#reminds me of when i was looking at stuff with fiddleford and realized the whole 'getting zapped if you say weirdmaggedon' thing

[thereareeyesinsidethetrees]

looking through gravity falls snippets and screenshots and noticing things i never noticed before

like how some of the eyebats ford catches, but not any other eyebats found anywhere else, have eyelids

or how the eyes in the jar stan has arent the same as the eyebats that ford caught

or how its implied in the intro that stan apparently goes with the niblings to look at weird stuff sometimes? if thats canon you could probably make a killer fic from that

[orangeoctopi7]

Bonding Time

Hey y’all, it’s the latest chapter of the Spider-Stan AU! Consider it a late Christmas present. Or... wait... is it still Hanukkah? Have a happy Hanukkah present then!

Breakfast the morning after McGucket left was awkward, to say the least. The only sound was the steady crunch of chewing cold cereal punctuated by the occasional scrape of a spoon. Stan pretended to try and solve the maze on the back of the box of Penta-Grahms, even though it was easy enough for a five-year-old. Ford stared so intently into his bowl it appeared as though he was trying to use it as a crystal ball.

Eventually they both finished eating, and Stan finally broke the silence.

“So, what kinda tests are we runnin’ today?”

“Well…” Stanford trailed off, remembering his argument with Fiddleford the day before. Maybe he could be a little more honest with his brother. “Truthfully, we’ve run about all the physical tests I can think of, so far. We’ve, uh, we’ve learned a lot about how the mutation has affected you and your physical capabilities. And your health.”

Stan’s face fell. “Oh… soooooo… no more tests... does that mean… you want me to go?”

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” Ford said hurriedly.

“Well, I mean, I don’t wanna stay if you don’t want me to.”

“Who ever said I didn’t want you to stay?”

“No one, I just don’t wanna seem like I’m leachin’ off you.”

“Nonsense!” Ford corrected him. The beginnings of a hopeful smile formed on Stan’s lips. “There’s still plenty more we can learn from you!”

“Oh.” Stan’s almost-smile changed to an annoyed frown before his brother even noticed it.

“I’ve got some inventions I was working on before another project came along and took up most of my time, but you’d be perfect to test them!”

“As long as we don’t have to take any more blood samples, sounds good to me.”

And so Stan followed his brother into a small storage room, with just a few small windows, where several odd objects were sitting around, collecting dust. It all looked like junk to Stan, but obviously Ford knew what it all was. He picked out a large pair of goggles, a pair of weird gauntlets, and what looked suspiciously like spandex, before leaving the room and heading outside.

Ford sat down on the porch steps and tried on the goggles. They were comically large, even fitting over those huge nerd glasses, and made him look even more like a great horned owl. The eye pieces slanted at an angle, reminding Stan of an oni print he’d seen in a Japanese gift shop back in Portland. 

After just a couple of seconds, Ford pulled them off, blinking rapidly and massaging his eyes. “They seem to be working, but I can’t wear them for long without getting a horrible headache.”

“What’re they supposed to do?”

“They’re light filtration goggles, meant to help see beyond the visible light spectrum. But they take in more light at once than the human eye can typically handle. I was hoping, with your improved senses, you might be able to make use of it. Either that, or it’ll just give you a headache faster.”

“Gee, thanks.” Stan rolled his eyes, but took the goggles anyways. “Whoa!” He exclaimed when he put them on. The world seemed brighter and more colorful with the goggles on, like someone had fiddled with the color balance on the TV.

“Is it giving you a headache already?” Ford asked with a touch of concern.

“No, my head’s fine. But wow, this… this doesn’t look real. It feels more like I’m lookin’ at some fancy paintin’ of the woods than a real forest.” Stan continued to look around when he noticed a strange trail of purple that definitely hadn’t been there before, leading into the forest. As he focused on where the purple line disappeared into the trees, the goggles whirred, and suddenly his vision zoomed in on the spot. “Whoa!” he repeated.

“The goggles can read the muscle movements in and around your eyes to magnify when you’re looking at something in the distance.” Ford explained.

“Yeah yeah, I noticed that part.” Stan stood and walked towards the trail, “But I’m seein’ some weird purple stuff here.”

“Really?” Ford followed him and crouched down, low to the ground, to get a better look at what his brother was staring at. “Right here?” He pointed to a tiny gnome footprint in the dirt.

“Yeah, except it’s a whole line of little purple streaks like that, leading into the woods…” Stan followed the line back towards the cabin and saw it snake around the corner “...and into your front yard.”

Ford’s eyes widened “That’s the trail the gnomes take to my garbage can! You’re telling me you can see it as a different color?”

“Yeah, it’s kinda hazy purple.”

A triumphant grin spread across Ford’s face. “This is incredible! I originally invented these to enable me to visualize residual weirdness, but whenever I tried them on myself, the visual input was too much, and I couldn’t make out anything through the sensory overload! But it actually works!” He grabbed Stan by the shoulders and turned him back towards the woods. “Tell me, do you see anything else?”

“Uhhh…” He scanned the woods, looking for any more colors that looked out of place. “There’s a tree over that way that looks… I dunno, too green? That one with the really thick trunk, near the edge of the clearing.”

Ford followed his brother’s gaze as best he could, squinting at the trees in the vicinity and finding the thick trunk in question. His eyes widened when he got a good look at it, and he suddenly rushed back into the house. Stan didn’t even have time to ask what his brother was doing when the researcher reappeared on the porch, holding a megaphone in one hand. 

“Steve, I told you to stay away from the cars in this clearing! If you take one more step towards my brother’s car, I will get the chainsaw!”

Stan was beginning to think his brother had finally made the leap from eccentric to just plain crazy when the tree trunk, which had to be a few yards around, was lifted out of the ground. Stan pulled the goggles off, sure they were malfunctioning. His jaw dropped in disbelief as he realized it wasn’t a tree at all, but the foot of some bark-skinned giant. A flock of startled birds rose out of the woods and the ground shook as the giant stomped away, it’s full form hidden by the giant redwoods which swayed as it moved past.

“Sorry about that.” Ford turned to him and put down the megaphone. “Steve seems to have some kind of problem with cars. He wrecked mine before this cabin was even finished, and I’ve had to chase him off from Fiddleford’s truck a few times. You might want to park a little closer to the house, he’ll only reach so far out into the clearing.”

Stan just stared at his brother, mouth agape.

“Steve?” He finally groaned incredulously.

“He acts like a Steve!” Ford said defensively.

***

After Stan moved his car so close to the house you couldn’t even open the passenger-side doors, they moved on to the next invention Ford wanted to test. The two of them climbed a ladder in the library to the roof, then scaled the steep wooden shingles to the highest peak. 

It was an easy climb for Stan, with his ability to stick to walls, but he was impressed by how at-ease Ford seemed up here with just his boots and his sense of balance.

Ford helped Stan put on a pair of strange gauntlets, made of a bulky, segmented wrist strap and a sort of button on a stick that rested just above Stan's palm.

“So, you hold down the paddle here,” Ford pointed to the button thingy that extended over Stan’s palm from the gauntlet thingy around his wrist. “to release the pressurized fluid. The stream will solidify into a sticky fiber ten times stronger and lighter than a steel cable. It’s the same basic principle they use to make nylon, but with an even more robust substance. You just swing it out towards whatever surface you want to use as an anchor, then once it’s stuck, jump up and swing forward. Double-tap to release the fiber, and repeat. When the fluid runs out, hold down on the cartridge,” He pointed to where the cartridge slotted into the wrist gauntlet thingy, “And it’ll pop out. Then turn the wrist strap to the next compartment with a new cartridge.”

“Uh, ok…” Stan nodded, looking over the strange device. He thought he understood what to do. 

He took aim at a sturdy looking tree that towered above their perch on the roof of Ford’s cabin. A stream of white goo shot out, quickly weaving itself into a chord of spider silk as it sailed through the air and finally found its target. Stan gave the chord an experimental tug, making sure it was secured to the branch. It held firm.

“Now, the real trick it to pick out a second anchor, take aim with the second web-shooter, and secure a second line while swinging from the first line.” Ford continued.

“Are you even sure the first line will hold me?” Stan asked nervously. He’d mostly gotten over his fear of heights when he gained the ability to stick to walls, but the woods didn’t leave him a lot of options to catch his fall.

“Absolutely. I already tested it out when I first developed this technology.” Ford assured his brother. “I just never got past the first swing because… well, I completely tore my arm out of its socket.”

Stan stared at his brother incredulously. “It’s a good thing I found you before you killed yourself.”

“I was fine! I was wearing an amulet that grants the wearer telekinetic powers, so I caught myself before I hit the ground!” Ford bristled defensively. “And technically, I found you.”

“Whatever. It’s still a miracle you’ve survived this long on your own.” Stan rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t on my own--”

“McGucket told me you only called him out here a few weeks ago.”

“Well yes, but I…” Ford trailed off. Stan could see he was having an internal argument of some sort. He didn't even notice when Stan gave a start as that strange, twinging version of his spider-sense returned. 

This was the first time Stan had ever felt it during the day before, and as he tried to concentrate on the sensation, he was more sure than ever that it had some connection to his brother. Something was wrong with Ford. No, not wrong with Ford. Something wrong was happening to Ford. 

But just as soon as he’d noticed it, it passed, and the next thing Ford said threw him off so much, he forgot about his spider-sense for a time.

“I’m not the only one who’s lucky to have survived so long on my own.” Ford said, casting his gaze downward. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before, when you told me my specimen had bitten you, and that it was affecting you. I can’t imagine what undergoing that kind of genetic mutation on your own must have been like. You could have died!”

“...Oh…” Stan squeaked. He didn’t know how else to react. He’d never felt like he could have died, not from the spider powers showing up, anyway. There had been plenty of times he’d gotten himself into trouble with the mob or creditors or gangs and he’d felt like he could have died, only to discover a useful new ability. Like sticking to walls when he was pushed off a building, or superhuman strength when he broke himself out of a locked trunk, or inhuman agility when he’d literally dodged a bullet. 

“In my defense, you weren’t being sympathetic to my ruined science fair project at all.” Ford continued. “It really did seem to me like you were just being a massive jerk and trying to worm your way out of taking responsibility like you always do.” 

“Wow, you are terrible at apologizing, you know that?” Stan grunted. 

It was Ford’s turn to roll his eyes. “Nevermind. Let’s just test these web shooters out already.” he said flusteredly. 

This unexpected apology caught Stan off guard. He'd volunteered to come out here and be a guinea pig in exchange for room and board. Stan didn’t really mind; it gave him an excuse to stay and… keep an eye on Ford. Yeah. Nobody could deny the nerd needed looking after. Stan certainly didn’t have illusions that things could ever go back to the way things were between them before. No way. He definitely wasn’t getting his hopes up. No one could prove anything. 

Eager to leave this awkward conversation and his conflicted feelings behind, Stan jumped off the roof, swinging on the chord. It felt great, like being a kid on a rope-swing again. As he felt himself swing to the opposite end of his human pendulum, he looked around for another good tree branch to anchor from. It was like his spider-sense slowed down time as he found a target, took aim, fired the second web shooter and released the first line, all in a fraction of a second. For just a heartbeat, he was weightless, before swinging forward on the second line. This was fun! It was hard to be worried or upset about anything when he was swinging through the trees like Tarzan. 

He managed to reach the outskirts of town in just a fraction of the time it took to walk, and nearly as fast as it did to drive. Stan figured he could get there even faster than driving with enough practice. He enjoyed the view at the top of the old bell tower for a moment, then swung back to Ford’s cabin.

The nerd looked like their birthday had come early when Stan got back. “That test-run went better than I could have hoped! How far did you go?”

“To the old bell tower in town and back.”

“Really? In that short a time?” Ford pulled out his journal and started writing excitedly. “And you never slipped, or ran into anything? The line never broke or detached?”

“Nope. I almost hit a few trees but I always changed course in time.”

“Incredible!” Ford grinned. “Let me see the fluid cartridge, how much did it use?” He grabbed Stan’s wrists and popped out the cartridges without waiting for Stan to answer. “How many lines would you say you used, round trip?”

“Uh, I dunno… maybe ten? Twelve?” Stan guessed. He hadn’t known he was supposed to keep track. 

“Hmm… and only used about a fifth of the fluid in the cartridge. Good to know.” Ford jotted the info into his Journal, then snapped it shut. “Fiddleford is going to be so excited to hear this when he gets back! Oh, and it's going to make salvaging parts so much easier!”

Stan raised an eyebrow. He’d used his powers for his fair share of ‘salvaging’, but somehow he doubted that was the same thing his brother was talking about now. “What kind of salvaging are we talking here?”

Ford got that insufferable ‘I know something you don’t’ look on his face. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Ford I literally have super-powers from a radioactive spider. Try me.”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

***

They spent a few hours out on the roof, testing out the web shooters. How much fluid did one line use? How many lines did it take to travel a mile? How far could he swing on just one line? Did it take more lines to make a sharp turn? How fast could he travel?

Stan was pretty sure Ford would’ve had him out there all night, swinging back and forth between the forest and the cabin, if not for an incident in the late afternoon. Stan was trying to beat his time from the cabin to the main road when he picked out a branch to anchor from just within sight of the roof. He’d just released his previous line and was about to line up another anchor when he heard a sharp crack. He felt more than saw the dead branch he was anchored to break. He panicked, and instead of thinking to fire the second web shooter and create another secure line, all he could think of was grabbing onto a branch, or a ledge, or a wall, or something to catch his fall. He must have fallen at least 15 feet before he finally stuck to the upper limb of a giant sequoia. Immediately, he hugged it like a life preserver.

