coming, that’s an update. And a clear example of the fact Bill can’t see everything. Huh, this’ll go well.

Neuro

"Yes we appear to have a man at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls having a heart attack literally right now."

StanleyPines

He shakily kisses her forehead. “I have a feeling that the universe won’t survive for long...”

StanfordPines

Ford grabbed his sholder, wishing there was something he could do. “No-no-no-no-NO!” He practically shouted.

Yako

Where he kisses the forehead it begins to crumble. She's trying to stay awake but it's failing to work."Asshole universe."

StanleyPines

”see ya later sweet pea...” he murmured as he felt himself grow weak.

Yako

Her body disintergrates into nothing before them all, leaving behind only the bones of a young child probably eight years old with a cracked skull before that too disappears

DAPPER (Bill)

To keep his mind off feelings he makes a mental note to use this idea in his future disturbing plans.

StanleyPines

“Heh... sorry point dexter... seems my heart can’t take it any more...” He wheezed.

StanfordPines

”Stanley..? Stanley! No!” But it was too late and he was holding his twins body in his arms.... He hugs him close... before a cry of grief rips through him.... he lost two people of his family today... his mind can’t take it....

DAPPER (Bill)

Bills still just watching. He can feel Ford’s sanity ripping away from him- this is also unexpected, but a pleasant form of unexpected for him. He isn’t going to stop it or offer any form of emotional help. This was going to happen eventually anyways.

Neuro

Neuro slowly puts the phone down. He finds himself strongly disliking this universe and joins by Bill's side, offering him a worrisome glance for his reaction earlier.

Dark!Ford

His head shoots up and letting go of his brother he sprints from the room, to the lab door and punches in the code.... he didn’t care for what happened now... he would find Yako.... he would- he would.... HE WAS GOING TO REBUILD THAT PORTAL.

Neuro

"We should leave before he traps us in his destruction."

DAPPER (Bill)

Bill just nods. Yeah, he can see what's gonna happen. "I'm ready when you are, Neuri! Wow, that was a show!"

Neuro

Neuro just grabs Bill by the hand and morphs them out of the danger zone back into the Alpha world.

Dark!Ford

Ford doesn’t stop to take a break. Fiddleford has tried but he ended up throwing a spanner at his head and then breaking down when the man ran away from him. It took him a full week of no sleep or eating to complete the portal once again from scratch and from memory... it was finished. A wild grin with wild eyes looked at the portal... and pulled the leaver.The ground shook and he chuckled slightly... which turned into a laugh and then a blown out cackle as the portal switched fully on.

Dark!Ford

Grabbing his bag, coat and already dressed in his portal clothes, he waited for it to fully open... screw weirdmagedon... he didn’t give a flying fuck anymore.

Dark!Ford

He steps through the portal... First stop, Rick Sanchez... then he would decide from there...

SixerToday at 1:37 AM Time stamp (started at 11:43pm British Summer Time)

-end of Rp- -that universe is dead lol- The Portal destroyed that world, the void ended up consuming it. There was no weirdmagedon as it backfired. Stanford is too far gone to care, but deep in his mind, he is consumed with guilt.

[impishnature]

Life Aboard The Stan’O’War

AO3

Sequel to The Light Keeper The Adventure of A Lifetime, Casper, Fisherman’s Friend, Stay Where I Can See You, Kinship

Rating: T

Summary: The Stan twins are finally setting off on the adventure of a lifetime, both ready to face whatever the sea has to throw at them. Though, sometimes…. it might not be the sea they have to worry about. At least the Stan’O’War will weather whatever storms they find themselves sailing through. Lighthouse Keeper AU.

A series of oneshots.  

AN: Arguments work both ways. And Stan needs to remember he’s not the only one that cares. (Warnings: Self worth issues, intrusive thoughts, nightmares) The next chapter is already up on patreon here. Come check it out!

Part 6: Whispers In The Static

"Will you just let me take a look?!"

The unfortunate thing about caring so much about a person, other than the utter fear of them putting themselves at risk, is that the arguments that flared up when the person you cared about had been in danger were ferocious.

"I already told you I'm fine!"

The other unfortunate thing about caring when there were only two of you in these scenarios, is that no matter how much you wanted to keep them safe, there was a very big probability that they only wanted the same for you.

And that led to situations where no matter what happened, there was definitely going to be one hell of a storm afterwards.

"You are not fine, you- you- knucklehead!" Ford snarled, trying his best to grasp hold of Stan's arm and take a look at the wound that he was gingerly holding to his chest. But his brother wasn't having any of it, shaking his head and pulling back with a scowl as Ford's tirade continued. "Of all the reckless stupid ideas you've had, Stan- what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't, alright?" Stan snapped back, his face sullen and his eyes looking everywhere other than Ford, finally resting to glare at the floor at his feet. "All I knew was that I had to get you out of the way of that- I don't even know what it was."

Ford frowned at the weird tone, the soft almost dark humour that seemed to be lacing Stan's voice. It sent another wave of irritation through him, the concerned fear bubbling up and shifting into heated anger as Stan scoffed in front of him. As if his actions were obvious and Ford was the one acting strange. "Are you even taking this seriously, Stan? Are you?"

"Of course I am. I made sure you didn't get hurt, didn't I?" Stan gave a pained grimace of a smile, all teeth and no bright spark.

It only added fuel to the fiery ire.

It crackled through Ford's chest, the agitated concern burning scorch marks up his throat to heave as smoke and ash from his lips.

...He didn't notice Stan flinch back from the falling embers.

"That's not the point, Stan!" The words exploded forth, his hands moving energetically and wide with every word, quick sharp flickering motions before he shakily ran a hand through his hair, trying hard not to shake the man in front of him. "You know that's not what I meant! I could have- I would have-"

"Would have what? Gotten yourself out of the situation? I wasn't about to take the risk." Stan's face became grim then, sombre in a way that made Ford start to deflate, fire smothered in a thick blanket of unease by the unexpectedly earnestness. "I've told you before, Sixer, I'm not losing you again."

"That doesn't mean throwing yourself into harms way." Ford glared at him, voice tight and contained, his arms tightening around his own chest when his every step forward to try and look at Stan's arm had his twin backing further away from him.

"Doesn't it?"

"No!" Ford's voice cracked halfway through the word, making Stan cringe at the sharp bark. "What could possibly make you think that?"

"I can take it." Stan shrugged, waving his wounded arm towards him. He winced at the movement after only a second, realising his mistake a moment too late as he quickly held it tight to himself instead, the pain obvious even as he tried his best to pretend otherwise. "I mean, better me than yo-"

"Do. Not. Finish. That. Sentence." Ford scrubbed a hand down his face, his eyes stern as they finally locked with Stan's and for a second he thought he saw a flash of fear in them that he couldn't quite fathom.

"Come on, Sixer. It's not like it's a big deal."

"Not a big-?" The remnants of Ford's fire turned to solid ice, sharp, cold, unyielding shards, each one chiming with his distraught disbelief. How could he say that? How could he even think that- He felt something inside him snap as he stood up to his full height, his back ramrod straight as he pointed at his brother. "You-! You don't get to be angry at me for accidentally putting myself in bad situations when you actively run into them!"

"What was I supposed to do? Let it hurt you?"

"Ye-No! I don't know! But just-" Ford growled, pacing as he gestured wildly to try and make sense of his thoughts. "Just try to care about what happens to you as well! I saw your face as you ran towards me, you weren't even- your own safety didn't even cross your mind, did it?" His footsteps faltered as he turned back to watch Stan's reaction to his words. "That's what scares me. You don't even seem to care if you get hurt."

