Thing I said in the comments of dis post but I thoughts deserved its own post
The thing is that as ford got older, he became more and more disconnected from himself and what he truly desired. When people tell you over and over again that you have a bright future and you’re going to go far, it makes you feel like you kind of have to. That’s what everyone is expecting, right? Honestly, I don’t think ford actually found Stan himself suffocating, but rather the entire situation he was in. He was drowning in everyone’s expectations and opinions of him. He was never just “ford”, he was either “Stan’s twin” or “genius who’s going to go far”. He didn’t know how to be his own person or what he truly wanted and he hated that fact. I think he thought if he got away from it all he could finally feel free, but the thing is that even if he did go to WTC, he’s still just kinda… doing what other people wanted/expected of him. He thought he wanted space from Stan and that he could find himself without him, learn how to be his own person, but he also didn’t know how to be without him. Stan is his best friend, his anchor. But somewhere along the way he and Stan stopped communicating with each other, and now Stan just expects him to keep going along with this childhood dream that ford doesn’t know if he wants anymore. I mean… sailing around the world on a boat? He’s… he’s supposed to go far. Everyone is telling him he’s this amazing genius. And if he does something amazing and everyone loved maybe he will finally stop feeling so out of place, stop feeling like a freak. He loved his brother, the support he gives him, but—it’s hard to only have one person. All he truly wants is connection and to be seen and understood, but in high school a gap between Stan and ford had been growing where perhaps part of him felt maybe Stan didn’t truly see him anymore. I mean… Stan keeps clinging to the past and ford… doesn’t know how to deal with that. And ford doesn’t completely understand Stan either anymore. He doesn’t understand why Stan is clinging so hard to him. He still thinks, well, not as highly of Stan as he used to since other people’s perceptions of Stan have started to affect his own, but probably more highly of Stan than Stan thinks of himself. He doesn’t realize how much Stan has internalized everyone other people have said about him. He doesn’t realize he’s all Stan has. I could go on but. Yee
A short lil comic - but also an excuse to draw Bill in that effed up phase of growing his nubby stubs into proper limbs. A crying shame, he was so cute too!
Also hey hi hello- I made the side blog after all! Perfect dumping spot of all RTW related stuffs.
ough. this took ages. as i said on ao3 - i decided to split the final chapter up into lots of little ones to make it easier for me to find the time to write it, since im a college student 'n all now. so here's chapter 12, the newly not last chapter
<< | < | this is part twelve ! | > | >>
ao3 version!
heres the table of contents
Ford snapped his lighter off, carelessly tossing it aside before rising, looming over the circle drawn in the dirt. Shadows flickered with the candlelight, dancing through the sigils and patterns scratched into the ground.
"Are you sure about this?" Fiddleford asked.
"I don't need to be," Ford huffed.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a slip of paper, small and blotched with ink, the incantation written in the quick, jagged handwriting of someone running out of time.
Ford lifted the paper up, and when he met Fiddleford's eyes from across the circle, he could see his own intensity reflected back at him through the lenses of the other man's glass, orange-hued and harsh in the candle light. "Now repeat after me."
It wasn't until the very last possible second that Ford remembered to close his eyes.
One minute, he could hear the soft ambience of the forest around him, fluttering and chirping birds, wind and branches rustling in the background, almost forgettable in their banality, and the next moment-
-A rush of air, a sudden burst of vertigo that had him stumbling on abruptly uncertain legs, and all of that quiet noise fell dreadfully still, and utterly silent.
Cautiously peeling his eyes open, Ford blinked into awareness of his surroundings.
What greeted him then was the same forest of Gravity Falls he'd just stood in, had always known, but… off, somehow. Trees that didn't seem to grow in quite the right ways, with uneven branches that were all too still, too lifeless, like hard plastic. It was all awash in grayscale, like an old, sputtering film reel, ans it flickered and blurred at the edges, hazy and dim.
Beside him, he heard a soft intake of breath.