“Are you ok?” He heard Ford shout from the roof, witness to the entire embarrassing snafu. 

“Fine!” Stan yelled back, his heart still beating a rapid drum solo in his chest. 

“I think that’s our sign to stop for the day.” Ford hollered.

Stan didn’t need to be told twice. As much as he had enjoyed himself with the web shooters, this near-accident showed he wasn’t exactly a natural at it. He’d probably do a bit more practice a little closer to the ground before trying that again. Perhaps he wasn’t completely over his fear of heights after all.

***

After yet another canned dinner, Ford brought out the last shelved invention from the storage room. To Stan’s untrained eyes, it looked like several rolls of stretchy, colorful fabric.

“Something tells me these aren’t just to add some accents to your wardrobe.” 

“No. It’s an extremely durable fabric. I ruined one too many sweaters while out doing field work, so I developed something that’s water-proof, tear-resistant, protects from abrasions, keeps warm, and most importantly, doesn’t get burrs or stickers caught on it.”

“So, what? You want me to see if I can tear it with my super strength?”

“Well, yes. But also…” Ford paused to collect his thoughts, thinking about how to word what he wanted to say. “I think it could improve your costume.”

Stan blinked. “What’s my costume got to do with anything?”

Ford sighed, looking anywhere but at his brother. How to word this? “I want to help you.”

“I thought that was the whole point of me comin’ out here.”

“No. Well, yes, but specifically… Stan, you’re a hero, don’t get me wrong, you’ve saved so many people, but I know you could do even more with some help.” He finally looked his brother in the eye. “I want to help you be a better crime-fighter.”

Stan broke the eye contact almost immediately. “Uh, Ford, I can’t believe you haven’t already pieced this together yet, but… I’m not really a crime fighter.”

“Not technically, no, and chances are you’ll never be officially sanctioned or acknowledged by law enforcement, but that doesn’t make you any less of a hero. And that’s why I want to help you! You could finally have cutting-edge technology at your disposal!”

“I’m not a hero, ok?” Stan finally burst out. “I never set out to be one, and you of all people should know I don’t act like one.”

“But… but all those people you saved!” Ford protested. “I’ve read the articles! The eye witness accounts!”

“Sure, I may have been in the right place at the right time, and if I saw people needed help, I helped them. That’s just what decent people do, genius! It doesn’t make me a hero! I’m sorry a bunch of nerds blew things out of proportion and made you think I was one.

"The truth is, I've mostly been using my powers to steal. Money. Food. Jewelry. Clothes. Money. Whatever I needed to take care of myself. All those people I threw in jail? Folks I owed money. Enemies I wanted off my back. That's not the kind of stuff a hero does."

At first Ford's only reaction was a blank stare. He was taking a while to process this new information. For all these years he'd had a vision of what he expected the Spider Man to be like, and now, twice in one week, those expectations had been turned on their head. Finally, he collected his thoughts.

"You may have done what you had to to survive. You may have been taking advantage of your powers. But with that power comes a responsibility to use it for good!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "Responsibility? Yeah, right! Like I owe the world anything! The way I see it, these powers are the least the universe could do for me after all the ways life has screwed me over!"

Ford opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but after a moment's pause, he just sighed and shook his head. "Don't you see, Stanley? You've already made a difference in the lives of the people you saved. Hundreds of people already see you as a hero. Why not embrace it?"

"What do you care!?" Stan huffed. "You just wanna play the hero like when we were kids, don't you? Only if you can't be the hero yourself, you'll just live the dream through me."

“Is that what you think?” Ford shook his head sadly, “You just don’t get it.” He trudged back down the stairs to the storage room, the colorful bolts of fabric under his arm.

***

That night, Bill returned to Ford’s dreams. The researcher was getting used to his muse showing up almost every night now. He was also getting used to the otherworldly being’s impatience. 

“WOW, FOUR-EYES REALLY DID YOU A FAVOR, LEAVING YOU ALONE WITH YOUR DEADBEAT BROTHER, HUH?”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but this is the first time I’ve felt at home with Stan since we found him in Portland. In years, actually. While I still wish Fiddleford didn’t feel the need to lie to me about it, I think him leaving for a few days was the right choice. Yes, things are still… fragile,” Ford admitted, as he thought back to their argument earlier after dinner, “But our relationship now is better than it’s been for over a decade, and I’m hopeful it will continue to improve.”

“OH, I’M GLAD YOU’RE HOPEFUL ABOUT THAT. ONE MORE SHORT-LIVED HUMAN FAMILIAL BOND RESTORED, WOO-HOO.” Bill rolled his single eye, and then signed “IT JUST SEEMS LIKE SUCH A WASTE FOR SUCH INCREDIBLE POWERS TO GO TO A GUY WHO’D RATHER USE THEM FOR HIMSELF.”

“It’s... unfortunate, yes.” Ford agreed, his annoyance at his brother resurfacing, “But not entirely unexpected from Stanley. At least he’s used his powers to help people in need when he crossed paths with them.”

“STILL, YOU COULD BE A WAY BETTER HERO THAN HIM! I MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP YOU THERE.” 

“Thank you, Bill, but no. Despite what my brother thinks, I’m really not interested in becoming a super hero myself. I’d much rather be recognized for my scientific accomplishments.”

Bill shrugged. “ALRIGHT, BUT IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND, I’LL BE RIGHT HERE WAITING TO MAKE IT HAPPEN!”

***

Stan wanted to scream into his pillow when the twinging, unusual version of his spider sense returned late that night. Sure enough, if he concentrated, he could tell it was strongest in the direction of his brother’s bedroom. But then, Stan got an idea. Those goggles from earlier! They’d helped him see some weird stuff out in the woods, maybe they’d give him a clue as to what was going on with Ford.

So he crept out of bed, down to the storage room to retrieve the goggles, and then into Ford’s room. Stan barely stifled a gasp when he put them on. A halo of sickly yellow was radiating from Ford’s head. That definitely hadn’t been there this morning. 

This time, Stan just sat there and watched. Every other time he’d felt this sensation it had come and gone in just a few minutes, maybe even seconds, but this time he was going to really pay attention and figure out what it was, and where it was coming from. What Stan figured out was, of course, really weird. Whatever it was, it seemed to be coming from everywhere, but it all converged on one point: Ford. That’s why Stan had such a hard time pinpointing it that first night, and it was why it had seemed to be coming from Ford all the times he’d felt it before.

After twenty minutes of watching and just trying to familiarize himself with the sensation of this peculiar spider sense, something finally happened. The yellow halo surrounding Ford’s head shifted, and the ghostly silhouette of a triangle appeared. It had a single, slitted eye, just like all those freaky effigies Ford had all around the house, and in the split second before it disappeared, it looked straight at Stan.

“... What the H?” Stan exclaimed under his breath.

****

XSYO BUOL KAQQZVFIGKL BTMOUF. ECG O VIZ APFX ZQGN BB. U QJUUW VRKW BA PBM YRE SUK I NMU WS L ENTM BA GBHPK BUOL JUK NOPNMEKE. 

[babybluebanshee]

Seared with Scars - Chapter 6 (Mystery Nerds AU)

Hey, kids. Did ya miss me?

Trigger warnings for this chapter include: Smoking, PTSD, descriptions of graphic injuries, descriptions of miscarriage, and panic attacks.

I am so sorry this took so long to get out. That’s all on me. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you guys actually still care enough about to read.

Previous chapter

---

“I survived, but it’s not a happy ending.”

- Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried”

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

The guts of the gun sparked again, and a low rumbling of thunder shuddered in the night. Fiddleford wanted to blame it for his shaking hands, but he had always been a terrible liar, even to himself.

He set down his screwdriver with a quiet sigh, and chanced a glance up at the clock. 1:37 am. He had no idea why he didn’t feel more tired. Helen had long since downed the rest of her beer and gone back into the living room, swaying slightly. He heard the couch squeak loudly as she plopped down on it. Soon, Fiddleford heard her snoring softly.

She had not spoken a word to him in the time it took her to leave the room and fall asleep. Hadn’t even looked him in the eye.

After the sort of day she’d had, he understood. Pity played in his chest. She was a decent women. She didn’t deserve to be dragged into the waking nightmare that was Stanford Pines’ so-called research. It was clearly taking its toll on her now. He wished that he could comfort her, in spite of her current feelings towards him.

He’d been wracking his mind the entire time he worked, trying to find something, anything stashed away in there that would assuage her fears about Dr. Matthews. To ease her mind that her friend and colleague wasn’t the one who’d broken into her home and terrorized her. That he wasn’t mixed up in anything unsavory.

And sure, he knew that, even if Dr. Matthews was part of his flock, there was nothing to fear, but Helen didn’t. If he was being perfectly honest, he could see how the whole thing seemed rather off-putting. All the secrecy and hush-hush stuff might seem practically cultish to an outside observer, but now that Fiddleford had found out about the defect in the gun, it was easy to understand why he’d decided that the Society needed to work in secret. Memories that the gun tried to suppress could be called forth with any sort of trigger - a smell, a sound, even an errant thought about some seemingly innocent thing could force the unwanted memories to come rushing back.

And that was the last thing Fiddleford wanted. If he wanted to carry on his work, he needed to fix that when this was all said and done. It was all too important not to.

The front door opened, and he heard the merry jingling of dog tags as Ripley trotted in, right past the kitchen archway, and into the living room. Another jangling of the tags and a satisfied huff led him to believe Ripley had jumped on the couch to join Helen. The thought made Fiddleford smile. At least Helen could get some comfort from someone.

He was pulled out of himself when he heard the front door shut. Stan was still outside, had been since their argument. That had been over an hour ago.

Fiddleford sighed again, trying not to let that awful faded scar he’d seen dance too vividly across his mind. He reminded himself that, although the other man’s hardships were indeed tragic, that didn’t change the fact Stan was a brute - swearing at him and threatening him and tossing him about like an old ragdoll. Fiddleford’s shoulder ached a bit from the way Stan had wrenched it, dragging him downstairs, throwing him at the foot of that...that...monstrosity in the basement.

Stan Pines didn’t deserve Fiddleford’s sympathy, and he was not going to get it.

Fiddleford shivered again as the draft from the previously open door finally hit him. It had already been so cold out, and the storm wasn’t making things any better. It was probably freezing now.

If Stan had been on his own for ten years, he was certainly used to cold nights, possibly even colder than this. But just because you were used to something didn’t make it pleasant to endure.

His wrist throbbed again. No. Stan was choosing to stay outside, like a huffy child. He could freeze for all Fiddleford cared.

He lifted his screwdriver, intent on losing himself in his work once more. Stan Pines was not going to distract him anymore.

A gust of wind rattled the windows.

Gosh darnit.

Fiddleford set the screwdriver aside and got up from the table, trying his hardest not to scrape the chair against the wood floor too loudly and wake Helen. He even tiptoed past the opening into the main room, just to be safe. Aside from Ripley waking up momentarily to offer him a bleary glance, he managed to make it to the front door without any problems.

A frigid blast of icy air bombarded him as soon as he opened the door a crack. He thought about turning tail and running back in, but something stopped him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to get anything done until he made some kind of amends with Stan. Apologize for his insensitivity, for all that Stan had been through, whatever. Just so long as Stan knew that Fiddleford wanted to make things right.

Bracing himself, he rounded the door, and was immediately greeted by the stink of cigarette smoke...

“I can’t sleep,” the man said, his cigarette burning down between his fingers. He barely seemed to notice as it was reduced to ashes. “It’s all I see anymore. You have to help me.”

Fiddleford shook his head. As welcome as memories sometimes were, now was not the time for them. He had to focus on what he came out here to do.

Leaning against the wall, partially illuminated by the weak porch light, was Stan. A cigarette was between his fingers, a trail of smoke drifting lazily from the tip. Stan himself was sopping wet, his red jacket plastered to his skin. His brown hair hung limply around his face. Stan barely seemed phased though. Instead, his surprisingly intense gaze was focused solely on Fiddleford.

Fiddleford tried his best not to shrink away. He’d come out here with a purpose, and he reminded himself that, no matter how intimidating this man was, he was still just a man, and one who’d been through quite a lot. The least Fiddleford could do was give him the dignity of not acting afraid of him.

After a moment or two of realizing Fiddleford was not going anywhere, Stan slowly blinked, then turned his gaze back out to the black forest just beyond the house. Fiddleford couldn’t imagine what was out there that he’d want to see, but if Stan was anything like his brother, he was sure that there was something, some mystery he wanted to solve or creature he wanted to study.

Fiddleford gulped silently, and took a step closer to Stan. After another moment of stamping down his anxiety, he said, “Hi there.”

Stan didn’t reply.

“I bet it’s cold in that wet jacket,” Fiddleford said softly, grateful that the rain had let up enough so his words weren’t swallowed up entirely.

Not that it mattered, since Stan didn’t reply. He merely brought the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag.

Fiddleford pressed onward. “I was thinking about making a cup of tea,” he said. “Did you maybe want to come in and have some? It’d warm you up.”

The cigarette was brought away, and Stan held in the smoke.

“Maybe you and I could talk. Because I really think we need to.”

Stan tapped the ash at the end of the cigarette, and it floated down to the porch like gray flakes of snow.

“I…” Fiddelford faltered for a moment. Why wouldn’t Stan say something? Anything? How angry could he possibly be? “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what I said. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. You were right - I didn’t know you existed until now. But if I did...if I’d known the sorts of awful things you’ve had to endure, I never would have said what I did.”