Stan winced at the concerned expression, tugging his eyes away to look out over the water, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Ford saw his lips move, obviously responding but the words didn't carry. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

Ford sighed, his hand running through his hair, mussing through it, as he tried to formulate some kind of response to all of this. "In any case just sit down and let me take a look at that arm-"

"I told you I'm fine."

"And if it was the other way round?" Ford felt the need to stamp his foot, to stomp over and make Stan look after himself but he knew that all he'd do was cause further injury and if he was being honest, he really didn't understand why Stan was being quite so stubborn about this. All he knew was that his brother was hurt and he wasn't letting him help and it ached somewhere deep down, down below all the tumultuous emotions that were rearing their ugly heads. So if he had to play dirty to get him to give in then he'd just have to deal with the guilt of that later, anything was better than... this distance. "If it was me that wasn't letting you help or I'd gone running off into danger, what would you be doing, right now?"

"Well, that would be completely different."

"Different? How would it be different?!" Ford couldn't help but wonder when the tides had changed. Since when had it been him that was all bluster and movement, heated exclamations and wild gestures, whilst his brother stood motionless and quiet, withdrawn and cold.

Since when had his brother not faced everything face on, even him? Why wouldn't he even look at him?

"Because it would be you. And like I've already said better me than-"

"No. No, we're not going- I'm not having that." Ford took a deep breath. His anger was getting the better of him. He couldn't think straight, couldn't get his words to line up into actual sentences to address the glaring issue in this conversation. Nothing he said was getting through to his brother, it was all bouncing off and he couldn't think up the right words to say to get through the armour his brother was needlessly building up around himself. He didn't understand. Why is he doing this? "I need a minute to cool off." He let the breath out in a long hiss, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat, though considering it hadn't really stopped thudding painfully since he'd seen his brother leap in front of him and take the brunt of an attack that hadn't been meant for him, he wasn't sure any attempts he made would be successful. "I'll be back- don't... don't do anything reckless while I'm not looking, alright?"

He hadn't meant to say anything, but the frustration was getting to him, the sarcastic remark dripping like poison and he regretted the words almost as soon as they fell from his lips and Stan's face shifted, locking down right in front of him.

And then the look vanished, a deep set frown and stubborn gaze sparked back up across from him. "No, wait- you can't leave, we've talked about that before. I'm not letting you walk away from this, we've got to talk things out remember?"

"Talk what out, Stan? You're not even listening to me." Ford sighed, shrugging in dismal defeat. "I just need a moment. That's all."

Silence followed in his wake as he walked away, Stan not even trying to argue as he left and for some reason that sent off more warning bells than anything else in Ford's head. Something wasn't right, he didn't get it- nothing made sense.

Stan didn't let things go, didn't let things drop away and fester, especially not after that first fight. Yet here he was, just accepting it, somehow knowing not to push Ford further on this point and even though he was grateful for that, something about it set his teeth on edge.

Why was Stan doing this? Why wouldn't he let him help?

He almost didn't want to let Stan out of his sight, and inside that protective feeling something nagged at him desperately, deep in his core, like he had forgotten something important.

A heavy sigh echoed behind him, just as he was closing the door. He kept it slightly ajar, assuming Stan thought he was on his own, wondering if he'd say anymore.

His actions were rewarded when the wind blew across the deck and sad pained words slipped through the crack in the door.

"Idiot. Just can't do anything right today, can you?"

Ford found himself pacing again once he was alone, eyes scanning for some kind of sign around the cabin, something to aid him when he went back out to discuss things with his brother.

Anything to make him understand what was going on.

He closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath as he willed his mind back, retracing through the day step by step. The argument was a given, sometimes people acted oddly and he knew as much as he hated it Stan would always rather it was him that got hurt instead of Ford. So, him acting up then and trying to hide how injured he was almost made sense, logically, but there was something about the day in general that heightened the feeling that Ford shouldn't let him brush the whole affair aside like he obviously wanted to.

Something else was going on and he needed to get to the bottom of it.

So he continued watching the day in reverse. Before the creature had even been a sliver on the horizon something had been off, though he hadn't really noticed it until late. Stan couldn't seem to focus on the tasks at hand. He'd seemed more withdrawn, less observant. If it hadn't been for the sudden attack from the side of the boat, Ford had been ready to try and drag him into a conversation in the hopes of getting him back with him in the real world.

Now he thought about it, he wasn't even sure he'd heard any jokes from him that morning, not even an attempt at one.

"Idiot. Just can't do anything right today, can you?"​

Ford frowned deeply, the words still circling over and over in his head. Ever since he'd heard them uttered he'd been trying to solve the puzzle. Stan had accidentally knocked over an experiment in the morning, was that what he was referring too? Sure, he'd been upset, that venom had been quite an ordeal to obtain and Stan knew as much but really, he'd been far more fretful that Stan had got some on him when the beaker smashed than actually angry at him. They could always get more, that really wasn't an issue when it came between that and his brother's well being. But Stan hadn't seemed to think that, he'd been overly apologetic, stuttering promises that he hadn't meant to do it before going utterly quiet once Ford assured him it was fine, his face downtrodden.

Now Ford thought on it, he realised that for whatever reason, Stan hadn't believed him.

And because of that one mistake, Stan had made more and more. Fumbled notes and almost scattered them, stumbled over ropes and items on the deck as if he hadn't even seen them. Small hissing curses that Ford had hardly listened to but now seemed more evident as something he should have been paying close attention to.

"Idiot. Useless. What are you doing?"​

And still Ford knew there was something he'd forgotten, something important-

His eyes fell on the fairy lights that adorned the cabin.

And spat a colourful string of curses as he darted for the door, the dim twinkling lights dancing across his retinas.

That was what he'd forgotten.

That morning when he'd woken, the lights had seemed that little bit off colour, just a tad duller and just a bit more unnatural, like a smile that didn't reach the eyes and hid a well of emotions behind it.

He'd wondered if Stan had had a nightmare, or whether it was just an off day but decided it might be best not to bring it up, that he'd only keep a watchful eye, or try and help however he could if Stan seemed to slip into a quieter day than usual.

And then the venom had been spilled and all those thoughts had been driven straight from his head to be replaced by a frantic mantra to make sure his brother was physically OK. The sigh of relief when he came to the conclusion that his twin was unharmed, even as he became withdrawn, his eyes glazing over and his teeth worrying his lip, was still enough to make him lose all track of what he had been doing, all his plans vanishing in the breeze to be replaced by a false and lethal calm.

His brother might have been physically OK, but emotionally? He'd already been on a slippery slope before that moment and it had all gone downhill, snowballing quickly and he hadn't even noticed.

You're the idiot! This kind of behaviour is what you should have been watching out for!

And now? Now as he bolted for the door, eyes darting quickly around the deck to find his brother's silhouette, the fairy lights were flickering, wavering on and off, on and off, each time just that tiny bit dimmer than before.

He'd known them get bad before, he knew as strange as it sounded, how in tune they were with his brother, and usually he could keep track, check on them and then check on his brother and make sure that the sparks didn't go out entirely. He'd bring his brother back to the present and make him laugh or at least smile, try and coax him into conversations until the world was righting itself again and the fairy lights were back, bright as they should be.

...He wasn't sure he'd ever let the lights get that bad before.