"I'll be damned," Fiddleford murmured, voice gone quiet with awe, "I almost didn't think you'd be able to actually do it."
Ford frowned, but found no words to summon up. His throat felt leaden, voice caught. He breathed in shakily.
"Right," he said, quickly and stiffly trying to gather his wits about him, "Let's progress. I haven't done much research into this, but if my theory is correct then the deeper we delve into Remus's mind, the older the memories will be."
Chest feeling tight, heart pittering with the quiet, ambient sort of nerves, he forced himself to start walking forward, legs unsure, half worried he'd slip right through the erratic atoms of the ground. When the earth didn't bow or bend under his weight, he gained more confidence, walking a little faster.
"His more recent memories should be at the forefront of his mind," he said to Fiddleford without looking back at him. "We'll need to navigate through those in order to find the information we seek."
Now moving forward and orientating himself to his new surrondings, Ford could see even more of the little details that didn't quite fit with the real forest of Gravity Falls.
The ground was damp, and patches of snow melted into flickering grass. The trees moved without wind, everything appearing blurry, hard to focus on. It felt like Ford was walking around without his glasses on, the world hazy and smudgy.
Yet everything else was, oddly, much clearer. Every other sense heightened - Ford could smell the sharp scent of pines, could taste the sap and the freshness of the air. The dirt crunched and ground underfoot, and he could almost hear and feel the way the sediments shifted.
So this is how he experiences the world, Ford thought, casting his eyes about. If this is really how he sees everything, then he may need some glasses. This may give me a headache after a while.
"Keep an eye out for any landmarks," Ford called over his shoulder. "If we can follow them, they should help us to navigate through his mind."
He didn't really expect an answer, so one could have forgiven him for being surprised when he got one. "What, like this road?" Fiddleford said.
"Road?"
Ford turned around, and lo and behold, Fiddleford had kicked away some of the thick plant growth to reveal the cracked, crumbling tar of a road in disrepair. It was falling back into the clutches of the nature with every chip of paint eroded away, and yet it was still there nonetheless, a mark of mankind still clinging to its identity.
"Excellent finding, Fiddleford," Ford said quickly. "No doubt following this will lead us further into his mind!"
He bounded ahead, and Fiddleford made his reluctant follower.
They navigated the road, which seemed to be of a rural sort of construction, shunted to a quiet, lonesome part of the forest and overtaken by plants and wildlife. There were road signs, but they were all in hazy, blurring and unintelligible letters and symbols, and Ford quickly found that looking at them for too long would make his head spin.
Vines and moss climbed every available surface, tangling in the still branches, twining around the signs and their posts. Looking up, Ford found the sky somehow both dark and also blinding bright - he winced, and decided to keep his eyes firmly on the road ahead.
The path it made didn't bend or err, only marched on, inexorably forwards. Ford and Fiddleford followed, the silence hanging taut between them only adding to the crackling tension that seemed to buzz in the air.
One of them could have spoken, but neither did. The words caught in Ford's throat; he didn't even know what he wanted to say. And Fiddleford, well - Ford didn't know what was going on his head. When he chanced a glance backward, only once, he found the man's mouth in a thin line, his eyes stoically forward and expression completely unreadable - and Ford had quickly looked away again.
They were so near to each other, and yet they'd never felt farther apart. Ford swallowed, and reminded himself to focus on his goal.
Examining Remus's mindscape as they moved through it, a prickling sensation of being watched seemed to follow at their heels throughout. Out of the corner of his vision, Ford kept catching glimpses of pale eyes watching them through the staticky dark shadows between the trees. The landscape was wreathed in black. It was like an old, poorly developed photo, a darkness that pressed impossibly close, yet skittered just out of reach. Ford couldn't even see past the first blurry line of trees, so thick was the oppressive dark that loomed all around them.