Stan released the smoke through his nose as he flicked his steely gaze back at Fiddleford, making him look positively dragon-like. It was almost fearsome enough for Fiddleford to forget his soft nature and go back in the house to hide. Almost. But then he caught a glimpse of Stan’s eyes in the pale yellow porch light.

There was no anger left in them. No malice. Not even any frustration. Stan simply looked tired.

Fiddleford felt as if he’d swallowed a rock. Taking another step forward, he hesitantly reached out his hand, and placed it on the cold, wet fleece of Stan’s jacket, and said, “I think you might benefit from having someone to talk to. You’ve obviously been holding a lot in.”

Although it might sound boastful, Fiddleford was very good at getting people to open up to him. He’d always been small and non-threatening, patient and understanding; the kind of person that made people feel comfortable about dropping their defenses. It’s why the Society had been so successful. He didn’t need to seek out new members; they came to him, desperate for his support and kindness to soothe their frenzied minds.

He offered Stan his sincerest smile as he waited for him to reply.

After a beat of silence, Stan sighed and shook his head “You ain’t interested in helping me,” he said, tone flat. “You just don’t wanna feel guilty.”

Fiddleford yanked his hand away from Stan’s jacket as if it were an open flame. “I...I beg your pardon?” he said. It was all he could think to say.

“I think you heard me pretty clearly,” Stan replied, bringing the cigarette back to his lips.

Fiddleford felt heat bubble up behind his cheeks, his mind groping for some kind of response. He found nothing. Finally, a little more sharply than he intended, he blurted out, “And I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. This mess we’re all in is hardly my fault. It wasn’t my idea to poke around with the dangerous things in this town. I didn’t want to come back to this house and relive this nightmare. And I certainly didn’t decide to build that thing down in the basement!”

“But you did help.”

Fiddleford closed his mouth so quickly his teeth audibly clacked together. As he turned away from Stan’s gaze, his mind belched forth an image, an image of Stanford excitedly explaining his plans for the portal to him. A warmth, a feeling of giddy anticipation, blossomed in Fiddleford’s chest, spreading out and into his fingers and toes. He’d shared his former partner’s enthusiasm. They’d been ecstatic to start such a monumental feat together, to reach new heights of achievement and understanding. He’d wanted to make the portal as much as Stanford had.

But that was before the incident. Before whatever happened that drove Fiddleford away. The memory was still hidden away, beneath layers of fog and protection, and he knew it was better off that way. He gave his head a shake and said firmly, “I didn’t know what we were doing. I didn’t know where that awful gateway would lead. And once I did, that was it. I walked out and didn’t look back.”

“But you stayed in Gravity Falls.”

Fiddleford whipped his head around to face Stan again. The other man looked completely unfazed, like he’d made a casual remark about the rotten weather.

Stan continued, “You had a wife and kid waiting for you back in California. A pet project that Ford said you were pretty interested in. Hell, the reason he never tried to help you till now is because that’s what he assumed you did.” Stan flicked the stub of his cigarette away. Fiddleford heard it hiss softly as it landed in the wet darkness beyond the porch. And then that intense gaze was on him again as Stan asked, “You had a life ready to be lived. So why did you stay here?”

Fiddleford quickly stammered out, “Well...I...because I wanted to help people. Help them deal with the supernatural things…”

“This town is almost 150 years old, Fidds,” Stan said. “And the weird stuff has been here since before the town was even an idea. There wouldn’t be a Gravity Falls if the folks here couldn’t deal with all the weird shit in those woods. You’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”

“It’s not an excuse!” Fiddleford spat back. The ferocity in his words shocked him, and he took a moment to close his eyes and inhale deeply, trying to calm himself down. When he felt the flush of his cheeks subside a bit, he added, fighting to keep his tone even, “The people in this town rely on me.”

“Yeah, but why?” Stan asked. “You didn’t owe these people anything. I know for a fact that none of them ever had the guts to come out here. You guys weren’t exactly town celebrities. You could have gone home, lived your life, and left my brother to whatever was waiting for him beyond that portal. But you’re still here. So, I’m gonna ask you again: with a family waiting for you, and a town that didn’t need you to martyr yourself for them, why the hell did you stay?”

Fiddleford wanted to respond. He wanted to brush Stan off, tell him he was crazy, that he didn’t know what he was talking about. He wanted to find some clever thing to say to finally get this man - this violent brute who’d slung him around like a ragdoll and called him names - to stop asking him these questions.

Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to find an answer for them that didn’t prove Stan right.

So he stayed silent.

Stan watched him for another moment, before he turned his gaze back out to the inky black forest, and said, “The portal may have been Ford’s idea, but you had a hand in it. And deep down, you know he’d never have been able to build it without you. That’s why you stayed, even after it scared you so bad you left. That’s why you started this whole Blind Eye thing. Because you felt like you had to make up for it. You screwed up, and you didn’t want to live with that. So you tried to fix it.”

“And what makes you so sure about that,” Fiddleford asked wearily. He found he no longer had it in him to argue.

“Because I’ve been watching Ford do the same thing since we found you,” Stan replied.

Fiddelford thought of Stanford, eyes brimming with tears a few hours ago. He sighed softly.

“It sucks doing something out of guilt,” Stan said. He sounded less like he was talking to Fiddleford now, and more like he was just thinking out loud. “No matter how much you do, no matter what ends up happening, you never feel like you’ve done enough. You just keep beating yourself up and beating yourself up until one day, it just kind of dawns on you that you haven’t really fixed anything. Nothing’s better, nothing’s changed. You just feel that much shittier about yourself.”

Off in the distance, in the dark, an owl hooted. It was such a lonely sound.

“Look,” Stan continued, “in a way, I do get where you’re coming from. There are days when I’d give anything to never remember some of the things I’ve been through. You weren’t wrong when you said there are some things that no one should ever have to endure.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Fiddleford watched Stan reach up and gently run his fingers down the length of his arm. Now, more than ever, he regretted his words about “everyday” trauma. There was nothing commonplace about the pale scar under that sodden fabric. And the fact that he’d tried to turn something like this into something inspirational? It turned his stomach more than the thought of the scar ever could.

Stan spoke up again, jarring Fiddleford from his thoughts. “But as much as the memory hurts, it’s still there. It’s as much a part of me as the scars it left behind. All I can do now is make my choices with what I know. And I chose to try and keep living.”

He turned back to Fiddleford, gaze beseeching. “You’ve got a choice now too. You can keep hiding, keep forgetting, and one day, maybe, it’ll all finally be gone. But I can’t guarantee that you’ll be the same man as when you started.”

The owl in the forest called out again.

“Or,” Stan added, “you can face those scars, and finally start doing some real good.”

Fiddleford maintained his gaze at the other man, this man who’d proven he was more than just brute strength and cheap insults. This man, who, for all his bluster, was surprisingly wise, even though it hurt Fiddleford deeply to think about all that happened to him to obviously make him that way.

Maybe Stan was right.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of dirt crunching under tires. He lifted his head and saw a pair of headlines slicing through the pitch blackness. In the distance, the owl hooted indignantly and fluttered away, a speck against the night sky. As the car came closer to the house, Fiddleford realized that it was a blue Buick. Helen’s blue Buick. The one Stanford had taken off in.

Beside him, Stan muttered, “Oh my god,” and before Fiddleford could even offer a reply, the other man was across the porch and down the stairs, loping like an excited dog to meet the car. He even raised up his arms and started waving the vehicle down, a relieved smile splitting his face. It was actually rather sweet.

The car stopped a few hundred feet from the house, and the driver killed the engine. The headlights went out, and Fiddleford could finally see the silhouette of someone behind the steering wheel.

But as he looked, he realized something wasn’t right.

The figure didn’t look like Stanford at all. It was much shorter, even sitting down. The driver’s face had a bushy mustache. Fiddleford couldn’t make out the mop of messy brown hair, but there was the outline of a slight belly.

Whoever was driving was not Stanford Pines.

Stan hadn’t seemed to notice yet, and ran up to the passenger side door. “Get out of that damn car, Sixer,” he cried, clearly with laughter in his voice. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, you stupid nerd.” He rounded the car as the driver’s side opened, but stopped short when he saw a five-fingered hand reach up and grasp the window, in order to pull the driver the rest of the way out.

His face fell completely when Dr. Ed Matthews emerged from the car, wearing a bright red, hooded robe. His face was grave.

Stan quickly backed away as if he were facing a loaded gun, but Dr. Matthews didn’t seem to notice. His iron gaze settled on Fiddleford. “I thought I might find you here,” he said.

Dr. Matthews finally seemed to realize that his cigarette was going to waste. He tossed it on the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Please,” he said again, sounding ready to break, “please, Mr. McGucket, you have to help me. I can’t take it anymore.”

“You are in the Society,” Fiddleford said as the memory faded. “Stan was right.”

“And if I’m right, that means you sold us out,” Stan said, the bubbling anger apparent in his voice. He took a threatening step towards Matthews, looking ready to throttle him. “You were the one who broke into Helen’s house. You were the one who attacked us.”

Matthews didn’t even look in Stan’s direction, but a flash of irritation flashed across his face, like the other man was an annoying fly buzzing in his ear. “No,” he replied plainly. “I wasn’t the one who broke into Helen’s house.” He turned his attention back to Fiddleford. “I promise I’ll explain everything, but you have to come back to the sanctum.”

“He’s not going anywhere with you,” Stan growled. His fists were balled up by his sides, ready to fly.

Matthews ignored him and continued to plead with Fiddleford. “Please, sir. Ivan is out of control. You have no idea the kinds of things he’s been doing in your absence. You’re the only one who can talk some sense into him.”

Fiddleford arched an eyebrow. Ivan? Out of control? It seemed impossible. If there was one person that Fiddleford trusted to keep the Society alive while he was gone, it was Ivan. He may have been young, but he was mature, intelligent, and could read people like they were open books. He was dedicated, perhaps a little too overbearing in regards to Fiddleford’s health, but he meant well.

Stealing another glance at Stan, seeing the murder in his eyes, knowing it came from a place of righteous fury at being assaulted and manhandled and victimized by the group the old man before them belonged to, Fiddleford realized that tonight had proven to be a night dedicated to showing him he didn’t know anyone as well as he thought he did.

“Look, Doc,” Stan barked. “Whoever this Ivan character is, he can figure out his own shit. Fidds isn’t going back to Jonestown with you. And if you don’t start running as fast as you can back the way you came, you won’t be making it back either. So get the hell out of here.”

Matthews finally turned his gaze on Stan, and said, “Do you really want me to leave, Stanley? Even if I’m the only person who can help you rescue your brother.”

Stan’s face fell in shock, like he’d been struck by lightning.

“He’s in poor shape,” Matthews added. “Ivan has not been kind to the man he believes responsible for our group’s troubles. Your brother doesn’t have much time left, and we have no time to argue about it.”

Before Stan could even open his mouth to speak, Fiddleford heard the front door slam open, and Helen’s voice call out, “Ford?”

Matthews’s eyes went as round as dinner plates, and slowly moved towards the sound of the voice. Fiddleford looked over his shoulder and saw Helen standing there, framed in the weak porch light, wearing a wrinkled white t-shirt, her hair hanging wildly around her face. Her glasses were slightly crooked on her face, her dark green eyes wide behind them. She looked like a madwoman who’d just stumbled her way down from the attic. Her gaze jumped between each man on the lawn in front of her, all standing stock still, watching her watching them. It was like a macabre stage production.

Finally, in a low voice, Helen said, “Ed...what the fuck is going on?”

Fiddleford couldn’t exactly explain why, but when he saw a glimpse of Stan and Dr. Matthews’s faces, he knew that facing Helen and trying to explain all this to her was going to be more painful that anything he’d ever done.

------

Glass Shard Beach had never been so cold. It leached through his clothes, his skin, and settled into his bones, making him shiver and quake like a newborn deer. He tried to wrap his arms around himself, to stave off the chill as best he could, but his limbs felt rubbery, and wouldn’t obey his commands. All he could do was lie prone on the sand, as hard and frigid on his back as a slab of marble, and stare up at the steely gray sky. A harsh wind blew across his face, sharp enough to cut. It was going to storm.

A pale yellow light entered Ford’s vision, and suddenly, a slit pupil was staring back at him. Fear pulsed through him as Bill materialized completely before him, his unwavering gaze boring into him like a drill to the forehead. He wanted to run, but whatever was keeping his arms plastered to the sand was doing the same to his legs. He could only lie there, limp and useless.

“Geez, Sixer,” Bill finally said, his body flickering in time with his nasally voice. “I’ve seen you look pretty bad before - and I mean, like, really, really bad. But this? This is almost depressing.”

One of Bill’s black stick arms came to the spot his chin would be if he had one, his single eye furrowing in thought.

After a moment, his face brightened and he snapped his fingers. “Oh, wait!” he said. “Did I say ‘depressing’? I meant ‘absolutely hilarious’!” Bill let loose a peal of mocking laughter, his floating body turning lazily in the chilly breeze of the beach. “I gotta hand it to you, Sixer, you fail abysmally at a lot of stuff, but making me laugh at your ineptitude sure ain’t one of ‘em!”

Bill righted himself, and leaned down so he was right in Ford’s face. “I mean, look at you,” he said. “You tried to make up with that dumb hayseed after he saw me in an indecent moment - super rude, might I point out, guy needs a talking-to about knocking first - and look where that got you! All alone, on some bald weirdo’s basement floor, selling out your friends and brother as soon as things get a little too hard for you. This is almost funnier than you thinking dismantling that portal is gonna stop me! Which, let’s be real here, was already pretty darn funny.”

Shame boiled behind Ford’s cheeks. “I-I will stop you…” he ground out.