He heaved a sigh of relief, footsteps clipped and loud as he caught sight of Stan and instantly found himself racing towards him, thoughts of the earlier argument far from his head when his brother needed him. Stan didn't seem to notice though, his eyes locked far out to sea, his trusty radio beside him spitting out nothing but white noise though he wasn't phased enough to do anything about it, leaning listlessly against the railing, his injured arm hanging limp at his side.

"Stan?"

No response.

Ford gulped, though not unlike before when Stan had intentionally ignored him, he could tell this time that wasn't the case. The look almost reminded him of another time, a far far colder time when he'd watched his brother almost give up entirely and had had to drag him back from the precipice that he himself had caused.

He shouldn't have left Stan alone today.

The white noise sounded sharper, a static crackle snapping through and Stan had just enough focus to flinch at it, eyes closing for a second slowly before reopening and scanning the water with a sharp intake of breath.

Ford didn't know what was going through his head, but he knew that it shouldn't go on any longer.

"Stan? Stan, come on, listen to me." Ford bit his lip when nothing happened, when his pleas fell on deaf ears and for a moment he thought back to his panic attack, tried to remember what exactly it was that Stan had done to ground him and remind him he was actually there with him-

It hit him like a freight train and without thought he did the only thing that came to mind and dropped his hand on Stan's shoulder.

Stan jumped high, spinning in one fluid movement, eyes wide and shocked before he came down from the sudden adrenaline rush and realised who it was. "Jesus, Sixer! Don't sneak up on me like that, I could have-"

"I didn't sneak up on you. I've been stood here calling you."

"O-Oh." Stan's eyes didn't lose their fearful glaze, the smile winding around it all, twisted and unnatural as he tried, unsuccessfully, to shake off whatever had been going through his head. "Sorry- must have... dozed off or something."

Ford bit the inside of his mouth, desperately wanting to let the relief that Stan was responding to him take over but he knew he needed to nip this in the bud now, knew they needed to get this off their chests before Stan withdrew again and his thoughts spiralled to where Ford couldn't reach them. "Stan, talk to me."

Stan frowned, the smile vanishing to what Ford assumed was meant to be innocent confusion. "Talk to-? I am talking to you, Sixer, what do you think I'm doing?"

"You're not though!" Ford gripped his shoulder tighter, only pulling away when a pained hiss left Stan's lips. "You're not- Not really! You won't let me help you-"

"If this is about my arm-"

"It's not just about your arm." Ford's words were quiet but managed to cut through Stan's argument like butter. "You aren't letting me in. You won't talk to me about whatever is obviously eating away at you, you won't let me physically look after you- why? Why won't you let me in, Stan? We promised we'd talk things through- you- you promised you'd wake me if you had any more nightmares."

Stan's eyes locked down again then, his mouth a thin line as he pondered Ford's words and he almost worried for a second that the split second assumption he'd made was all wrong when-

"I woke you then?"

Any trace of Stan's fake smile had vanished, his eyes once again skirting over Ford's face before dropping away entirely and staring out to sea, visibly deflating. He looked vulnerable, smaller, and Ford hated it. He found himself abruptly needing to be closer and latched himself to Stan's side in a moment of solidarity, his protective instinct flaring too brightly to be ignored.

"I'm sorry- I didn't mean to wake you. It wasn't even that bad a nightmare, it just stayed with me a bit. And then I messed up this morning and-" Stan let out his breath in a wobbly hiss that almost sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry."

"Shhhh." Ford leant up against him, not knowing what else to do and felt Stan lean just as heavily back as if he was struggling to keep himself afloat and welcomed the support. Ford was happy to give as much as was needed, becoming an anchor for Stan's tempestuous thoughts. "It's OK. You didn't wake me, I just- I guessed."

Stan snorted, low and incredulous. "Smart guess."

Ford gave a quick smile, though it fell flat in the moment. "That's not what matters. What matters is that something's been eating away at you and you didn't wake me."

Stan shrugged again. "As I said it wasn't that bad a dream. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"But?"

"But..."

Stan's words fizzled to nothing and Ford felt himself go adrift with them, not knowing where to land to keep them both on course. There were no stars to navigate this conversation, no pinpoints to focus on to keep it moving. He knew he had to be ready but he didn't know which way the winds were blowing, didn't know how best to react and resolve the situation to keep them both afloat.

...He just had to hope he could sail against the tides and find dry land.

"It just... festered? I- I dunno, I know that it wasn't that bad a dream and yet i just couldn't- can't seem to shake it." Stan shuddered, the warmth against him appreciatively solid and pressing as Ford leaned even closer. "And I just kept proving the dream right. Over and over again. Mistake after mistake after-"

"Stan, you haven't done anything wrong- not really." Ford tilted his head against Stan's shoulder, hearing a grateful shaky breath as Stan nudged him back. "Everyone makes mistakes-"

"I just seem to make a lot of them."

Ford frowned at that, unable to see where Stan had gotten that idea from. "What on earth- you don't make a lot of mistakes, Stan."

"Have you seen me today? I'm on fire with how many things can go wrong. Walking disaster area." Stan snorted, shaking his head and pulling away. "First with your experiment, then messing up every day tasks with the boat, then not being able to get you away from that- that thing in time." His hand gripped the railing tightly, eyes sharp and disgusted as he spat out the words.

"But you- you did get me away."

"No, you were right." Stan deflated slightly, not able to look at Ford, staring at his rippling reflection in the water instead. "I just- if I was any good at my job I'd have got you out of there without getting myself hurt. I left it too late, if I'd just-"

"Stan, it's not your job to keep me safe." Ford pulled away to look at him properly, trying to catch his eye and failing miserably.

"Isn't it-"

Ford growled when Stan's eyes started to glaze over, trying to drag him back. "And you can't think about 'what if's' like that, it'll drive you- it'll never end, that kind of thinking. You know that, I know you do."

Stan heaved a deep sigh, world weary and exhausted. "I know, I know- but I can't help it right now." His eyes flicked sideways, catching Ford's for a moment. "Not when-"

"When?"

Stan huffed, irritation bleeding through. "I dunno, just not when I keep proving the thoughts right."

The strangled disagreeing noise that left Ford's throat made Stan flinch beside him. "You do not. You've made a few mistakes today- so what? I know I've made a few too! Remember when I brought the map out on deck to check something and the wind took it away from me?"

"Yeah but-"

"But nothing!" Ford nodded vehemently, before settling again against him, a small frown returning after the quick victorious smile at making Stan be quiet but attentive. "And I don't think I was right, not if that's what you took from it."

"Hmm?"

"You seem to think that- oh, I don't know? That I'm angry at you because you weren't fast enough?" He felt Stan's breathing hush at the words and pain blossomed thick and fast at the obvious accusation. "No! I was angry because you didn't even seem to care about getting hurt. It was like it didn't matter at all."

"It didn't-"

"It mattered to me! And it should matter to you!"

"That's the thing, Sixer, I don't get why it does."

Ford's breath came out in an ice cold fog, Stan's head snapping around at the pained noise, eyes wide and panicked at what had just come forth from his mouth.

"That's what scares me. You don't even seem to care if you get hurt."

This time he could read Stan's lips, hindsight cutting through him painfully at just what he had missed.

"I don't get why you do."