Was this how Remus saw the world? Or was it the work of the mind itself, bending itself to perception and fear both? Ford couldn't be certain. Nonetheless, nothing about this put him at ease. Remus's mind was a hunted thing, and Ford was quickly beginning to feel like an animal creeping through the shadows on trembling haunches, fearful of unseen predators. And all of it, completely devoid of color.
Until the sign.
It was a jagged thing, and not altogether any more remarkable than the numerous signs that were scattered along the roadside in improbable and unlikely positions and angles. No, it was just like all the others, blurry along the edges and indistinct in its symbols - except that it, unlike anything else, had color.
It was a simple sign, cherry-red in hue. Somehow, it seemed to exude a sort of uninvasive calm. Friendly. It veered off the road, but Ford found himself drawn towards the color nonetheless.
"Stanford?" Fiddleford called, trepidation clear in his tone.
But Ford could see a narrow and faint footpath where the sign stood, leading into the woods - he even thought he could see a faint light in the distance, a pinprick shining somewhere in the dark shadows amidst the trees. "There's something over here," Ford said to Fiddleford without turning around.
"And yer just gonna follow it in 'ta the dark?" Fiddleford called exasperatedly, but Ford paid him no heed, already blazing ahead.
The footpath was narrow, and it twisted and plunged through the dark forest like a knife between the ribs. Predictably, there didn't seem to be any logic to its direction, nor sense - it curved and writhed between the trees with no warning, no pattern, even seemed, somehow, to loop back around on itself at times.
For a while it seemed that it would never end - a warped labyrinth bending between the trees with no exit.
But just as abruptly as it began, so too did it conclude.
The path veered suddenly towards the left, and when Ford walked around the trees, there it was - the impossible exit, one that he was certain hadn't been there before, simply appeared between two blinks of the eye.
It led into a clearing, and there it sat. Ford's laboratory home, gray and fuzzy around the edges with the blurriness of Remus's memories, but there nonetheless.
"Fascinating," Ford mumbled to himself. The laboratory had seemed to have won its own, dedicated space in Remus's mind, carefully set apart from everything else. Was that a good thing, he wondered, or a bad one?
He turned his head, to where Fiddleford was lagging behind.
"If I had to theorize, I'd imagine this is where he stores his memories of me. Oh, and you too, I suppose."
Fiddleford hummed, fixing his glasses on his face. "No need to go in then, if all we're looking for is proof whether or not he's yer Stanley."
"I wouldn't say that," Ford said, maybe a little quicker than he should have. "Perhaps we'll find something of note in there."
Fiddleford fixed him with a frustrated expression. "I thought we weren't just in here to pick through his brains." He huffed, looking away. "I ain't got no interest in foolin' around in here for any longer than we gotta."
Ford shook his head. "We have no idea the order of things, Fiddleford. It'd be best to look through as much as possible, explore all avenues. It's the scientific thing to do," Ford said, telling himself that this was indeed a very scientific decision, and not at all one motivated by his insatiable curiostity and, dare he say it, nosiness. No, certainly not that.
There was a pause for a moment. Fiddleford's eyes roved over Ford's face, before he finally sighed, his shoulders dropping. "Fine. You lead the way."
And lead Ford did - through the last stretch of the path, and out into the clearing, where he walked them to the cabin and up the steps. Fiddleford trudged behind the whole way, letting Ford blaze forward with all the gumption of a burning fire.
He reached for the doorknob - but the door creaked open on its own, offering a sliver of space, not enough to see through, but enough to be an invitation. This was not a place Remus's mind had any intention of hiding, it seemed.
For a moment, he thought about glancing back to Fiddleford, to search for that unsaid agreement in his eyes - but he resisted the urge. Without turning back, he caught the door by its edge, and tentatively pried it open.
When Ford opened the door, the interior of the house didn't so much reveal itself as it did rise from nothing to meet them.
It seemed to unfurl itself when the door opened, halls opening up with their own waking breath, floorboards rising to meet them from nothing. The inside of the shack was brightly illuminated - somehow, impossibly, there was not a single shadow, everything was picture-light, practically perfect.