“Hey, it talks,” Bill said. “And is completely delusional, apparently.” He chuckled again. “Look, Fordsey, I’ve got a life outside of you. And one bad break-up isn’t gonna stop what I’ve got in store for your world. You don’t make plans as big as mine without having a few safety nets. Now, to me, you’re nothing more than a dancing monkey, here to amuse me when I take a break for some time punch.”

Suddenly, Bill shot out a hand and grab Ford’s index finger, yanking it back violently. Ford let out a strangled cry of pain.

“And speaking of amusement,” Bill said, voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I think that Ivan guy had the right idea. Breaking fingers sounds like a riot. Maybe I’ll give it a whirl. It’ll almost be as fun as that time I flung you down the stairs!”

Ford felt like weeping.

“Now, let’s see, where to start. Hmm...eeny...meany...miney...yooooou…”

Someone was shaking him, and Ford opened his eyes with a shout. He inhaled heavily, gathering up as much air as he could in his burning lungs. He felt as if he’d been holding his breath for years. His hands shook under the ropes binding him to the chair.

As Ford’s vision cleared, it dawned on him that he was still in the dark room in the inner sanctum of the Society of the Blind Eye. He was slightly unsettled that the sight filled him with a strange sort of relief.

“Are you alright?” a voice said. Ford looked up, and realized that a robed figure was watching him from the shadows. In their hands, they held a tin bowl full of water. When the figure realized Ford was looking intently at the bowl, they said, “I thought you might need some water. I came in and you were talking in your sleep. So I woke you up.”

Ford recognized the gentle voice of the follower from before. The one who’d so gently inspected his injuries and tried to comfort him. The one who’d convinced him to give in to Ivan’s demands to save himself. Ford’s fists balled, his hands still shaking, but now in anger instead of fear.

The figure took a step towards him, and Ford snapped, “Don’t come anywhere near me.” As if suddenly glued to the spot, the figure stopped moving. Ford could feel them watching him from under their hood. “You’re crazy if you think I’ll take anything you give me,” he continued. He was acutely aware of how his voice cracked ever so slightly, indicative of the strain his mind was under, but he didn’t care. “You probably planned that little stunt earlier from the beginning. Bait me with some kindness so I’d roll over and do whatever you wanted. I’m on to your game, so you can just get the hell away from me.” His voice broke miserably, and he screwed his eyes shut against the shame that shot through him, his breath coming out in ragged heaves.

He heard footsteps approaching him and was suddenly aware of a human presence very close to him. He opened his eyes again. The figure set the bowl gently on the ground, and let out a quiet sigh. “What happened with Ivan was never my intention,” they said. “I truly did want to help you. I don’t like seeing people in pain. It’s just my nature.”

“You’re a liar,” Ford spat back, but he felt his anger petering out quickly. He was just so tired. The chill that he thought was just a product of his dreams suddenly squeezed him like an icy fist, sending a powerful shiver down his spine.

The figure sighed again, then reached up and grasped their hood. Before Ford could ask what they were doing, the hood was tossed back, and a young black man, roughly his own age, was staring back at him. His features were careworn, and he looked about as tired as Ford felt. “My name is Darryl,” he said. “I’m a paramedic.”

Ford gaped for a moment before he breathed, “Wh-why would you...”

“I thought actually seeing a person under here - a real, living person - would maybe make you feel a little safer. I know you’ve got no reason to trust me, but I swear, I wasn’t playing earlier. It’s literally my job to fix up injuries like that one.” He gestured broadly to Ford’s head. The wound near the base of his neck took that moment to throb dully.

“I really did want to help,” Darryl added. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a dented tin cup. “And now, I’m trying to again.” He dipped the cup in the bowl at his feet, filling it with water, and held it out to Ford. “Do you want a drink or not? It’s whatever you want to do.”

Ford looked at the cup, then back up at Darryl, trying to read his face, see anything that might indicate subterfuge. But he saw nothing. The bright brown eyes looking back at him, holding his gaze with a strange, soft command, reminded him of Stan. Limply, he nodded. A brief flicker of relief crossed Darryl’s face as he moved closer and put the cup to Ford’s lips.

Ford hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water was snaking its way down his throat. It was lukewarm and had a bit of a metal tang to it, probably from the town’s old pipes, but it tasted amazing to him. Darryl took it away far too soon.

“Sorry,” the other man said, setting the cup aside again, “but I don’t want you to get sick. I’ll give you some more in a minute.” He reached down to his belt, and pulled loose a threadbare blanket. “I know it’s not much, but I figure anything is better than nothing in this damp little space.”

He laid the blanket out across Ford’s chest, tucking it in a bit at the arms. Despite how worn it looked, the blanket did help, and the aching chill that had settled in Ford’s body began to lessen.

“Now, let’s try to get that horror show on the back of your head fixed up,” Darryl muttered, more to himself than to Ford. Reaching into the pocket of his robe, he pulled out a handkerchief. As he stooped down to pick up the bowl, Ford saw a glint of gold on his left hand in the dim light. Looking harder, he realized it was a simple golden wedding band. It made sense, honestly. Darryl wasn’t much older than him, and Ford was an outlier when it came to relationships. Of course most men his age were settling down, marrying and having children. But it raised a question in Ford’s mind, one he couldn’t help but vocalize.

“Why is a young married paramedic in a memory-wiping cult?”

Darryl froze. A flash of panic flickered across his face, as he muttered, “I wanted to forget. Same as everyone else.”

“But I want to know what,” Ford asked. “I know this entire group thinks I’m some kind of dangerous madman, but I’m not. I tried to tell Ivan before, I go looking for the unexplained so I can explain it. You can protect yourself if you know what you’re up against. And if you told me what made you...join, maybe I can help you understand it.”

Finally, Darryl turned to face him. Ford had expected him to be angry, or at least defensive, but instead, his face was drawn and sad. The bright brown eyes now looked a thousand miles away. In a quiet voice, Darryl said, “Only demons I’m running from are my own, Dr. Pines.”

Despite himself, Ford quirked an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“The Society only has a few rules. The people who want their memories erased have to be willing. We don’t tell anyone who isn’t a member about it. And, most importantly, the only memories we erase are paranormal ones. That was something McGucket was always very firm about.”

“But Ivan told me that the memory gun can get rid of anything.”

“It can, but McGucket never wanted to use it for what he called the “everyday” stuff. He always said those are the sorts of things humans were meant to handle. It was the most important rule. But Ivan hasn’t been following the rules for a good, long while now.”

“He’s been erasing other memories now?”

“Exactly.”

“Why didn’t Fiddleford do anything about it?”

“He didn’t know. Ivan realized that the more McGucket used the gun on himself, the more it rattled his brain. There’d be days when McGucket would wander around, looking like he didn’t know where he was. We’ve found him outside more than once, curled up next to the garbage cans because he was trying to figure out how to get home from here.”

Ford thought of Fiddleford in that alleyway, looking so thin and haggard and, most of all, lost.

“Ivan’s been taking full advantage of it,” Darryl continued. “McGucket can’t argue about ethics when he doesn’t even realize that Ivan is working against him, so Ivan has been offering to erase any bad memories, in exchange for loyalty.”

“But why? What does he gain from it?”

“I don’t know, entirely. Maybe it’s a power thing. Maybe he just liked to be in control of people It sounds crazy, but from the looks of things, I think he’s amassing an army.”

“For what?”

“Like I said, I don’t know entirely. But whatever it is, he’s obviously not gonna let a little thing like humanity get in his way.”

Darryl dunked the handkerchief in the bowl of water, scrunching it up in his fist to squeeze out the excess water. As he began moving behind the chair, Ford said, “You didn’t answer my question. How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

Darryl hesitated a moment, then walked briefly back into Ford’s line of vision, reaching a hand down into his robes. Ford heard a clinking of metal as the other man pulled forth a simple metal chain from around his neck. Attached to the end were two dented dog tags. “Private Little, of the 113th Infantry Brigade,” Darryl said simply. “One tour in South Vietnam, 1969 to 1970.”

Sympathy settled in Ford’s stomach like a heavy stone. “Oh…” he mumbled.

“Not to offend or anything, but I’m guessing you didn’t serve.” Darryl gave him a wry look as he ducked back out of sight, behind Ford.

Ford felt the soft, cool handkerchief being gently pressed into his neck. He tensed only for a moment, expecting pain, and was amazed when none came. He felt himself relax. “No,” he replied. “My dad did, but that’s about as close as my brothers and I got. College kept me out of the draft. My older brother had asthma, so he was exempt. And I’m not sure how Stanley managed to avoid it, but I’m sure it had something to do with fleeing to another country.”

Darryl chuckled a bit at that, and said, “Wish I’d had the brains to do that. Would have saved me a whole mess of trouble.”

“What happened?”

The handkerchief stilled for just a moment. Finally, Darryl said, “We got ambushed. It happened so fast that sometimes I have a hard time believing it happened at all. But my dreams always remind me. They just mowed us down. Ten seconds, tops, and it was over. I took a bullet right to the knee cap. Dropped where I stood. My buddy, Hank...he took one to the gut. He must have hung on for half an hour…”

Darryl trailed off, and Ford didn’t urge him to continue. Oddly enough, he thought of his father. He knew Dad had served, but beyond the basic facts, he never told Ford or his brothers about his tour of duty. It wasn’t until Ford was at least eleven that he accidentally stumbled across the Purple Heart his father had been awarded, stuffed away in a box in the hall closet.

He thought of when Shermie came back from the recruiting office, and how Dad’s shoulders seemed to slump when his older brother informed everyone that he was medically unfit for military service. It was the first time Ford ever remembered his father being excited about something.

He wondered what memories his father would want pulled from his head, if he was given the choice.

“And that’s why you came to Ivan,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Darryl responded quietly. “For a while, I managed to live with the memories. Believe it or not, the job helps. I see a lot of blood and death, but at least now I can do something about it, ya know? It’s not like with Hank. It...it kinda helps me cope. Does that make sense?”

Ford thought of the portal back home, how he sequestered himself for hours with it, this living testament to his failure, how accomplished he felt when he managed to make any kind of headway with it. He nodded and said, “It makes perfect sense to me.”

“Loud noises are the things that tend to upset me now,” Darryl continued. “Cars backfiring, slamming doors, that kind of thing. Had to stop going out on the Fourth of July. But those are things you can live with. After my daughter was born…that’s when the dreams started. Vivid shit, almost perfect recreations of that day in the jungle.”

Darryl squeezed more water from the handkerchief, and added, “By the time Ivan found me, I was desperate. I felt like I had no other choice. I couldn’t sleep. It was affecting my job, which used to be one of the only things that kept me grounded. And at home...I knew seeing me this way was hard for my family. Even if I hadn’t done it for myself, I would have done it for them in a heartbeat.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Darryl dabbed tenderly at the base of Ford’s neck, then gave a small grunt of satisfaction before he ducked back into Ford’s field of vision. His face was unreadable.

“I’m sorry, Darryl,” Ford said. “I’m sorry you ever had to feel like this cult was your only option.”

Darryl gave him a sad smile, and said, “Thanks, man.”

Another question suddenly dawned on Ford. “Wait,” he said. “If the reason you joined the Society was to erase those memories, then how do you still remember them enough to tell me?”

“Because there’s something wrong with the memory gun,” Darryl said gravely. “McGucket thought it would be a permanent process, but other members have started remembering whatever it was they erased. And that scares them more than you ever could.”

“That’s why Ivan wants Fiddleford back so badly.”

“Exactly. He’s getting desperate. The only thing he’s got to ensure people’s loyalty is that memory gun, and if it doesn’t work, then the others have no reason to stick with him. To fix it, he needs McGucket.”

This was so much worse than Ford ever thought. His original idea was that Ivan wanted Fiddleford back simply because he was their leader. But all Ivan was interested in was Fiddleford’s engineering skills. Fiddeford wouldn’t just be worse off if he was dragged back to this hellhole. His very life could be in danger, once Ivan had gotten what he needed from him.

“We have to stop him,” Ford said firmly.

“I know,” Darryl said. “If he’d go after two people who mean absolutely nothing to him, think of what he’d do to McGucket.”

Ford’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “What are you talking about?”

“I wasn’t being arbitrary when I said that Ivan would go after Helen and your brother. I know he will because he already has. When Helen and Stan went back to her house, someone was waiting for them. A Society member, trying to find Fidds.”

“What?! Who?”

“I don’t know. They managed to fight whoever it was off. As if anyone needed another reason to be afraid of Helen Bergstrum when she’s mad, now she’s slashing faces with car keys.” Darryl shook his head a bit. “But Stan got a pretty nasty blow to the head. They called me in to patch him up. That’s when I realized what Ivan had done.”

“Was he alright?”

“Yeah, I stitched him up. He was a little dizzy, but no worse for wear. But it made me realize that Ivan has gone too far.” He cast his gaze back up at Ford, the brightness in his eyes verging on fiery passion. “I don’t really understand why you do what you do, Dr. Pines. It even kinda scares me a little. But you never intentionally hurt innocent people. Dr. Bergstrum is a good person, and she doesn’t deserve to be terrorized in her own home. And your brother? Anyone who’s willing to throw down just to protect his friend is cool in my book.”

Darryl looked down into the bowl of water he still held in his hand. Ford wondered what he saw staring back at him.

“So,” Ford said, “what are you proposing?”

Darryl looked up, directly into Ford’s eyes. “I’m gonna finish patching you up, Dr. Pines, and then I’m getting you out of here.”