"I-"

"Shi- ignore- ignore I said that. I didn't mean to say that." Stan groaned, rubbing his face with his hands, almost as if he'd forgotten or didn't care about how much it hurt to do so, and letting them stay there in a fit of self-loathing. "God damn it, I didn't mean to say that." And yet the words seemed to blossom up unbidden, no matter how much he tried to squash them, continuing on as if they were bleeding out of him and he couldn't stem the flow. "I mean- it's the only thing I'm good at. Looking after you, rolling with the punches. I can take the hits, I'm fine with taking the hits. It's what I'm meant to do-"

"It's not!" Ford's hands tightened around Stan's wrists, trying to tug them away from his face. "It's not what you're meant to do. You're- this isn't a job, Stan! I didn't ask you to come sailing with me as some kind of- bodyguard? Is that what you think this is?" He searched Stan's face, trying to catch a glimpse through his fingers. "Cause it's not, I can assure you it's not. I asked you to sail with me because I wanted to sail with you- I wanted to go adventuring with my brother like we always said we would."

Ford breathed a sigh of relief as Stan's eyes poked through the holes his fingers made, the look grounded again and desperately hopeful.

"Yeah?"

"Of course, knucklehead."

The next words made the soft smile on Ford's face drop again though.

"It's just... sometimes I wonder why you'd want to be out here with me at all."

"Oh. Oh, Stan."

Stan winced again, flinched as arms wrapped tight around him, dragging him in for a warm hug that he didn't reciprocate straight away.

"Stan, how could you think that? How could you think I wouldn't want to be here?"

"It's not that I don't - I'm just waiting for you to realise how bad an idea it was."

Ford huffed, tightening his hold. "Well, that's not happening. Not ever. No matter how many arguments or silly mishaps, the good days are so so much more amazing than anything else. You hear me?" He knew deep down that Stan couldn't agree in that moment, couldn't think past the bad, but maybe, just maybe, he could make this day a little bit better.

"You sure?"

"Definitely. Always. Never gonna change." Ford gave a happy hum as Stan's arms finally wrapped around him in return. "This is everything I hoped it would be." Stan snorted against him and he couldn't help laughing in return. "OK, maybe not right now, but the trip in general? Everything I hoped it would be and I wish we'd- no, I'm glad we have the chance to at all." He tilted his head to Stan's, closing his eyes and smiling brightly. "All because of you. Remember that. We'd never be here if it wasn't for you."

"...I'm sorry."

"Hmm?"

"Just- I'm sorry, just being-" Stan tried to pull away, the crackle of the radio making him flinch again as he wiped his eyes. "Stupid- getting emotional over a nightmare for god's sake-"

"There's a reason I asked you to come tell me about them and that's because they're never just nightmares." Ford tightened his hold again as Stan tried to pull away, a bold dismissal of the movements. "And you don't need to be sorry for that." He waited for Stan to respond at all, the silence beginning to unnerve him as the radio static hissed and fizzed. "Stan?" His movements had stopped and so Ford chanced moving away slightly, catching sight of Stan's glazed expression and shaking him firmly with a soft curse. He hoped he hadn't said the wrong thing to make him sink back into his wayward thoughts again. "Stan?"

Stan jumped, shaking his head as he zoned back in on Ford. "S-sorry. Thought I heard something."

"Heard something?"

Stan continued to shake his head, a hollow laugh escaping him as his grip on Ford's coat wavered. "Nothing, must be hearing things. Couldn't get that blasted radio to find a channel and every so often I keep catching the odd word and nothing else." His smile wobbled as Ford continued to stare at him, not buying the dismissal. "Thought... thought I heard you at one point. But it must have just been that nightmare rearing it's head again..."

"Well that's enough of that then." Ford flicked the radio off swiftly, the white noise silenced with a sharp click. "There, much better." He grinned brightly though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "See? I'm right here, not some whisper in the radio. Flesh and blood here." He tapped Stan's shoulder playfully. "Again, cause of you."

Stan rolled his eyes, a huff of embarrassment escaping through the desperate relief he was trying to hide. "Shut it with that sappy stuff."

"Nope. Never." Ford's smile grew more genuine as Stan kept hold of him, the solid presence obviously a safety net which he was happy to comply with. Behind his eyes, his mind span quickly, taking note of what Stan needed, taking note of what to look out for to make sure the bad days never got this bad again.

It didn't matter if they argued, just like Stan would never give him the silent treatment again, he knew now that Stan needed to know he was really there with him when his mind played tricks and lashed out at him.

All they wanted to do was look after one another.

And he was so desperate to make sure that happened, and to make Stan realise just how much he was worth.

He'd do that. He had to.

"What do you say to no more work today?"

"No more work?"

"Yeah." Ford smiled, tugging Stan with him as he moved. "The kids sent us some videos on the laptop, remember? What do you say to curling up for the rest of the day and watching some?"

"But what about-"

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait until tomorrow."

Ford smiled as Stan blinked a few times before following suit, a bright happy smile reflecting back at him. "You sure?"

"Positive. Besides, you've still got to let me take a look at your arm, that's far more important than anything else is right now." Ford tugged at his uninjured arm as Stan seemed ready to protest. "Nothing you can say will make me believe otherwise. You are my priority, end of, you understand?"

"...Thanks, Sixer." The words were hushed, awed gratitude there that didn't sit well with Ford.

"You don't need to thank me." Ford sniffed, looking over his shoulder with a small smile. "I'm just looking after my bro, like he always looks after me."

If Stan's bright watery-eyed smile made him feel warm and proud for having finally got through to him, he didn't say anything, too glad that the moment was happening at all to break it in anyway.

He also didn't mention, even as his smile grew brighter and the tension bled away from his shoulders, the distinct warm glow from the fairy lights as they entered the cabin.

All that matters was that they were shining again, maybe not yet completely back to normal, but getting there.

That was all he could ask for, he'd make sure they were glowing proudly soon enough.

And he'd make sure they never got to that dismal state ever again.

.

AN: Not going to lie, I was going to do this oneshot and the other argument one as a present for Ran’s bday... And then it all felt too angsty on it’s own so you got fluff piles like the last oneshot and the Ghost town to make it a bit more of a mixed bag.

But dang did I have fun with the imagery in this one and the other argument. The other one was all cold fear and logic whereas this one was more heated concern. [coughs] I’m a terrible person who loves this.  At least its not actually anomalies and more... consequences of everything else showing through. They can fix all this <3 that’s what family does after all ^^

[apathetic-revenant]

now you see it all (part 1)

uhh...right.

I guess if fanfic is what it takes to hack depressive brain into writing, who am I to argue

anyway this went on a bit so I’m just going to throw the first part out there and...we’ll see how that goes. takes place in the immediate aftermath of Weirdmageddon, so, spoilers, obviously. 

(title is from this R.E.M. song. cause I might as well do that, if I’m writing fanfic anyway.)

After everything she had been through over the past week, Wendy Corduroy wouldn't have thought anything could freak her out any more, much less something as innocent as an old house in the woods at twilight. But the way the fading light and the long shadows of the trees fell on the ruin of the Mystery Shack, the way the crumbled building looked as if it had sat abandoned in the forest for years, the eerie silence and stillness unbroken by any apparent signs of life-it all put a cold twinge in her stomach.

She didn't know what she was going to find here.

And God, the Shack was a wreck. Well, not real surprising, she told herself; they did turn it into a giant mecha and fight a-demon? Demigod? Really pissy walking trigonometry? Whatever. But everything else in town seemed to have...snapped back, like nothing had ever happened. They were all still battered and bruised, but the town didn't show a hint of having been turned into a demonic weirdscape and run roughshod over for the better part of a week. She guessed she'd been figuring-or maybe just hoping-that the Shack would be back to normal as well. It was in the right place, at least, and it was considerably more house-shaped than it had been the last time she saw it, but it looked like it'd been hit by a wrecking ball or three.