And everything here too, like the sign, had a shock of color. The halls, the floors, everything was right there, in the colors right colors - if not washed-out and dulled somewhat. The grayscale had been left outside, among the trees and the unseen eyes - here, there was brightness.
The most startling of all, though, was the size of things. Or rather, everything was the same width it had been in reality, but now a towering height - the walls stretched up into nothing with no ceiling in sight, end tables leaned up on impossibly tall legs, blurry and out-of-focus pictures crowded so far up the walls one could not even see their contents properly.
The perspective of one who does not walk through life, but crawled on all fours, Ford supposed.
He stepped tentatively forward. Like the damp, snow-soaked ground outside, the floor stayed perfectly sturdy under foot.
This new, pantomime arrangement of Ford's house should have made it feel unnerving, but it didn't. In fact, Ford could feel a sense of uneasy slide off of him as he stepped through the door. That feeling of being an animal, hunted by some unseen predator almost dissolved into nothing - the house was warm and bright, and Ford could smell something ambiguously pleasant in the air. It felt safe, in some intrinsic, implacable way.
After briefly checking to make sure Fiddleford still followed behind (he did, though he dragged his feet about it), Ford continued into the warm, hazy mimic of his home.
The walls were so blurry, smeared and strange compared to the floor - Ford could see pockmarks and knots in the wood of the floorboards that he himself rarely paid more than half a mind to in the waking world, but Remus seemed to remember so clearly. And yet at the same time, Ford was pretty sure Remus has gotten the pattern of the wallpaper wrong - though it was hard to see through the blur.
Most notably, though, were the doorways that lined the halls, each a little different, each a slightly different shape. They had frames inset into the walls, but no actual door. Instead, over all of the doorways was a curtain of shadow, inky black that separated and sectioned them off from the rest of the hall.
These were the pockets in which Remus stored his memories, no doubt. There were too many to pick through all of them, so Ford stopped in front of the one to catch his eye first. It looked, to him, to be the doorframe that lead into his bathroom in the real cabin - he could faintly smell the fragrance of the shampoo that he used coming from the room.
The black veils were the barriers to the memories, surely - but how to proceed?
Very easily, as it turned out. When Ford reached out a hand to pull the shadow aside, it went easily as any real fabric, swishing to the side and allowing him to peer in the memory.
The smell of soap and shampoo was much stronger within. This was indeed a memory of Ford's bathroom. And there was Remus - or someone he thought was Remus. They were blurry, smudged like a charcoal drawing, details blinking in and out like light from faulty bulbs - and beside Remus… was a hazy figure that Ford, for a moment, could not parse.
The figure bathed Remus, hands in his hair, picking out the gnarled tangles. It was speaking, Ford noticed - garbled and meaningless noises, but the voice- Ford realized, with a jolt, that it was his voice.
This was Remus's memory of that so fateful bath Ford had given him. It seemed true to life - other than the blur around the edges, there was no memory-like strangeness, no clearly misremembered or imagined portions. It startled Ford a little, to see how… real it was. He hadn't know what to expect, but for some reason, this hadn't been it. This felt too simple and honest, just a replay of a past event.
Ford didn't know he was leaning too far forward until he stumbled, foot catching on Remus's memory of his own linoleum floor. With one gust of motion, he tripped into the memory, through the inky curtain and into the blurry bathroom.
Yelping, Ford attempted to catch himself, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see the memory of Remus, sudsy and damp, jolt to attention, head whipping to the real-Ford currently stumbling into his memory.
In his fumbling, Ford's hand went out, and Remus was sitting up and starting to climb out of the bathtub towards him, and Ford wasn't looking where he was putting his hand.
He had only a moment to realize he'd unthinkingly grabbed Remus in his puttering, like a fool, and then-
-smelled nice. He exhaled, sinking further into the hands massaging his scalp, the warm water, the voice rumbling above his head. He could fall asleep like this, it was so warm and nice, nothing at all like the icy plunges in the lake he occasionally took when the itchy feeling started to get too much for him.