-----

Helen drummed her fingers against the sticky kitchen table. Across from her, doing everything he could to avoid looking her directly in the eye, was Ed Matthews. Her friend, her colleague. A man she’d worked with for almost seven years, who gently teased her about her interest in the paranormal. Who’d been there when life was almost too much for her.

The man who helped a memory-wiping cult break into her home and violently attack her.

Stan and Fiddleford sat in chairs between them, on the side of the table. Their eyes bounced between Helen and Ed, as if they were watching a pair of bombs, primed and ready to explode.

Helen didn’t blame them. That wasn’t very far off from how she felt.

“Helen, I know you’re angry, and I don’t blame you. You have every right to be.” Ed’s eyes were tired as he lifted them up gingerly to meet Helen’s glare. “But I promise you, I’m done lying. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Helen narrowed her eyes, fighting hard to keep her voice level and her fists from swinging in rage. “I’m counting on it, Ed,” she muttered. “I figure any explanation you give me has gotta be a pip.”

Ed ducked his head, away from her withering stare, ashamed. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out even a syllable, Helen cut him off and said, “You lied to me.” She was ashamed how her voice wavered ever so slightly. “You lied about Fiddleford, about that girl, about the old man...how? How could you do this?”

“I didn’t want to,” Ed said miserably, putting his head in his hands. “But you have no idea the kind of power the Society has. The kind of power Ivan has. And what could have happened to me if I didn’t play his game.”

Helen stole a glance at Fiddleford, whose brow was furrowed heavily, lost in thought. He was obviously trying hard to remember anything to do with this Ivan character, to see if there was any validity to Ed’s claims.

Until then, there was no way they could trust Ed.

“Helen, you of all people understand who absolutely insane this town is,” Ed said emphatically. “I know going to the Society was wrong, but it wasn’t until I actually saw for myself what drives people to it that I finally understood.”

“What exactly did you see?” Stan asked carefully.

Ed sighed, and replied, “My house isn’t that far beyond the lake. My wife loved the sounds of it at night.” He paused for a moment, his eyes suddenly very, very far away, but he quickly shook his head and continued on, “But then she started saying she...heard things out there. Low, rumbling noises. Almost like growls. I dismissed it as a dream, but she insisted there was something out there until the day she died. One night, not too long after her funeral, I couldn’t sleep, so I went down to the dock. That’s when I finally figured out what she was talking about.”

Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all leaned in, like scouts hearing a spooky campfire story.

“Poking above the water, staring right at me, was a pair of glowing yellow eyes.”

“So there really was something out in the lake,” Helen breathed. “That girl really did see something.”

“Yes,” Ed said sadly. “As soon as I heard her talking about seeing something in the lake, I knew exactly what she was talking about. So Ivan went looking for them.”

Fiddleford’s eyes went wide with horror. “You wiped their memories without their consent?!”

Ed flinched, like a chastened child. “I didn’t,” he said. “Ivan did.”

“And you just let your band of hooded freaks target a scared teenage girl?” Stan said, the contempt in his voice barely masked.

“You make it sound like I personally put the gun to her forehead,” Ed retorted. “I would never have told Ivan about her, about any of my patients, but I didn’t have to. Gossip travels fast in this town, and it wasn’t long before Ivan found out and went after the girl and her friends. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s like I said, I was too much of a coward to admit that what Ivan was doing was wrong. He has the entire Society convinced that the townsfolk are better off living in ignorance, even if we have to show them that by force.”

“How could he do this?” Fiddleford suddenly cried out. Helen, Stan, and Ed all whipped their heads around to look at him. He was angrier than Helen had ever seen him, and didn’t seem to notice at all that everyone’s attention was no on him. He raked a hand through his hair, grabbing up a clump of it halfway through and squeezing, as he continued to babble. “I thought Ivan understood why I was doing this more than anyone. I...he...he upheld the Society’s rules more than anyone. I just...I don’t understand where this all came from. It doesn’t seem like him at all.”

After a moment, Ed said, “Tell me something, sir. Do you remember the last conversation you had with Ivan before all this insanity began?”

Fiddleford gave him a confused look, and said, “Of course I do! I...we...oh, my god…”

Slowly, realization dawned on Fiddleford’s face.

“You don’t, do you?” Ed asked.

Fiddleford squeeze his hair tighter in his hand. “I...all I really remember is that Ivan was upset. He was yelling about something. But after that…” Fiddleford’s hand fell from his hair. He looked so very small as he muttered, “After that it’s all a blank.”

Suddenly, something clicked in Helen’s mind. “You must have caught him wiping the memories of that old man!”

Stan hummed thoughtfully, then said, “It adds up. It explains why you were in such piss-poor shape when Ford and I found you. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since Ivan shot you. And you’ve been surrounded by reminders of your past all day, so you’ve been recovering faster.”

“But...why?” Fiddleford asked helplessly. “Why would Ivan want to go behind my back?”

“For the obvious reason,” Helen said. “Because he’s doing something he didn’t want you to know about. He knew you’d never approve of whatever it is he’s doing, and he was right. So he wiped your memories.”

“And that’s how the Pines brothers found you,” Ed added. “You must have wandered out of the sanctum again.”

Helen quirked up her eyebrow, confused. Sanctums? If this cult of Fiddleford’s wasn’t actually pretty frightening, she’d laugh at how pretentious they were.

Her confusion must have been pretty clear, because Fiddleford said, “Sometimes, after using the gun, I’d be a bit, well, mixed up. I’d wander outside and sit in the alley, though not always intentionally. It helped me think, get my thoughts in order. And that’s where I must have gone after Ivan wiped my mind.”

Fiddleford plopped heavily into his seat, obviously overwhelmed by all that he’d just discovered. Helen didn’t blame him. She felt a bit like doing that herself. But she needed more answers. Turning back to Ed, she said, “But how did they get into my house? You were the only person who saw us today, who knew we were with Fiddleford. And I got some pretty good cuts in on whoever it was. Since you don’t have any cuts on your face, it couldn’t have been you.”

Ed sighed again, and reached into his robe sleeve. Helen, Stan, and Fiddleford all tensed immediately, ready to jump at whatever Ed had hidden inside.

But all he pulled out was a shiny, silver house key. An exact copy of the one Helen had used to unlock her front door, and then slash at an intruder less than ten minutes later.

Helen felt like she was going to be sick. She cast her glance back up at Ed, searching for answers. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. Yes, she was definitely going to be sick.

“You…” was all she managed to mumble before she had to stop. If she kept talking, she wouldn’t be able to hold down whatever was threatening to come up.

“I don’t know who attacked you, Helen, but this is how they got in,” Ed said. “I made a copy back around Christmas, when you and the kids went to Salem to visit your parents. You asked me to house sit for you.”

The world tilted around her. She shakily stood from her chair, her legs wobbling dangerously. Stan and Fiddleford both looked ready to jump from their chairs at the next move she made.

She was going to be sick or she was going to faint. She couldn’t tell which anymore.  

Ed was still talking. “I had been meaning to make one for a while before then. Ever since what happened with the baby-”

Something snapped inside her.

She couldn’t hear Ed anymore. Her heart had launched itself directly into her ears, and all she could hear was it hammering away, feeling like it was ready to burst. Somewhere far away, a tinny noise that she vaguely registered as Stan’s voice asked, “What baby?”

That was it.

Lurching like she was possessed, Helen flung herself at the sink, and with a painful spasm, vomited. There wasn’t much to bring up. The only thing she’d had in her stomach for the last few hours was a can of beer. Stomach acid followed shortly after, leaving a burning trail up her esophagus.

She felt a touch ghost across her back, and heard the distant voices of Stan and Fiddleford, talking to her, trying to get her to say something, anything, to indicate what was wrong. She couldn’t answer them. She had no air to answer them with. Their voices became even more muffled as she concentrated on her heavy breathing.

She tried to force down the pain that blossoms in his abdomen and lower back. She knew there was nothing there that could be causing it. She knew that the warm sensation of blood trickling down her leg wasn’t really there. And she knew Daisy’s panicked voice, stammering into the phone that her mother needed help, was just a phantom in her mind, played on a loop by her sadistic, traitorous brain.

She knew all this, and it didn’t help a damn bit.

Suddenly, she felt two calloused hand prying her grip from the sink, and gently guiding her away. They didn’t let go until she was sitting again, probably back at the kitchen table, and even then, the presence behind her didn’t fade. It stayed at her back like a supportive column. Another set of hands, these softer, gentler, grabbed up hers and held them. She heard a kind voice, with a soft hint of an accent speaking to her, piercing through the memories and the droning. It took her a moment to realize it was Fiddleford, and that the sturdy presence behind her was Stan.

Fiddleford was saying something, and slowly, the cacophony in her brain faded, abd she could make out words. “...just gonna slow your breathing down a bit, that’s right. In and out. In and out. Come on, Helen, you can do it. In...”

Slowly, laboriously, she followed his instruction. She took a shaky breath in.

“And out.”

She obeyed.

“Atta girl,” he said encouragingly, giving her hands a tight squeeze.

Helen’s cheeks burned with shame. Daisy had been right. She was a mess.

She cast a sidelong glance over at Ed, who looked positively mortified, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking like he desperately wanted to say something. Helen wished he wouldn’t. He’d already said quite enough.

But he finally spoke anyway. “Helen, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I...I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. I had no idea...I didn’t know that this was still so…”

“Doc, cool it for a minute,” Stan said sternly. “Let her breathe.”

“How’re you feeling?” Fiddleford asked her, his grip still tight and reassuring.

Like shit. Like I want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Like a hysterical, useless load. Like you guys are never going to look at me the same way ever again, her thoughts screamed.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, disgusted by how small her voice was. “I...I guess I’m not as okay with this as I thought.”

“Do you need anything?” Fiddleford asked. “Some water?”

“No, really, I’m okay,” she said. To prove it, she pulled her hands free of Fiddleford’s, even though the loss of the comforting warmth made her ache inside. She ignored it.

“Do you maybe wanna...I dunno, talk?” she heard Stan ask from behind her. She could almost picture his face, drawn tight with worry and care. He’d been shooting Ford that look all day, just waiting for the minute when his brother fell apart. And the fact that he might be looking at her that way made her almost feel sick enough to vomit again.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said sharply. “It was just a miscarriage. They happen to millions of women every single day.”

“Oh, Helen…” FIddleford put a hand to his heart, looking ready to cry. The shame that had pooled in her cheeks spread, prickling along her skin like poisoned barbs. She ducked her head down, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair.

“It was two years ago, Fiddleford,” she muttered. “Don’t go all weepy on me. I’ve had time to come to grips with it. Obviously not as good a grip as I thought, but it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”

“But what about…” Fiddleford began.

She cut him off, standing so abruptly that her chair nearly slammed right into Stan’s gut. “That was just a freak thing. I’m stressed and I’m tired and all I want to do is go bash this Ivan bastard’s face in and get Ford home.” She pushed past Fiddleford, still looking dewy-eyed, and headed out of the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “I also need some air. Come get me when you guys have a plan put together.”

She could feel their eyes on her back, even as she left their line of sight and headed towards the front door. She had to get out, and practically sprinted to close the distance between herself and the door. She flung it open and, as soon as she was out in the cold, wet night, she inhaled as deeply as she could, then shut the door behind her.

She stood there for a few minutes, just inhaling and exhaling, trying to force her mind to calm. It wasn’t working. She needed something to take the edge off.

Her gaze drifted, and in the dim porch light, she saw a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the railing.

They were probably Stan’s. She’d thought the smell of smoke on his jacket was stronger than usual.

Helen hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years, not since before she’d gotten married, and with all the new literature constantly coming out about the hazards of cigarettes, she’d felt it hypocritical to ever start up again. But now, she didn’t care. She needed one like she needed oxygen.

She snatched up the pack and pulled one out. The lighter was flimsy and cheap, and took a few clicked to finally hold a flame, but eventually she got it. As she took a few puffs, she heard the door open behind her. She hadn’t smoked enough of the cigarette to turn around and face whoever it was.

“I told you I don’t wanna talk about it,” she said. She didn’t care which one of them it was, or what they had to say. She was not going to just sit there and listen to them talk about how sorry they were and ask why she’d never told them and all that other shit she’d been hearing from anyone who ever found out.

All except Richard. After he found out and dealt with it for a few months, all he said was goodbye.

“I didn’t say anything,” Stan said behind her. “I mostly came out here to try and save my cigarettes. I already smoked a couple after my little spat with McGucket, and I figured if you found them, that’d be the end of them.”

Helen didn’t reply. She just exhaled and let her muscles relax.

They stood for a moment in silence. Stan didn’t make a move toward her or speak. Helen barely even heard him breathe. Then finally, he said, “I wish you could have told me when you were ready.”

That was one she’d never heard before. She glanced at him over her shoulder. He was looking out into the woods, his face somber.

“Even if you’d never told me,” Stan continued, “at least then it would have been on your terms. It might have been an accident, but Doc Matthews had no right to bring it up like that. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Helen turned around the rest of the way to face him. “If I had my way, no one would ever know,” she said. “It’s not exactly something I like to advertise.”

“That’s understandable,” Stan said. “It obviously still really bothers you.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Helen said, leaning back against the wall, tapping the ash from the tip of the cigarette. “People look at me differently when they know. Suddenly, I’m not a doctor or a woman who’s raising three kids by herself because her husband is a jack-off. I’m the woman who had a miscarriage, and I’m someone to be pitied. And being pitied is a fucking nightmare.”

“I get that,” Stan said. “But I’m not gonna stand here and pretend like what just happened didn’t scare the shit out of me. It’s not that I think you’re someone to be pitied. It’s that I’m worried about you, and wish you trusted me to support you in this. People like me and Fidds and Ford? We get what it’s like to live through something no one else can understand.”