She honked the horn of the van a few times before hopping out, leaving the headlights on to stare sadly at the ruined porch. There were no lights on in the Shack, but then again, there probably weren't any lights in the Shack at this point, at least not ones that were connected to anything useful. Didn't mean anything. But it would have been very nice if there was some kind of sign that someone was there.

“Hello?” she called, trying to swallow down the cold feeling that was creeping up from her stomach into her throat. “Anyone home?”

For a moment there was no response, and she started to think that-but then a couple of small figures came to the door and her heart turned over. “Wendy?”

“Guys!”

Then she was running, and they were running, and they all met halfway in some kind of uncoordinated assault-embrace, everyone hugging each other in an arrangement that made up for in enthusiasm what it lacked in dignity. And no, she was not crying, she was just happy to have found them both alive, and Mabel's particularly intense hugging was making her eyes water a bit, dang that girl was strong.

Somewhere around then she noticed the awkward look on Dipper's face and hastily disentangled herself, realizing that this might be a bit of a difficult situation considering, well, things. Poor guy already nearly died of embarrassment about fifty times a week. But then he let out a quiet “owwww” and rubbed at his side, and she realized that for once his discomfort had an entirely different source.

“Oops,” she said, grinning rather sheepishly. “Bit sore, huh?”

“Bit,” he admitted. “I forgot about Bill dropping us on the floor...and, uh, well, there were a lot of things, really-”

“Whoa, hey. You guys are okay, right?” Priorities, Wendy. Scene isn't clear yet.“What did he do to you? Are you-”

“We're okay,” they both said, but there was something a little...flat about it. Which didn't sound right at all, coming from these two.

“Everyone's accounted for back in town,” she told them. “Everyone's-well, not uh, not okay, exactly, but there's no casualties. Somehow. But you guys just up and vanished, man! Soos ran off to find you but he didn't come back and we were all super concerned for you-I mean, we don't really know what happened, but we know you all had something to do with it. You're, like, heroes, man!”

She knew that much. She knew because she remembered-something. She had seen something, witnessed something, but trying to think about that meant she had to think about where, exactly, she was when it was happening, and-and she thought it would be best if she never thought about that again.

It didn't matter because she didn't have to think about that to know that the Pines family had saved the day. She knew that because she knew them.

The twins were looking at each other guiltily. “We've...been here,” Dipper said. “We didn't think about-”

“Hey, it's okay, dude! I'm just glad to know you're all okay. Uh. You...are all okay, right...?”

The way they hesitated made the cold feeling suddenly rise up all over again, like she'd just swallowed a stomach full of ice cubes.

“We're all going to be okay,” Mabel said, with a kind of desperate determined optimism that didn't sit well with Wendy, not compared to the girl's usual effortless, boundless cheer.

“Well,” she said slowly, trying to figure all this out, “that's...good-?”

“Kids?”

They all jumped, spooking like scared rabbits at the little noise. Boy, had it been a long week.

Someone else had come to the doorway of the Shack (that was all it was, she realized just now, a doorway, no door in sight) and for a moment when she looked up at him Wendy thought-but no, it wasn't Stan, of course not, the silhouette was all wrong. Stan was a big guy, big barrel chest, big paunch, big voice, big personality, at least when he thought people were looking. Stan took up space. Stan's brother-not like she knew him real well, or at all, really, but she figured he could take up space too. He was tall like Stan and you could kind of tell he had the same big block chest even if the rest of him was all lean and compact, and he could certainly draw attention like Stan, although his technique was less hey folks look at me I'm the most interesting thing in the room and more I could blow something up at any moment.

But the man leaning against the doorframe, squinting into the light from the car, seemed...small. All slumped and scrunched up, all folded in on himself, like he was trying to collapse himself out of existence. And maybe Wendy didn't know him real well but she knew that that couldn't bode well for anyone.

“Hey,” she said, waving like everything was normal and good and cool and the air wasn't full of horrible uncomfortable silence. “I just came by to check up on you guys-well, I came by to find you guys, actually. Everyone's kind of like, uh. Looking for you.” She felt a bit guilty saying that to his face because, truthfully, people were worried about the kids and about Stan but no one had said much of anything about Stan's brother. Except Old Man McGucket, but no one understood him anyway.

Still, even with that in mind she didn't expect him to stare back at her like she was speaking some language he didn't get and say, “...Why?”

This was not the expected reaction. She gaped back at him. “Uh, cause you're, like, the heroes of the hour, man? And we're all super worried about you cause we couldn't find you in town with everyone else? And-” She caught that last one just in time because nope, nope, nope, she was not going to say, not right here and right now, that she and a whole lot of other people who didn't want to say it out loud either had thought that maybe this whole victory had been, what was the word? Pyrrhic. That whatever had taken him out had taken them out too, that they had all gone down together like the monster and the wizard in that movie.

“Oh.” Something seemed to occur to him and he straightened a little bit, pulling himself up against the doorframe. “Everyone else? Is-is everyone-”

“Everyone's fi- everyone's alive, man. We all just sorta...poofed back into town like nothing happened. We did a headcount and everyone's there. Even that weird little gnome guy.”

Ford sagged back down in relief. “I didn't even think about...I should have. I should have-”

“Whoa, dude.” She wasn't sure if she liked Ford but she didn't like the way that tone of voice was headed. “It's okay. I'm just glad I found you. But, um.” She looked around at the three of them and she didn't want to say it but it had to get said eventually.

“Where's Stan?”

And there it was. The looks on their faces, the hesitation, the way they all traded glances like no one wanted to be the one to say it, whatever it was, and the ice cubes were back.

“He's fine,” Mabel said. “He's...he's going to be...”

“He's inside,” Ford said, very quietly. “Resting.”

He didn't say anything else, so she took a deep breath and started walking, because clearly whatever it was she was going to have to see for herself. Not dead. Alright. She could work with that. Whatever it was, she could work with it. After everything they'd gotten through, they could get through this. Surely.

She imagined all the worst things she could as she walked up onto the porch, trying to swallow them all down, trying to prepare herself: injury, disfigurement, blood, things missing, things twisted. Instead she saw Stan sitting comfortably in his old armchair, holding a book. Soos was sitting on the floor next to him, looking like he'd been crying, but aside from that about the most horrible unsettling thing she could see was that Stan's bowtie was undone.

So what the hell?

She let out her breath all at once. “Hey, Mr. Pines!”

He blinked and turned towards her, and-

Something was wrong, she knew, she felt it in the pit of her stomach, even before he smiled uncertainly and said, “Uh...hello. Do I know you?”

“That's...that's not very funny, Mr. Pines,” she said, trying to be angry, frustrated like you always had to be a little bit when you were dealing with Stan, but her voice cracked on the way out.

What was worse was the look on his face, which was not anything like Stan. Not angry, not grousing, not that little spark of mischief in the eye. He just looked like a little kid who'd been told off and didn't know why.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

She whipped her head around and stared at Ford, who was still in the doorway.

“He's lost his memory,” Ford said heavily. He didn't turn around. “He...it should be...he's remembering some things already. So I have hope...”

She kept staring at him. Behind her, she heard Soos saying, “That's Wendy, Mr. Pines. She works for you.”