He wouldn't mind staying here, actually. Not just in this warm water, but with this Guy, his New Pal. He knew how People could be, that they were dangerous - but surely this Guy couldn't be so bad, not when he fed him and put that weird goop on his neck to make him feel better and then gave him the best washing of his life. Definitely better than the tongue baths back with the guys in the woods- though that was nice in its own ways, he supposed.
But this? This was pure relaxation. He had to fight hard not to pass out right here and now, his eyelids were starting to feel that heavy. Even so he let himself glide into the feeling, let this Guy keep scrubbing those funny frothing bubbles into his fur with his paws. Funny paws this Guy had, though with his bad eyes he couldn't quite see what it was about them that set them apart. Still it, reminded him a bit of his old-
-a hand on Ford's shoulder tugged him back, pulling him out of the bathroom.
"The hell was that?" Fiddleford's voice was behind him, and that was Fiddleford's hand on his shoulder, wasn't it? Ford's shoulder. He'd been… but how…?
"Fiddleford," Ford said, strangely breathless even though he'd not even done anything physically exerting, "I- when I made contact with Remus- that memory of Remus- I experienced his experience through his own eyes. I was him - in the memory!"
Fiddleford blinked at him, owl-eyed. "What? Really? Ya looked like you totally spaced out - the whole scene in there froze, it was damn creepy. You looked like a bunch of mannequins."
Ford shook his head. "This is- this changes everything. I'd thought I might be able to look into his memories, but I never expected to be able to get so in-depth. If I can just find the right memory, all I'll need to do is just catch Remus just thinking something that debunks your theory. This could make everything so much faster!"
Fiddleford frowned. "It's a bit more than a theory-"
Whatever foolish rebuttal Fiddleford was about to follow with died between them, as a low rumble from down the hall interrupted his words.
Both Ford and Fiddleford stopped dead, and completely silent. Ford turned his head slowly.
Down the hall, there was an out of place shadow. It was stood out starkly against the cheery, bright walls around them, a solid pitch of black inexplicably clinging to a corner in the bending of the halls. The sound had come from there, and Ford traced the path with his eyes, seeing Fiddleford do the same out of the corner of his vision.
There was that low, creaking sound of something adjusting its weight on the floorboards, leaning forward. Then, two eyes opened in the dark, somehow completely unshadowed, unlike the ink-like black that curtained the rest of it. Two eyes, perfectly visible in the dark.
Those two eyes - they were startling. Mostly black but with a thin rings of brown (like a dog's eyes), they squinted back at them with narrowed suspicion. That familiar growling sound rumbled out of from the creature, eyes flicking between Ford and Fiddleford.
The eyes were low to the ground, Ford noticed. Almost like-
With another soft creak of the floorboards, the creature stepped out of the unnatural shadows. The first part of its body to slide out of the dark was its head. It was, to Ford's surprise, a coyote's head - brown-eyed and brown-furred, muzzle scrunched up in a thunderous, yet small growl.
But as it slunk out of the shadows fully, it revealed more of itself. It had a human body- no, it had Remus's body. Remus's body (sans the clothes Fiddleford and he had fit on him), and a coyote's head, like a strange, crawling dog-minotaur.
"What," Fiddleford said, flatly.
"Fascinating," Ford murmured, because that or feel vaguely and ambiguously horrified at the implications of whatever it was he was looking at right now, and he didn't have time for that.
The dog-headed Remus growled at them, canine lips pulling back to show yellowed but sharp teeth, ears pressing flat to the back of his skull. His brown, half-human, half-dog eyes glittered in the light.
"Remus?" Ford called cautiously. "Do you recognize us?"
Remus's head swiveled towards him. He looked Ford up and down, eyes narrowed and critical. Creeping forward on hands and knees, his gaze moved between Ford and the bathroom memory thoughtfully, sniffing the air.