Helen sighed, and said, “Stan, there are thousands of people who understand what I went through. Last time I checked the statistics, 10-20% of all pregnancies end in miscarriage. What happened to me was practically commonplace. It’s nothing compared to what you and your brother and Fiddleford have been through.” She felt a lump rising in her throat. “So...why does it still bother me?”

She saw Stan inch closer to her. Her voice was getting tighter, tears burning at the back of her throat. She didn’t want to cry. She was too exhausted to cry. She was too exhausted not to cry. “I’ve gone to the support groups,” she muttered thickly. “I’ve read the books. I’ve even done a little of the therapy. But every morning I wake up and it’s still there. It’s not always like this, but it’s there. And if I can let something like this rattle me so much, for so long? Then when good am I to you? What good am I to anyone?”

Stan was flush against her side right now. Without even thinking about it, she let her head fall, until it landed on his broad shoulder. His jacket was damp and soaked her hair a bit. She didn’t care. The tears that trailed down her nose were going to make it even wetter anyway.

“Helen,” Stan said softly, “it doesn’t matter what happened to make you feel like this. It might not be a homelessness or cults or weird demons, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it was horrible, and it happened to you. That’s all the reason you need to still be affected by it. There aren’t any rules that tell you when you’re supposed to be okay with something.”

She didn’t answer him, she just took another drag of the cigarette, her hand trembling as she brought it to her lips.

After another beat of silence, Stan said, “That bastard walked out right after it happened, huh?”

She nodded as blew out the smoke. “A couple of months, give or take. He said he couldn’t deal with it. Couldn’t deal with me. Later, I realized he’d probably been looking for an out, and the baby was his excuse.”

“Piece of shit,” Stan muttered.

“I was gonna have a girl,” she muttered. “I wanted to name her Christina.”

She felt Stan move his arm down, and cup her hand in his. It was warm. She tossed the half-finished cigarette over the railing and into the bushes.

“You could have at least had the decency to finish it,” Stan grumbled, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Don’t you know those things give you cancer?” she replied. “You should be thanking me.”

“You wanna head back in, maybe lay down?” Stan offered. “We’re trying to put together a bit of strategy. Ed’s offering to take us to bust out Ford, and we need to hurry.” She heard the worry creeping into his voice, despite his efforts to keep things casually for her sake. “Apparently, he’s not in great shape.”

“I’m coming with you,” Helen said firmly. There was no two ways about it.

“You sure?” Stan asked. She could see the doubt in his eyes, and she wanted to smack it out of him.

“Never been more sure,” she replied. “I feel like a pretty good catharsis for me right now would be to beat in the face of the fuckwad who caused me all this misery. And since Richard moved to California, that only leaves this Ivan bastard.”

Stan smirked a little, and said, “Alright then. I’m not gonna stop you. You can even take my bat. It’ll give me an excuse to brush off my knuckle dusters. And give your house keys a rest.” He punctuated that last comment with a playful check of her shoulder. She couldn’t suppress the smile.

She couldn’t help it. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “You’re a good person, Stanley Pines.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said. He began leading her back into the house. He didn’t let go of her hand. “Now let’s go knock around some cultists.”

Helen pushed down the gnawing in the pit of her stomach, nodded, and followed him in.

-----

Rfc fmsp md rpsrf hq ajmqc yr filb

Ufcpe msp jcpmcq ugjj kyic rfcgp dglyj qrykb

Zsr umkcmlc ‘q rpsqr fyq zccl kgqjygb

Ugjj rfcw dglb msr gl rgkc ufm fyq zccl njywcb?

[aceofstars16]

Trapped in the Past (Chapter 2)

Second chapter of my Timetrapped fic inspired by @artsycrapfromsai!

When Mabel and Dipper fight over a time machine, they find themselves sent back thirty years in the past. Now it’s up to the younger versions of their great uncles to get them home.

Chapter 2 - A Fruitless Search

Dipper searches for Mabel in the snow. Mabel tries to find Dipper in Dead End Flats. Discouragement abounds, but at least they both have someone looking out for them.

 1 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

AO3

“Mabel!”

The wind blew Dipper’s hair back as he called out, chilling his face and making him shiver despite the coat and socks. He didn’t know when he had lost his hat, all he knew was that it was nowhere to be seen. Which was unfortunate because right now it would help his head say warmer, and of course there was the fact that it hid his birthmark.

Narrowing his eyes against the cold, Dipper caught sight of Stanford looking back at him and out of pure instinct he reached up and flattened his bangs against his forehead. For a moment, the author just looked at him, a frown on his face, but then he turned and kept walking. After taking a few steps, however, Dipper realized they were going down the wrong trail.

“Uh, Mr. uh…Stanford, er…”

Stopping in his tracks, Stanford looked back at him, eyes narrowed slightly. “Just call me Ford.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what Dipper was expecting. He always imagined the author as this larger than life person, not someone he could just call…a nickname? “Ummm, I think I actually came from that trail.” Pointing to the path that he was pretty sure would lead to the carnival clearing, Dipper found his hand once again pressing  down his bangs.

Ford glanced at the trail for a moment, as if lost in thought. Then he shook his head before walking forward, but as he passed Dipper he spoke. “You don’t need to keep covering your birthmark. No one is going to see it out here.”

Dipper’s hand fell to his side as he watched Ford continue to walk in the snow. Of course someone with six fingers would be used to rude comments, in fact, that was just one of the things that Dipper had connected with while reading the journal. However, he still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of his hero, now that he was actually meeting him. The suspicious behavior and disheveled look wasn’t exactly what he had been imagining, but surely there was an explanation for that?

“Hurry up, this weather can change in an instant and I don’t want to be stuck in a blizzard.”

Ford’s voice interrupted Dipper’s thoughts and he shook his head before trotting forward, going as fast as he could in the snow. “Sorry, coming!”

Stumbling after the author, Dipper kept his eyes out for any sign of Mabel, calling out her name every few feet. But as they reached the clearing, the only sign of life were his own footprints from earlier.

“MABEL!” Dipper called out, his voice already getting sore from shouting so much. Her name rang through the clearing but there was no response, just the whistling of wind.

“There are a few caves we can check, this way.” Ford waved his hand and kept walking, though Dipper couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to keep glancing around quickly, as if he was being watched. Each time he did, Dipper would cast a worried glance behind him. There didn’t seem to be anything around, but Ford’s unease was contagious. That, plus there being no sign of his sister anywhere, resulted in a heaviness settling on his chest that was impossible to ignore.

“Mabel! Mabel please, I’m sorry for everything, please answer!”

Wind was the only response. Again, and again, at each nook and cave that Ford lead them to, and with each empty response, Dipper grew more and more worried.

“No signs here either.”

Dipper barely heard Ford’s voice through the exhaustion of his body and the anxiety clouding his mind. “S-she has to be around h-here somewhere.” As he spoke, Dipper’s teeth chattered. The coat that had barely been keeping him warm was now drenched at the bottom. He wasn’t even sure it was keeping any warmth in now.

Hugging himself Dipper started walking forward again, not even sure where else Mabel could be, but not wanting to give up either. Then Ford’s arm appeared in front of him, blocking his way. Glancing up at him, Dipper could see a frown on his face. However, he wasn’t looking at Dipper, but the sky.

“It’s getting dark.” Ford’s frown grew as he spoke, as if not liking what he was about to say. “We need to head back before the sun goes down. Or else we are going to freeze.”

“But, w-what about M-Mabel?!?” Despite the shivers that were shaking his entire body, Dipper knew he couldn’t just go back to the Shack without finding her.

“There is no telling where she is. Maybe she found someone to take her in for the night, but we can’t stay out here any longer.”

It was the last thing Dipper wanted to do, but as Ford started making his way back down the trail, Dipper followed. Exhaustion and despair weighing him down.

Then, as he was stumbling after Ford, his foot caught on a rock and he couldn’t catch himself - his body was too exhausted from trekking around in the snow for over an hour. Landing face first in the snow, Dipper’s incessant shivering, which had overtaken his body, grew even worse.

“What are you-?”

Dipper heard Ford’s voice cut off, but he was so tired that he couldn’t even respond. His whole body felt like a block of ice. He wasn’t even sure he could get up again. He was so drained, both emotionally and physically. All he wanted to do was lie down and wake up back in the Mystery Shack he knew with Mabel safe next to him.

“Come on, we need to hurry.” A hand rested on his shoulder and as Dipper forced himself to look up, he saw Ford crouching next to him. A moment later the author stood and offered him a hand. Closing his eyes for a moment, Dipper tried to gather his strength and remind himself that he couldn’t do Mabel any good if he froze out here. Then he reached up, accepting Ford’s hand and allowing himself to be pulled up.

The whole walk back, Dipper was barely aware of the hand that rested on his shoulder, guiding him at each turn in the trail, or how he was pulled up and steadied every time he stumbled. All he could think about was putting one foot in front of the other. But in the back of his mind, worry nagged at him and he couldn’t help but be weighed down by the fact that Mabel might be out in the cold, all alone. All because of a stupid fight over a machine. He’d gladly give up his day with Wendy just to know that Mabel was okay.

Ford was exhausted. Though that was normal for him lately. However, now his body felt even more drained. It took most of his concentration to keep standing, though he constantly reminded himself to keep on eye on Dipper. Of course Bill would send someone who had an oddity as well, trying to get Ford to feel pity so he would let down his guard. And it had worked. Ford found himself helping the kid take off the soaked clothes he was wearing and wrap him up in a few blankets that he could find. He had even turned on the heater despite knowing warmth might lull him to sleep again.

It was a ploy, he kept telling himself that. But part of him also realized that Dipper might not know Bill was using him. After all, Ford himself had been a pawn for the demon. And if that was the case, then, well…Dipper was just a kid. Plus, his fingers had been turning blue by the time they had made it back to the house. Ford might not trust the kid, but he wasn’t just going to let someone freeze.

Besides, he doubted Dipper had any energy to do anything for Bill at the moment. As soon as he had sat on the couch, the kid hadn’t moved and even as Ford checked again, he was in the same spot, still shivering a little despite the blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

A beeping interrupted Ford’s observation and he made his way back to the kitchen, sighing as he noted that his coffee wasn’t finished brewing yet. He really needed something to give him some energy or he was liable to fall asleep on his feet. Shaking his head - both clear it and to wake himself up - Ford pulled the mug out of the microwave before pouring an old package of hot chocolate mix into the water. He didn’t drink much of the stuff, but Fiddleford had kept some around and apparently he had left a few packages behind.

Once he had mixed the powder as well as he could, Ford made his way back to the living room, trying not to pay attention to how his legs felt like they were full of led.

“Here, drink this.”

Dipper looked up slowly, and for a second he looked confused, but then he focused on the mug and reached out to accept it, his fingers tightly wrapping around the warm cup before taking a sip. A small shiver ran through his body, but then he took another sip and his shoulders relaxed a little.

“Aren’t you cold?”

The question took Ford by surprise and he stared at Dipper for a moment. Yes, he was cold, but he was used to being cold - it had become normal for him. Though he supposed, he was a little colder than he would like. “I’m fine, I have coffee brewing.”

A quiet “oh” was the only response as Dipper continued to drink his cocoa, his eyes drooping more with each sip. Well at least it seemed to be warming him up, though Ford felt a knot of unease forming in his gut as Dipper seemed about a second away from falling asleep. Bill loved using people while they slept…

However, a few minutes later – after Ford had put Dipper’s mug in the sink and watched as the kid slept – he had to admit his worry seemed to be unwarranted. Dipper was out cold and there was no sign of Bill anywhere. Well, aside from the quiet whispers that continued to follow Ford wherever he went. He had even heard them out in the snow, despite being far away from the portal. Occasionally they fell into the background, but then he would hear them again and the paranoia in his chest would return – though he was starting to think that maybe that it had never actually left.

Taking a sip of coffee, Ford forced himself to move again – even standing still for too long resulted in him almost falling over from exhaustion. He needed to move, and despite not wanting to turn his back on Dipper, he found himself making his way to the basement. The portal had been shut off for a while now, but Ford had to check it multiple times a day or else he would go crazy. There was no telling what Bill would do to turn it on. So, he constantly checked on it, making sure everything was in place, turned off and harmless. It was a necessary precaution, just until Stan got there…that is, if Stan even came at all.

Unease settled in Ford’s chest at the thought, but he tried to push it aside. If Stanley didn’t come, he would…he would figure something out. Probably.

“Are you her father?”

Stan stared at the man who he had pulled aside a moment ago to ask about seeing Mabel’s brother. They had been going at it for at least an hour with no luck whatsoever – which weighed down on Stan’s chest. Not just because of his looming deadline but because he could see Mabel slowly losing heart.

Opening his mouth, Stan was about to reply that he was in no way anything close to a father - just someone trying to help - when Mabel’s words cut him off.

“No, he’s my gr-uh…uncle! Well sometimes I call him grunkle but that’s cause he’s a great uncle, not like an actual great uncle but an awesome uncle, you know?”

The words tumbled out of her mouth so quickly that Stan found himself simply staring at her for a second, trying to process exactly what she had just said.

“Huh…is that so?” The man looked at Stan, who forced a quick smile and put an arm around Mabel.

“Yup, sure is!” Okay, so it wasn’t the truth, but if he disagreed with Mabel there was no telling what kind of complications might arise and he was just trying to help her. If people assumed they were related, it would get rid of any of the awkwardness surrounding the fact that he was walking around with a child he had just met. Even if he had no ill intentions toward her.