“Oh, like you do?”

“Yeah! See, here she is in this picture...”

“How?” Wendy said. Probably she should be more tactful right now but screw it, she didn't have it in her, not now. “Did he hit his head, or...”

“No.” She could tell by the very definite way Ford said it that she'd hit on something there. Abruptly he turned his head and looked at her with an intensity so strong and sudden she almost took a step back. The glare of the headlights made all the lines of his face harsh and stark and he looked somewhat more like she thought he was supposed to, but also somehow not.

“Listen,” he said, like he was giving her the most important information in the world. “When you go back to town, tell them-tell everyone...it was Stan. He saved us. He's the hero. You have to tell them that.”

Wendy looked at him, propped up in the doorway and staring at her like all their lives depended on what he had just told her-looked at Stan in his chair, looking at the scrapbook like a kid, looking small, while beside him Soos sat on the floor with his eyes all rimmed red and exhaustion ground into his face-looked at the kids on the porch standing close to each other all bruised and beaten up and still putting monumental effort into being brave-looked at this whole family scattered around the ruins of their home, all desperate and determined and battered and tired and lost-and right then she made an executive decision.

“Tell them yourself,” she said. “I'm taking you guys back to town with me.”

Everyone looked at her. Ford frowned like he couldn't quite process the words. “Er...”

“Dude, you guys can't stay here!” The looks on all their faces made it clear they hadn't really considered this. Somehow. “This place is like, condemned. And you all look one hundred percent done for. I mean, do you have any food here? Running water? Lights?”

The kids and Soos- so, basically, the kids-all spoke up at once in protest. “We're not leaving the Shack!” “It's our home!” “We can't just give up on it now-”

“Whoa, whoa, time out.” She held her hands up and waited for them to stop. “Calm down, guys, I don't mean, like, forever. Just for tonight. Everyone here looks like they need a square meal and like, two days of sleep. So come back with me-I stole Thompson's van, so we should all fit-and we'll get you put up somewhere and then we can see about fixing up the shack when we're all in better shape, okay?”

There was a round of looks exchanged among the family. Finally Ford-who evidently was the current reigning Responsible Adult, if only by default-said, “That's...probably the best idea, under the circumstances.”

Wendy sighed in relief. “Okay. So-”

“Wait-I-have-to-get-some-stuff!” Mabel ran past, almost bowling Wendy over. Dipper followed her, a little less energetically; it looked like they were making for the attic, or whatever was left of it.

“Be careful up there!” Ford called after them. “This house is not very structurally stable at the moment!”

There was no response. Wendy rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Mr. Pines,” Soos said. His usual Soos-ness seemed a bit forced, but he was trying. “How about we get you into the van?”

“I'm an amnesiac, Soos, not an invalid,” Stan griped. “What, are you gonna get me a walker next?”

Wendy almost cried.

“What?” Stan demanded, glaring back at her. “What are you looking at?”

She had to swallow hard a few times before she was able to grin back at him like this was all normal, another day in the Shack trading barbs with her cranky crusty grouchy wonderful boss who maybe wasn't completely gone after all. “Maybe a walker would be a good idea,” she said, catching Soos's eye. “You are, like, a senior citizen, man.”

Stan narrowed his eyes at her. “How much do I pay you?” he said. “Because however much it is, it's too much.”

Wendy started laughing, and somehow she couldn't seem to stop, not the whole time Soos escorted Stan out to the van, Stan clutching the scrapbook like a life preserver and looking at her like she was crazy, which, she supposed, she was a bit right now. She followed them out on the porch and sat down on the edge, still giggling a little.

From the corner of her eye she saw Ford come away from where he had moved out of the doorway and slowly sit down on the opposite side of the steps. He moved-well, the phrase like an old man came to mind, but not much like this particular old man. One of the only times she'd seen Ford out and about in the Shack, he had come running into the gift shop chasing something or other that had gotten free, and by the time she had watched him chase it out into the yard and up a tree before punching it to the ground, jumping on it, and wrestling it into submission, she had enough evidence to conclude that however old the guy might have been, he was in better shape than some lumberjacks she knew.

Right now, though, he was clearly not doing so hot. It was hard to tell in the bad light, but he seemed drawn and pale, and one hand was clamped to his side. Well, he had spent a lot of time this past week as a gold statue. That probably couldn't be good for anyone's well-being.

She wasn't sure, really, what to think about him. She hadn't been, ever since he'd turned up. Not that she'd ever gotten the whole story about him, exactly, but she knew the gist of it; Soos had gone on about it for like two days, which was enough time for even Soos to make some kind of sense. She knew he was Stan's twin brother, who had gotten...lost, or something, because of some crazy experiment, and Stan had spent thirty years trying to replicate that to get him back. He'd even taken his brother's identity, which honestly didn't really faze her much because she'd pretty much always assumed that Stan was operating under at least one false identity, probably more like three or four.

She knew the two of them were estranged because anyone could see that. Not that she really got all the why behind that, but she knew Stan had been kicked out of his home when he was a kid over it. Soos had cried for about half an hour when he told her that part. She knew from Dipper's rather manic ramblings on the subject that the experiment was dangerous, and that made Ford angry, angry that Stan would risk that danger even to bring him back. And she knew that had to be a sore, sore point between them because it had, after all, very nearly doomed the entire world.

Her instinct was to not like Ford very much for that, mostly because she liked Stan. It was sort of hard to not like Stan in some way, once you actually got to know him and not just the bluster and gruffness and sleazy showmanship. He had given her a job, a place to be, at a time when she had very much needed to not be at home; and as much as he groused and threatened to fire her about five times a day and sometimes threw newspapers at her, he really wasn't that bad of a boss. Alright, and not just because of the amount of slacking off she could get past him.

Because...when she'd first started working at the Shack she'd been-well, not careful, exactly, but snide, keeping her retorts under her breath and her eyerolls behind his back, hiding it all away like she was supposed to, until one day when everything was especially bad he'd turned to her and said, “Look, kid, I don't care if you wanna be insolent. Just put some effort into it, fer cryin' out loud.”

She'd stared at him, hating him, hating herself, hating everything in the whole stupid mean pointless world, and right then she'd let fly with a tirade of the foulest, angriest, most insulting language she knew. It lasted five minutes and at the end of it Stan cackled and gave her a soda and some tips on how to really curse someone out.

He cared about people. She knew that much, for all that he tried to hide it. She knew he cared about her because of the way he had said, once, very quietly, almost shyly, “I know what it's like. To miss someone,” and then suddenly gave her a bone-crunching hug which he would forevermore deny had ever happened. She knew he cared about Soos because every time his birthday came around and he slunk into work all quiet and morose Stan would fire off a constant stream of the absolute worst jokes of all time until the handyman couldn't help but crack a smile. She knew he cared about the kids because-well, anyone could see that.

And she knew he had to care about his brother, to have spent so long working to bring him back. Thirty years-that was her whole life twice over. She could barely get her head around that. Alright, so maybe it was dangerous, but c'mon, this was Gravity Falls; if Stan wasn't threatening to destroy the universe, something else would pick up the slack by next week.

So she'd not been too sure about this brother, about the way he treated Stan, the way any mention of him seemed to make Stan clam up and hunch in on himself and look old and tired and sad. Not that she said anything about it-the kids loved their new grunkle, especially Dipper who was in total awe of the mysterious Author. It wasn't her place to ruin that, and it wasn't like anyone had asked her anyway.