"He ain't a memory, is he?" Fiddleford asked.
Ford shook his head. "No, I don't believe so. He's… something else. What that something is, that remains to be seen."
After a moment of clear deliberation and intent sniffing, Remus snorted. He shook his head, blinking that narrowed, intense-eyed look away. He leaned back into a half-sitting, half-crawling position, watching them with alert, waiting eyes. He made no move to come closer.
Those brown eyes, now holding only benign curiosity instead of suspicion, looked between both Ford and Fiddleford - but his gaze seemed to linger on Ford. They simply stared at each other quietly for a moment.
The house creaked softly. Fiddleford coughed awkwardly in his fist behind him, as Remus cocked his head to the side, round, black eyes reflecting Ford as he gazed back at him.
They'd come to an understanding, Ford intuited.
Turning to Fiddleford, Ford said, "I believe he's just here to oversee. To make sure we don't get ourselves into trouble, as it were. He's not here to pick a fight."
Fiddleford frowned, sighing long-sufferingly to himself. "Right. Not sure I love the idea of a naked half-dog man followin' us around."
"You should be used to it by now," Ford said, gathering himself. His gaze swept up and down the warm halls, eying all the doorways remaining. "Anyways, we don't have time to deliberate. We have a whole mind to search - and I don't think Remus cares for our opinion on the matter, anyways."
He moved forward, past Remus and further down the hall. Just as he thought, Remus scooted away from him when he passed, but still followed close behind as soon as Ford's back was turned.
"Just 'cause I'm used to it don't mean I like it any," Fiddleford huffed quietly behind him, low enough that Ford could tell he probably wasn't meant to overhear it.
Fiddleford could grumble about it if he wanted, but Ford didn't have time for it. He had a theory to disprove.
I know it's not you, Ford thought, peeking behind another curtained memory at random, quickly writing off all that he knew would be useless to him. Just give me a sign.
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weee chapter nine time. betcha didn't expect this one after the last chapter took so long to come out lmao.
so yea, this is an intermission! part of the reason eight took so long to come out was because i couldn't decide if intermission should come before or after the events of that chapter, so i wrote both this chapter and what is now eight at the same time, lmao.
<< | < | this is part nine, the intermission! | > | >>
table of contents here
warning: drinking, smoking, and uh, bad parenting? you can skip this one if need be.
Filbrick huffed, patting out the last fading ember scraps of his cigarette on his ash tray. With a groan of effort and a popping sound from his joints that truly was showing his age, he pushed himself up from the counter and lumbered over to the front of his shop.
He flipped the Open sign to the Closed side with an air of finality. From beyond his glass windows he could see red sky of a setting sun, draping dark shadows along the grimy streets of Glass Shard Beach.
He went to lock the door - but like every time he’d done so for the past two or so decades, his hand stalled in the air, hovering over the latch. With a deep sigh, his hand fell to the knob instead, and he carefully pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street.
Shoes squelching in a puddle of a strangely colored liquid he cared not to identify, he took a few steps to the side and let his back hit the brick wall, casting his gaze up and down the street.
Ambient chatter of New Jersey accents crackled along the walls of crumbling buildings. Somewhere an old truck was loudly coughing to life. Waves were crashing against the shore. The shopkeep four doors down from Filbrick dragged his sign back inside, metal frame scraping loudly against the pavement.
Filbrick just stood for a moment, waiting. And when nothing happened, he heaved a deep sigh, and started walking down the sidewalk.
Caryn’s nails danced over the wine bottle, making the softest clinking noises. Her warped reflection glided across the glass surface, distorted by the shape, blurred into senseless blotches of color. “Care for a drink, baby?”
“I’m fine, Ma,” Shermie said from his awkward perch on the couch, knees bent and elbow propped up, chin in his hand and his tired, new-parent eyes on her. “I gotta get goin’ soon anyways. Don’t wanna be driving drunk.”