For a moment the man just looked at them then shrugged. “Sorry I haven’t seen anyone like you described, hope you find him.”

As the man walked away, Mabel sighed, slumping against Stan’s leg. “Why hasn’t anyone seen him?”

Stan patted her head, frowning as he looked around the street. “I don’t know kiddo, maybe he’s hanging out in one spot? What does he like to do?”

She opened her mouth, only to close it, a shadow of sadness passing over her face. “He likes video games, but also weird things like conspiracy theories and stuff. And reading, he likes to read too.”

As she spoke, Stan felt a small knot of emotion grow in his chest. Weird things and books? Of course he ran into the one kid who’s brother sounded just like Ford…or at least, what Ford had been like as a kid. Trying to shake off the thought, Stan looked around. “Well, we can try the library. And there might be an arcade somewhere around here?”

Despite being in this town for a few weeks, Stan hadn’t really been to the…regular spots, but he figured there would at least be a library. And seeing as arcades were getting more popular, there might be one somewhere, or at least a restaurant that had a machine or two.

“Okay…” Something about Mabel’s demeanor had changed, but Stan had no clue what had caused it, so he tried for smile.

“I’m sure we’ll find him soon.” It was a lie. Stan had no idea if they would find her brother, there was no telling what could happen, especially in a place like this. But as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he shoved it away. No, Dipper was fine and they were going to find him. End of story.

Determination settling in his chest, Stan patted Mabel’s back in assurance before setting off to find the nearest arcade.

“Here you are darling.”

Mabel looked up from the café counter at the basket of chicken strips and fries. Despite the worry weighing her down, she felt her stomach rumble and she hesitantly grabbed a strip, nibbling on it as she watched some kids playing Pac Man a few tables away. Dipper wasn’t one of them.

A hand grabbed some fries from the basket and Mabel turned to look at Stan, who was stuffing the food into his mouth. He hadn’t said anything since they ordered but from the way he kept sticking his hand in his pocket, she couldn’t help but wonder if he could actually afford the food. She sure hoped so, not only because she didn’t have any money either, but also because she didn’t like the thought of her great uncle being broke. It just wasn’t right.

“Hey, chin up kiddo, I’m sure we’ll find him soon.”

Stan gave her a smile, though she couldn’t help but wonder if it was real or forced. They had been searching for hours and there wasn’t even a sign of Dipper. She didn’t want to stop, but her knees – which hadn’t felt too bad at first - were starting to sting and ache. Also, her sweater and skirt combo wasn’t exactly the best for staying outside for long periods of time, at least, not when it was cold out.

“Find who.”

The waitress that had taken their order was back, filling up their glasses with water. Mabel opened her mouth, but found she couldn’t get the words out. That her brother was missing without a trace, that she was stuck in the past with no way home, that she didn’t even have a clue as to what she should do now. All because of a stupid fight. Sure, she loved Waddles, and she didn’t want to give him up but...she would gladly do so if it meant she could be home with Dipper right now.

“Uh, her brother. He ran off and we’ve been looking for him for a few hours now.” Stan answered the question - the half lie rolling off his tongue with well-practiced ease. At least this Stan was the same in that regard, despite being about thirty years younger than Mabel was used to.

“You check the police station? They might be able to help.”

“That’s our next stop.” Stan said it so fast, Mabel almost didn’t catch the way his hand twitched a little. She had to admit the idea of going to the police wasn’t really ideal to her either. Not only because of that night in the Gravity Falls jail during a ‘family bonding’ day, but also because she really didn’t know if they could help. Dipper might be in an entirely different year for all she knew.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mabel saw the waitress – Pam, if she was remembering the nametag right – leave only to come back a moment later and set a plate down in front of her.

“Here darling, it’s on the house.”

Sitting up, Mabel could feel her sweet tooth acting up as she took in the huge slice of apple pie that was now sitting in front of her. She looked at Stan and the unfinished chicken nuggets, but he just waved at the pie. Oh yeah, this was the Stan she knew, who let her have ice cream for breakfast on a regular basis.

The next few minutes passes by in silence – Mabel eating every crumb of the pie while Stan finished off the rest of the chicken and fries.

“So…I can take you to the police if you want…”

Mabel, who had been licking her plate to savor any last traces of ice cream, froze and lowered the plate to the table, not sure how to respond. She wanted to find Dipper but from Stan’s hesitance, and her own uncertainties about consulting the police, she was reluctant to say anything. But after a moment, she asked quietly, “Do…you think they would actually be able to help?”

“Eh,” Stan rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Probably. Even if they can’t find him right away, they could ask other cites and maybe even put up fliers and stuff. And they could probably get you home too.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, anxiety jumped up in Mabel’s chest. Home. The police couldn’t get her home. Heck, she didn’t even think home existed right now. Her parents might not even be born for all she knew. Stan was the only family she had right now and the thought of trusting strangers to get her to a home that wasn’t even created yet was…She shook her head.

“I don’t…” Her voice died in her throat. She couldn’t explain all of that to Stan, or at least, she wasn’t sure if she should. Or if he would even believe her if she did. And if Dipper was here, she knew he would argue that it could ruin the future if she said anything about it.

“Hey, don’t worry they uh…they’ll know what to do.”

A hand rested on Mabel’s shoulder and in any other circumstance, she would’ve agreed. But this wasn’t a normal situation. No one would believe that she was from the future, and even if they did, she doubted they could help her get home.

“Can’t I just stay with you?” It was the only option that didn’t totally terrify her. If she really was stuck in the past, she’d rather be stuck with Stan.

Stan laughed, though it was forced. “Trust me kid, you don’t want to.”

Running a hand through her hair, Mabel couldn’t look at him, because from everything she’d seen of his life that might be true, but she knew she would be safe with Stan. Even though he didn’t know her, she knew him and she knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “I really do…”

Shaking his head, Stan sighed. “Come on, the car isn’t too far away. I can take you to the police station. It... it’ll be for the best.”

Stan got up before she could answer and Mabel tried to force down the panic that was rising in her chest. What could she say to convince Stan to let her stay with him? Fear and desperation raced through her as she stumbled after Stan, out of the diner and onto the street. Her chest grew tighter and tighter as emotion overwhelmed her until she couldn’t hold back a sob. If only Dipper was here, he’d know what to do, probably…at least they’d at least be together.

“Oh gosh…hey, it’s okay, kiddo.”

Mabel looked up at Stan, her eyes blurry from tears as another sob escaped her mouth. “N-no it’s not I, Dipper is g-gone and I can’t go h-home and I-I don’t know how t-to- and I just want to s-stay with y-you and-“ Her voice cut off as sobs overwhelmed her completely and she flung herself at Stan, wanting to hide away from every terrifying and overwhelming thought and just pretend she was back in Gravity Falls crying over a movie or a stupid crush.

For a moment, there was nothing. Then a sigh and arms wrapping around her. “It’s okay, I…you can stay with me for…for tonight at least, okay?”

Snuggling closer to him, Mabel managed to whisper out a thank you. It wasn’t perfect. She still didn’t know what to do, but at least she didn’t have to leave the only family she had right now.

This was a mess. Stan didn’t know what the heck he was doing. He should not have caved; he should’ve driven Mabel straight to the police. It would be for the best. But her absolute trust in him – despite being totally unwarranted – was touching, if not a little worrisome. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the kid, it was just…he wasn’t even equipped to take care of himself. How could care for someone else’s needs too? He couldn’t just say no though, not when she had started crying, looking so scared and helpless. Gosh, he wished he knew what was going on so he could actually help her, but whenever he tried to bring it up, she just got quiet, so he left it.

“There, that should do it.” Tucking the bandage in itself so it wouldn’t come undone, Stan reached up and ruffled Mabel’s hair. Not long after he agreed to let her stay, he had noticed how scrapped up her knees were, and thankfully the hotel had let him have some things to patch her up. Okay maybe they hadn’t given them to him, but they didn’t exactly guard the stuff very well either…

“Thanks grun-uh, Stan…” Her voice was quiet, and her gaze was transfixed on her knees, her hands brushing over the bandages. It was such a contrast from how she had been talking his ear off a few hours ago and it worried him. But he tried not to think about it. Tomorrow she would be out of his life. It was for the best, she’d realized that. She just needed some sleep and time to think about it, that’s all.

“Uh, yeah, no prob. You should probably get some sleep now though.”

Mabel looked at the bed then up at Stan for a moment. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Ah…” Stan rubbed his neck, sleep was just about the furthest thing from his mind right now. “Don’t worry about me kiddo, I’m not really tired anyway.”

For a moment, Mabel frowned at him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, don’t you worry about me, kiddo.” Stan tried for a smile, which Mabel returned, though it was only a half-smile.

“Okay…” She looked at her knees one more time then slowly lied down on the bed, but her eyes stayed open. “What is a Stan Vac?”

A real laugh escaped Stan’s mouth as he looked at the boxes piled up behind him. “Ah, just a business idea. Didn’t really fly.”

“Can… can you tell me about it?”

Well that would be the strangest bedtime story ever, but if that’s what she wanted… “Sure…it all started in Virginia…” Stan recounted the story from his past – thankfully it was one of the most child friendly ones he had. Mainly just a lot of door to door campaigns and trying to fix broken machines because they were pretty poorly made. But it seemed to do the trick. Slowly Mabel’s eyes closed and as he concluded the tale, he could see her chest rising and falling slowly.

“Sweet dreams kiddo.” Stan pulled a blanket over her shoulders and glanced at the clock. Crap, he was going to be late.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to refocus himself. It was time to talk himself out of a debt. And he knew if he wanted to stand a chance at that, he needed to be on his A game, especially with Rico. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from double checking the lock on the door before he left. As long as Mabel was in his life, he was going to make sure she was safe. No matter what.

[friendlycybird]

1X11 - Little Dipper - Rewatch

Yes, I’m still doing these. I’m sorry it’s been so long.

I don’t have much preamble to this one. Let’s just get started, shall we?

Hang on, I need to listen to the things Gideon lists from Journal 2 again real quick... Zombie attack, Blood rain, and Demon Caterpillars. Ford devotes a decent amount of Journal 3 to The Undead, were those pages a redundancy from Journal 2? I’d think it was just additional information but it all seemed pretty fundamental... regardless, I’m a lot more curious then I should be about Blood Rain and Demon Caterpillars.

Stan’s first reaction to someone who *might* be from the IRS showing up on his doorstep is to vanish in a puff of smoke and try to escape with his money stash. ...I’m probably overthinking this, but it seems there’s some stuff to unpack there. I won’t waste any more time on it for now. Moving on.

So not only did Stan instantly figure out it was a con, he figured out Gideon was behind the con. I’d love to know how. Is it just that he doesn’t currently have any other enemies? Or does he think so little of the scheme he assumes it could only have been thought up by a ten-year-old? I mean, it’s obvious why he didn’t fall for it, he never entered any sweepstakes and he’s not an idiot. But how did he know who was behind it? And he had to have known who was behind it otherwise he’d have left it at “suck a lemon”.

Ah, right back into form. I’m only to the themesong and I already have three paragraphs. Nice.

Okay but. How did Soos notice a literal millimeter? That’s totally impossible. One millimeter apart they look the exact same height, how did he just...know...that Mabel was taller?

Stan waking up super excited to make fun of someone is funny. Also, paused to type this and I’m loving their expressions. Mabel is just grinning, Dipper’s fuming, Stan is excited and Soos...well...Soos just looks...slightly concerned. I love Soos. And of course he goes on to recommend against giving Dipper TOO hard of a time. I kinda doubt Stan actually misinterpreted it as Soos joining in picking on Dipper since like...he’s known Soos for years... but more like he just saw an opening Soos left and took it.

Also I COMPLETELY forgot that Mabel high-fives hard enough to hurt Stan. People high-fiving hard enough to hurt others always makes me think of Miles Luna from Rooster Teeth? But also I desperately need a fic now where Ford and Mabel high-six, and then Mabel leaves the room and Ford kinda shakes his hand out a bit and Stan just like...smirks ‘cause he saw that coming.

Literally a foot to the left and Dipper would have been in so much trouble with that Mountain Lion...

Fic Fuel moment of the day: The giant butterfly. ...how many other animals do you think wander through those enlarging beams? How many of them do you think suddenly get a lot more dangerous when they do? ...Just in case anyone needs a random threat in the woods to send people running from for plot reasons. I’m sure I’m not the first to think of it but I still thought of it!

There Soos is, noticing millimeters again. I think it might be a thing. Your average Gravity Falls character has one borderline paranormal ability. Mabel can knit sweaters superhumanly fast, and Soos can see individual millimeters.

Paused again for a bit, and look at Soos’ face! He’s so happy for Dipper!

How does Mabel jump from “Magic thing” to “Wizard in the closet” and then remain CONVINCED there is a Wizard in the closet?

Y’know...that distracting Gideon bit was kinda a risk? Like it paid off and the termites totally backfired on Gideon but like. The jar coming open could STILL have set those things lose on the shack. The only way I could imagine Stan knew how that would play out is if Journal 1 had a more detailed entry on those things then Journal 2 so Stan knew they’d turn on Gideon? Otherwise...pure luck.

...does the whole bit where they’re fighting and randomly re-sizing parts of each other’s bodies remind anyone else of the episode of Rick and Morty where Summer uses that re-sizing machine and ends up...y’know. Like that.

I kinda love Dipper’s flat “really?” when Mabel accadently tells Gideon what the flashlight does.

Say, where’d Fiddleford get the money he shoved at Bud?

Gideon is creepy, full stop.