But whatever she thought about him, right now the guy looked so utterly, thoroughly miserable that it was impossible not to feel bad for him.

“Hey,” she said, and then faltered, realizing that she wasn't really sure what to call him. She knew his name, of course-except even that was weird, because it was Stan's name, which was not in fact Stan's name after all-but just calling him Ford felt a little off, a name that wasn't really hers to use because that was the sort of name that always had “my brother” or “my uncle” lingering somewhere in front of it. And she wasn't about to call him Mr. Pines because Mr. Pines was in the van arguing with Soos and she wasn't going to give that name to anyone else.

Mr. Stan's Jerk Brother? Dr. Pines? That was what Soos called him and it was probably her best bet, although imitating Soos was always a risky endeavor. He didn't look like any kind of doctor but he was definitely a Smart Guy so he had probably picked up the right to use the title somewhere or other.

Okay. Dr. Pines.

And maybe, if she had not been exhausted and punchdrunk on stress and adrenaline and caught somewhere between giddy relief and devastation, she would have actually said that like a sensible person, instead of just up and saying, “Hey. Count Rugen.”

dammit dammit dammit NO that was NOT it that was NOT the right thing to say

She waited for him to be angry but he just stared at her in total, blank confusion. “I'm sorry?”

Wendy did some quick math in her head. “Right. I guess you missed that movie.”

Ford sighed and folded up a little bit more. “I missed a lot of things.”

Oh god, oh god, this was just getting worse and worse. “Forget I said that!” she blurted out, a little too loudly. Ford was looking more and more lost by the moment. “What I meant was...I mean...I was just...look, man, are you okay? Ugh, no, no, stupid question, no one's okay right now but...are you...you look like you're going to pass out on me or something, dude, and I don't know if I can handle that right now.”

Ford shifted a little. He still had that hand clamped to one side, like he was trying to hold something in place. “I'm fine.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Okay, so...you're a terrible liar. Got it.”

Ford opened his mouth and then closed it again, looking completely nonplussed. Wendy snorted. “Dude, I've had Stan for a boss for like, three years now. I've seen some good lying, and that? That was not it.”

He glared back at her for a moment like he was seriously going to try to keep up the pretense, but then he shrugged and most of the determination evaporated off his face. “It's...nothing that serious. I've had much worse.”

Oh, god. He was like her dad.

“And that's relevant how, exactly?” she snapped.

Ford was back to giving her the confused-owl look. She sighed. “Look, I don't know if you realize this, but like, if you get hurt once, that doesn't have to, like, set the bar for the entire rest of your life. You know, people can survive all kinds of crazy stuff and then die because they tripped and fell down the stairs or something.”

“Uh,” Ford said. “That...maybe be true, but...”

“So you're gonna see a doctor when we get to town, right,” she prompted.

Ford coughed awkwardly. The brief flash of pain this sent across his face didn't help his case any. “It's nothing anyone needs to worry about. I can take care of it.”

Then, quietly, like someone not really intended to actually say something out loud, he began to say, “I'm not the one-”

He stopped.

Wendy followed his gaze to the van.

She didn't know just what had happened, but she could guess, maybe, a little part of it.

Okay, well, fine. She could play dirty.

“Sure,” she said. “I mean, I'm sure the kids would be totally fine if their grunkle collapses in front of them or whatever. Wouldn't freak them out at all.”

Ford jerked his head around, the look on his face equal parts anger and horrified realization. She met his gaze without flinching. Cool as a bag of ice.

There were footsteps on the stairs behind them. Ford glanced back into the house and sighed. “Fine.”

Wendy grinned.

The kids came tumbling out of the doorway, each wearing an over-stuffed backpack. Dipper was carrying what looked like a camera case and some notebooks, while Mabel was struggling to contain a giant stuffed animal of indeterminate species, an extra sweater, and another scrapbook. Ford blinked at them. “Kids, is all that really necessary-”

“Uh-huh!” Mabel insisted. “Look, I brought my backup scrapbook, and Dipper's got his journals and the camera with all the videos we took! So we can keep showing Grunkle Stan stuff!”

“Oh.” Ford looked taken aback, but after a moment he offered up a wavering smile. “I...retract my statement, then. That...that was good thinking.”

“And Mr. Hufflepotamus is definitely necessary,” Mabel went on, trying to gesture with the stuffed animal and almost dropping it.

“Oh, absolutely,” Ford said, with utmost seriousness.

“And I brought you a replacement sweater.” The younger Pines juggled her burdens for a moment before managing to extricate the sweater and holding it out. “Since yours is all torn up and stuff. I was going to give it to you as a good-bye present, but I thought...” She stopped for a moment, some of the insistent cheer sliding off her face. “I thought...tonight was a good night for new sweaters.”

Ford took the sweater carefully, almost reverently. It was red, like his battered turtleneck, and there seemed to be a design picked out on the front, though Wendy couldn't make it out. “You...you made this for me?”

“Yep!” Mabel beamed at him. “I like making sweaters.”

Dipper groaned loudly. “That's an understatement.”

“I...thank you. It's wonderful.” Ford folded it neatly and held it against his chest. “I'll treasure it.”

Mabel squinted at him. “Aren't you going to put it on?”

Ford coughed again. “Erm-”

Mabel's face crumpled. Ford looked suitably horrified. “I-I mean, of course I'll put it on, just-just not right now this minute, okay? I...I'm all dirty and sweaty right now, and I wouldn't want to mess up my new gift.”

Mabel didn't look like she was entirely convinced-probably, Wendy thought, because she also had spent enough time with Stan to know a terrible lie when she heard it-but she just shrugged and said, “Okay.”

“Can we go already?” Dipper broke in. “My arms are getting super tired.”

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Ford levered himself up slowly, stiffly. He glanced at Wendy a little suspiciously as they all made for the van. “Do you...actually have a driver's license?”

“Nope. But I out-drove a bunch of escaped convicts through a maze of weirdness bubbles, so I figure I can make it back into town.”

“...Maybe I should drive,” Ford said.

Wendy cocked an eyebrow at him. “Oh yeah? Do you have a driver's license?”

“Um...well...technically...”

There was some stifled giggling from behind them, but when Ford and Wendy turned around the twins were looking completely serious. The giggling started up again as soon as they looked away.

“Look, that's not the point,” Ford said. “The point is...”

“The point is you're not driving anywhere,” Wendy said, throwing a significant look at the hand Ford still had around his side. “So-” “Guys,” Dipper said, still sounding as though he were barely holding back laughter. “How about Soos drives?”

On cue, Soos poked his head out of the driver's side window. “Way ahead of you, dawg.”

The twins scrambled into the very back of the dingy old van, while Wendy and Ford took the middle seat. Stan had already been installed in the front. “You guys took long enough,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wendy said, trying not to grin too hard at Stan sounding like his old self.

[raskies456]

hello naughty children it’s gravity falls angst time

but seriously this mess is long overdue for an update and it’s time to put more tragedy in tragic utilitarian as if there isn’t already enough

warnings, as always apply--there are still dead major characters and there is still quite a bit of blood everywhere

Perhaps he said it for her sake, perhaps he said it for his—let the words spill from his mouth where there had been nothing but silence before—but if there was a reason it was not one he had considered. Rather, he had acted on a sort of instinct, a sort of need—a compulsion, and one he could only rationalize rather than understand. And even then, even if he could settle on an answer, a true reason with flawless rationale—had he thought through all the possibilities beforehand? No, he had just let it happen, just let the words out of his mouth like so much blood, all on a whim. The sort of whim that lead you to dole out vengeance. The sort of whim that lead you to take it. He was losing it really, his reason, perhaps the one thing he had left. Losing it where he needed it most, when he needed to keep his focus sharp and his mind firm. How could he hope to kill a demon when he couldn’t handle the mere touch of a child? He had never been the sort to cry, not even when he had been betrayed, nor when he was torn from this world, not even when he had returned. Even when he had taken the shot, had he shed a single tear? Even after Stanley had tried to draw them out with brute force he hadn’t, not even a whimper. But this… It had happened some hours after dusk, a little over a day after his choice…but time was no longer something he could really understand, not when he had spent what felt like days lying on the floor, waiting for death to make up its mind. The clock on the wall meant nothing—it ticked, insistent in his aching head, ever so slowly, and yet each time he mustered the strength to look towards it he would find the hands had swung far longer across the dial than he thought possible. Was it an eternity or no time at all before he had dared attempt to push himself off the floor? He could feel his his hands and legs slip across blood, scrabble for purchase on the cold ground—even the simple action left him breathless, and he flopped down again with a thud, vision clouded with spots and body numbed with pain. It was tempting to remain there, really, and never get up. Close his eyes and wait for dehydration to end him, sleep soundly for once and forever. But he had already decided to kill Bill Cipher. Of course, he was in no shape to fight the demon, but neither had he been when he fought the creature last, so formidable was Bill’s power—and he had still gotten close. He could take that final stretch, if he was willing. Willing—He was more than willing, will was all he had left, will was why he was alive. The only thing in his way was pain, and what was that really? The insistence of the animal brain to preserve the flesh, to not injure oneself further, to heal, to survive…nothing more. He had no such desire, no reason to live longer than it took for him to finish the job. All he had to do was lift himself off the ground, adjust the portal ever so slightly, and fight. And there was nothing in his way. So he pushed upwards again, arms trembling, gritting his teeth together as he peeled his face off the ground, noting where his jaws failed to meet. He made it to fours, and why not? His arms and legs were entirely intact—they had no reason to fail him. Even getting to his feet was not beyond reach, but while he knew it was possible, he was no fool—better wait for the blood he had left to circulate in his veins before he tried, or risk blacking out. Four would do for now, he could drag himself to his desk and work, adjust his calculations… But that was when it happened. What brought her down he did not know—he did not care to know, and it didn’t really matter, not compared to the fact that she was here, somehow. It had never crossed his mind that she could be—at first, when he heard the screech of the lift he had thought it nothing more than the ringing of his ears, and then, when it became too loud to ignore, Stanley—though why he would ever dare return Ford could not comprehend. To finish the job perhaps, but he was too much of a coward. He could only ever express himself with his fists, and when the truth turned out to be too much even for that, he fled. If he thought Ford had been wrong he would’ve said it, but he hadn’t the guts to admit that even to himself that the man had done the right thing. Still, as impossible as Stan’s return was, it was more possible than what happened next. It was more possible than the soft voice that spoke behind him with a quaver and a question, with ignorance and a sadness that already knew. She was good at pretending, good at looking past the darkness and making light of every situation, had a joy that one might mistake for naivety but was, he thought, a well practiced form of denial. Well practiced, but not nearly powerful enough. Because she knew, when she called out his name. Who wouldn’t, with the blood darkening the ground and the man that was supposed to be with her brother there in the middle of it? But that she had to find out this way…it was too much. She wouldn’t have come if she knew, if she had been told—thinking on it, now, it did not surprise him that she hadn’t been told—Stan was a liar and a coward, far too much so to be honest about something like this. And yet, though Ford knew Stanley well enough, there was still part of him that was shocked at the man’s selfishness, at his fear—shocked and angry that he would put himself before her and lie just to avoid having to tell her the truth. And here he had thought almost that the man loved her. Had he even loved Dipper? Was it truly vengeance when he had come down here or merely a way to save face, to look in the mirror and be able to say he had done right by his great nephew by beating his killer into the ground? Just another excuse to take out his frustration at his own inadequacy on his betters? An attempt to make his brother feel guilty about what he’d done? Of course it was, and Ford had been wrong to expect anything more. So now what? It was on him to tell the truth, or at least the part of it that she needed to hear. He had left it to Stanley because she had made the mistake of loving him, because while he himself was honest he was not one for words. He had never been good at being kind, which is why he had been able to do what he had done. Still he had to say it—to leave her knowing what she knew without anyone daring to confirm…well, that was pointlessly cruel. However, he did not intend to confess—there was no good in that truth, not now, not for her. Maybe when she was older she would understand, but a child could not be expected to see the right in what he had done, not the way Stan should have seen. Hard enough to say would she could understand. Hard enough to say that her brother was dead. But no harder than killing him. He managed to choke the words out, hardly more than a growl really, a gag on clotted blood and a wheeze of breath. But she heard him, heard him because she already knew what he was going to say, and the silence that followed said more than he ever could. It was painful really, more so than any of his injuries, and it seemed to drag on forever, punctuated only by the ever slowing tick of the clock. As each minute passed he became more and more certain that she must have left—surely she would have given out a sob by now, some sort of cry? He must have lost the sound of the lift in the infernal clicking of each second, must have lost track of her along with everything else. She was gone, or so he thought, gone—and then she reached out and touched him. He shrieked, and his hand, which he had not raised to defend himself, went straight for her, shoved her off with undue force. As he turned he caught the utter shock in her eyes, dripping with tears, all the surprise and sadness on written on her face. But overall she was mostly confused, startled by his violent reaction and yet her arm still reached out for him, and there was a gentleness in the curve of her hand that broke his heart. He had not realized that there was anything left to break. And now he could see her expression shift again as she caught a good look of him. He saw her horror, and then—no, it was too much. Too much that she, who had just lost her brother, would worry about him. Too much that she, in the midst of her own suffering, would reach out her hand to comfort him. Perhaps he had lost too much blood, perhaps he suddenly thought she could handle it, perhaps he was so confused that he thought that telling the entire truth was the right thing to do—or perhaps he merely felt guilty. Perhaps he was just too weak in his conviction that he had done what was best to not believe he was a monster. Perhaps somewhere deep down he couldn’t stand the idea of being loved, not when he had done what he had done. Maybe that was why he said it. Maybe that was why he spat the bloodied words from his mouth. Maybe that was why he took such satisfaction in watching her concern evaporate into fear, seeing her cringe away from him and flee, sobbing. “I killed him.” He said it with such conviction that even her, with her happiness and her denial and her belief in his goodness, had to know it was true. Still, she froze for a second, couldn’t quite process it, so strange was the idea that it didn’t quite sink in. Instead she stood there completely lost, no longer certain of anything or anyone—how could she be when she had been so lied to and betrayed? Perhaps it would’ve been for the best if she had stayed lost, stayed staring out beyond him with her brows curled upwards and her tears stayed by surprise. Perhaps it would’ve been for the best…but it was not to be. He could see her eyes meet his and hover there for a second, before it hit her—her pupils shrunk to pinpricks and she blanched, took a sudden step back, looked like she would topple over in her haste to get away…But she didn’t, she turned and fled and made a sound halfway between a whimper and a scream as she ran. He watched her go with a sort of black satisfaction, a sort of cruelness worthy of what he had become. But it was not to last, because when she had disappeared he found himself fallen limp against the ground again, this time wracked with muffled sobs.