Mabel getting distracted by gummy koalas that are literally almost her size while Gideon interrogates Dipper is...one thing.

The thing that strikes me though...is that...Dipper has known this whole time that there were other journals. He has Journal 3, after all. But there’s never been any indication he’s so much as tried to go looking for the others? Gideon, on the other hand, gets one whiff of Journal 1, having no clue that Journal 3 even exists, and starts interrogating Dipper about it.

It occurs to me to be SO grateful that Gideon never realized he could just kill Dipper, thereby proving his violent intent to Stan, and STILL ransom Mabel for the shack.

Also, I really should’ve known what kind of visual to expect from the near end of this episode the minute I saw Soos in the room of mirrors.

It’s come to my attention that I overanalyize every goddamn word that comes out of Stan’s mouth. Emphasis on Over. Because like, a glance in the mirror and wondering about a random physical feature isn’t that...like it doesn’t actually merit much if any consideration. But I’ve been stuck for much longer then I’m going to admit to trying to form the question... was the complete thought behind “Were my ears always this big?” more in the direction of “have I changed that much in the last thirty years” or more “were my ears always noticeably different then Fords?” ...or was it, as I genuinely think is most likely, just a passing thought without a connection to anything and my brain just really needs to get its breaks checked?

And can’t let Soos trying on the Fez go without mention. Not much to say about it, except that it makes me kinda warm and fuzzy to know that when he says “One Day” he’s right.

Gideon also really should have opened with something a bit more convincing then a phone call? Like...he’s a fucking creep but he’s also kinda bad at being a fucking creep? Which. Is technically a huge relief but it sorta fucks with my villain brain.

...I want to be mad at Dipper and Mabel for getting distracted by the height thing, but they’re twelve. I can forgive them. I love Mabel trying to ride the hamster to freedom though. 

Gideons family has a doggie door but there’s no sign they have a dog. 

Hey, why was Susan at the bus stop if she wasn’t gonna get on the bus? 

Yet again my villain brain scolds Gideon some. Not for not having a better plan this time, but just for his obvious flaw of vanity. Getting a gummy koala in your hair shouldn’t delay your plot, it should speed it up because you know someone is trying to stop you. 

Gideons observation that they would have defeated him if not for their bickering seems a little...I think the phrase is On the Nose? But. Kids show, it’s allowed lines like that. That said, Dipper. If she brings you back to unequal heights you can take the flashlight back and FIX IT. It’s not that big of a deal. 

Hi. Soos uses his own name as a verb for messing up. I’m okay. It’s funny. ...it also hurts. 

Soos is ADORABLE. I can’t get distracted by that though. This is about important stuff about the episode. Stuff that at least pretends to be worth over-thinking. Which means I really need to focus on Mabel and Dipper making up. Mabel doing something that makes Dipper upset, but she does it explicitly as a reaction to Dipper’s behavior is...well it has some rather more lighthearted parallels to some of the elder Pines twins drama, doesn’t it? 

Stan in the mirror maze just makes me happy though. I can’t help but feel like some part of him was going “I’ve always wanted to do this” the whole time. 

So, I pause the episode to ponder if I want to make a big deal out of Soos’ reaction to falling off of Gideon being to shout “Tell my story!” because, y’know, there’s something to talk about there...and my partner decides to fill the silence making a joke about it. She starts singing “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story” from Hamilton, and I crack up laughing. Had to pass that along. I really do think there’s something to be said about Soos as a person from that reaction though. Hell if I can identify exactly what, but there’s something. 

...villain brain is scolding Gideon again. If he hadn’t stopped to monologue, he would have succeeded. It took a minute for Dipper and Mabel to get into position for tickling, and in that minute he could’ve taken the time to shrink Stan...but for some reason he wanted to make threats and back him literally against a wall first. 

I love Stan’s awkwardness when Gideon devolves into hysterics. I love even more that he actually tried to comfort Gideon a little before physically rolling him out of the shop. 

I felt really bad for Soos here, being forgotten like that. I still do, honestly. I love him so much. Of course...that was also their first confirmation that Soos was okay after that fall. ...Which also feels bad ‘cause for all they knew at that point Soos was dead. Yikes. Also, I wonder if they ended up just somehow gluing that crystal back together, or if they went out into the woods for another one. 

The scene at the end with the grand-prize check showing up at the door...did Stan actually not play a sweepstakes like I thought above and this new thing is somehow a mistake, or does he just...not for one second consider he’s lucky enough to have actually won? Fidds being the runner-up is also interesting, he’s just...not ready for that kind of money yet. 

I always feel like I need a better way to wrap these up then just my reaction to the ending, but I pretty much never have one. Sorry. 

[siodymph]

Stanchez Apprecition Week: Day 3

And here’s day 3! Where Rick is making gifts for Dipper and Mabel’s 15th b-day and Stan gives him some help!

You can read it here under the cut or over on my AO3! 

And just a reminder I'm taking stanchez requests until March 24th. So if you have any ideas for stories don't be shy!

Rick still couldn’t believe it. The summer was already over. And soon he and the rests of the Smith’s would be leaving Gravity Falls and heading back to suburbia-hell Washington. It was so weird to think about. Just a few months ago it felt like time had literally slowed down, Rick had to check his one of his universal time tables just to make sure any freaky temporal shit was happening in this weirdo hick town in the middle of nowhere. It had been a real long, boring summer. The worst that happened was a gnome civil war and a unicorn revolt. It had been way to quiet for Rick’s liking. He ended up dragging Stan or Morty and the other kids off into the multiverse every other night just to keep things interesting. And even then things still felt so quiet.

While it was happening it felt so boring. And yet now that was the last week of summer vacation it felt like it all went by in an instant. It messed with his head. Not a lot, but just enough to piss him off.

At least summers in Gravity Falls never ended on a sappy depressing note, with everyone moping around and feeling like shit. It was always pretty nice that the Twin’s birthday landed right at the end of the summer so they could all go out partying.

And from all the commotion he heard upstairs this morning, this was going to be an interesting one for sure. The second summer the Smith’s spent up here but it would be Dipper and Mabel’s third summer, and they were turning 15.

Now knowing the two a lot better than last year or the year before, Rick wanted to make them presents they would actually like. Something they would actually use and not just set aside in the back of a closet to collect dust. He wanted to knock their fucking socks off.

So while they were all upstairs party planning or whatever he went down to Ford’s underground labs and got cracking.

Of the two Mabel was the easier. Honestly he could of made literally anything and as long as he bedazzled it in hot pink Mabel would of loved it. But this summer he’d gone forty steps beyond that. So he’d made a modified version of one of his old favorites before his portal gun. It was a gun where each interchangeable barrel had a different purpose, there was a grappling hook, glitter canon, laser, freeze-ray, hot glue, this guy had everything Mabel could need. And he also painted it hot pink and bedazzled it. He knew the kid always liked her sparkles even when she was in the underbelly of her “punk goth stage” in life which was “totally not a phase guys!”

Dipper had been a little harder to pin down at first. He ended up scrapping his initial plan because half-way through he realized he wasn’t really making something Dipper would want, he was making something Ford would want. So he tossed out his first idea for an electronic journal. But he did keep the concept of a database for his work. And instead of making it writing base, he set it up on a medium the kid used a lot more, camera. This camera could record and hold years of film, and all of it would go into a secure database for all his recordings and research.

Both the gun and the camera were completely finished, and just in time as the party was tonight at Fiddleford’s fancy mansion. All he had left to do was wrap the bastards.

Too bad wrapping gifts was the one few thing he sucked at. When it came to design, he was always functionality and price over looks and god did it show in his gift-wrapping. He already demolished one whole roll of paper, it all sat on the floor in shreds and coated in more tape than paper. And he was working his way to wasting one and a half roll of wrapping paper as he botched up his latest attempt at wrapping. It might have been easier if he’d made the gifts box-shaped, or put them in boxes, but they were so asymmetrical and always looked like shit once he had them secured in tape. He was just about to give up and go look for gift bags like a weakling when the elevator down to the lab came to life and started whirring.

As the cart came down Rick crossed his fingers hoping it wasn’t Ford. When it came to parties the guy usually ducked to find a hiding spot and wait everything out if he could and he really didn’t want him coming down here and seeing the shitty state of his presents.

When the doors finally opened though he was slightly less upset to see Stan there. Sure his Lee wasn’t as annoying as Ford, he was dating him again after all, but he still wasn’t happy with anyone seeing him struggle to do something as easy as wrap presents.

“There you are! Been looking for your sorry hind everywhere!” Stan called out as he stepped down into the basement laboratory.

As he walked towards the bench Rick had been working on he wondered if maybe he should bother hiding the presents, at least all the paper and tape on the floor. But Stan was getting close and it was already too late, he saw the mess and his eyes widened a little.

Then he just smirked at Rick, clasping his hands behind his back like a dick. “Wow! You still have no idea how to wrap presents?”

“It’s harder than it looks, ass!” Rick huffed as he looked back at his recent attempts at presents. This time round wasn’t too bad… on one side. When he turned it over it was a mess of taped-off papers. There were a few spots where the paper didn’t even cover the gift. Pouting he once again ripped off all the paper and tossed it on the ground.

Before he could start attempt number 23 Stan stopped him, nudging him aside and swiping the roll or wrapping paper out of his hands. “Here, let an old pro! Mabel’s been hounding me on proper wrapping etiquette ever since she first came here!”

“I’m fine!”

“Come on, it’ll take be like two minutes! Besides, you really want to show the kids these? You know Jerry would have a field day with’em!”

Rick caved in at that, he could take humiliation from anybody else, but never in his life would he ever let a Jerry talk shit about him. He hoisted himself up onto the bench to watch Stan at work.

As he worked he rolled out a sheet of paper double the size of Mabel’s gift and began marking off crease line with a pencil along all the funky little curve and nobules on the gun. Then after cutting a few of the creases, he folded them over so they were fleshed to the shape of the gun. Soon after strips of paper were stretched across and while you could clearly see it was a gun, it was still completely wrapped-up.

As Stan went to work on wrapping Rick’s camera, he flashed a cheeky grin at Rick.

“Show off.” He muttered, still pouty but unable to stop watching Stan at work.

“You’re welcome!” Stan said back mock-sweetly before he went back to marking crease-lines onto the paper. “Why are you even worried about this stuff? Usually you just wrap things terribly and don’t give a shit.”

“I dunno.” Rick replied, trying to keep a cool, apathetic tone. “I guess I’d rather not look like a complete embarrassment to your nibs’. Spent long enough on their presents. Nothing was half-assed so the presentation shouldn’t be half-assed either.”

“They look pretty neat, that’s for sure. How long did you spend working on’em?” Stan asked as he cut up some strips and began folding them over Dipper’s gift.

“Little less than a month, Dipper’s camera went a little longer cause I had to scrap my first idea.” Rick answered easily.

“Why’d you have to do that?”

“Eh, didn’t really seem like something he’d actually like once I started working on it. I wanted to make thing’s your kids would want use this year, you’know? Something they’d actually like? I think I got it right though, so both of them should be happy with their gear. I think they’ll appreciate them at-at the least or something like that-“

Rick hadn’t realized he’d been talking so long. When he looked back up at Stan he’d already finished the present and was beaming at him.

“What?”

Stan had his head leaned up on his fist and he still had that weird look on his face. “You really want to impress them, don’t you Sanchez?”

“Wha- No! The- those little bastards can go peddle these on the streets day after their birthday! I don’t give a shit!”

“You’re getting soft!” Stan teased.

“Fuck off!” Rick shoved him away but Stan just laughed.

And he leaned back his ruffling Rick hair, “Hey they’re pretty great kids, so it’s not all that surprising. But don’t worry, you’re secrets safe with me!”

“Whatever, get off me!” Rick squirmed out of Stan’s hold and readjusted his hair from its frazzled state back to its normal frazzled state.

And Stan stepped away from the bench as Rick hopped down and grabbed his newly-wrapped resents.

“So I got some other stuff to take care of but I’ll see you at the party right? You and you’re beautifully wrapped presents?” Stan asked smirking as he stepped into the elevator.

“Ya, if I don’t have anything better to do.” Rick replied stepping in right after him.

The elevator door slid shut and began pulling them back up to the surface. Rick tucked the presents into his coat pocket, he’d keep them there until the party then whip them out once they were done opening the gifts from everyone else.

On the ride up he caught himself wondering about how the two would react to his gifts. If it would blow them right out of the water. If Mabel would get all jumpy and screechy and thank him a billion times. Or if Dipper would start freaking out, asking a hundreds questions a minute about how the camera worked. If they would really like their presents.

When the hell did he start caring so much?

When all this began two years ago he'd started out a little distant to the younger twins. Sure they were cute, but Rick hadn't really seen much else in them. They both reminded him of Ford though, especially Dipper, all wide-eyed and excited to talk about aliens and monsters. And while Mabel wasn't as clear cut as her brother, she still had a lot of Stanford Pines to her, whenever she got on a project she dedicated her whole life to it, and that pride. And both seemed like they were always trying to impress. But over the past year or so of being around them and seeing them in action, they really grew into their own, weird, original people and wormed their way into his heart. Right next to Morty and Summer. And he realized he was actually hoping they had a nice time on their trip today, now he was the one trying to impress them.

Even as the elevator slid open and Stan pecked him on the cheek before stepping out his train of thought was stuck on the kids.

Maybe Stan was right, maybe he was getting soft…

Yet it was something he didn’t feel strongly happy, or upset about. It was just something that had happened ever since he came back to Earth. Sorta like his rekindled relationship with Beth. Or his now with Stanley.