Caryn tsked, but she retracted her hands from the bottle nonetheless. “The Carter administration and their new-fangled laws. This one will be phased out soon, I’m tellin’ ya.”
Shermie raised an eyebrow. “Drinking and driving’s been illegal since before you could do either of ‘em,” he pointed out.
“Laws are for sissies.”
“Mm,” Shermie hummed, looking away.
Caryn walked over, sitting her down on the couch beside him. Shermie gave her a brief, small smile - as was custom for him. He didn’t have what one might call an energetic personality, and the exhaustion of young fatherhood had whittled him down even more.
The old couch creaked loudly as Caryn sat. They both ignored it.
“You sure I can’t get you nothin’? I think I got some leftover borscht in the fridge…”
“I’m fine, Ma. Just came to check in on ya before we leave town,” Shermie said wearily. “It’ll be a quiet house, just you and Pa.”
“Bah! We talk plenty.” Caryn huffed, waving the thought away.
Shermie shot her a look. “Ma.”
Caryn sighed, looking away. Her fingers itched to reach for a cigarette - now where she’d leave that blasted pack?
Shermie was still looking at her, eyes searching her face for something he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, he looked away, eyes tracing the smoke-stained, peeling wallpaper of their apartment instead.
He shook his head at himself, turning back to Caryn. “I’ll try to come back to visit at least once a year, call sometimes,” he promised.
“You’d be doin’ more than yer brother if you called even once a year,” Caryn said sourly. Shaking her head, she reached over and patted Shermie’s hand affectionately. “Yer a good boy, Sherman. You take after your Ma, you do.”
He really didn’t. “Cut him some slack, Ma. You know it’s hard for him after- you know.”
A muscle in Caryn’s jaw tensed.
“I really don’t! Seriously, what’s it take to get that boy to call every once in a while? I’m his Ma, for goodness sakes, and I like to think I did a good enough job of it to warrant my babies talking to me once in awhile!” Caryn crossed her arms, huffing. “Stanford acts like we’re some sorta burden. I mean, he had a good childhood, didn’t he?”
Shermie sighed. This again. “Ma, please, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I think it would-”
Caryn stood abruptly, the couch squeaking loudly from the suddenness of it. “I need a smoke. Did you see where I sat my pack, bub?”
“Ma-” Shermie tried.
“Oh nevermind it, I’ll just go snag one of yer father’s.” She reached over, patting Shermie’s hair absentmindedly. “Be back in a sec, hun.”
She left in a flourish, heels clacking loudly as she hurried down the hall. Shermie stared after her, then sighed wearily and dropped his head into his hands.
Rubbing at his eyes, Shermie felt so much older than he was. A heavy weight pressed down on him, and he remembered how even when he was younger, at home and surrounded by family, he’d felt so stiflingly alone.
He didn’t blame Stanford. Not at all. Moses knows he’d do the same thing, if he had twice the spine he had now, and half the bleeding heart.
He let out a hollow chuckle, lifting his eyes, carrying his own gaze to find it pointing, without his order nor request, at the door to Stanford’s room. Even from this distance, he could see the dust accumulating on the knob.
“What a wreck we’ve all become,” he murmured to himself, hollow and yet humored.
Looking away, he turned his head slightly, looking towards the window instead. Eyes falling on the dour and miserable outline of Glass Shard Beach in the setting sun.
He comforted himself, not for the first time by a long shot, with the idea that his brother was in a better place.
“Pray for me, Stanley,” he mumbled to himself and to the specter he imagined hovering in the heavenly wherever dead children went when they died as he heard his mother’s footsteps returning. His own hand absentmindedly toyed with his pendant, fingers pressing into the edges of the six-pointed star. “We’ve all just about lost our minds without you.”
With the setting sun the bustle of Glass Shard Beach seemed to die down a little, thinning crowds with the thinning rays of light slipping under the horizon.
Make no mistake, Glass Shard Beach was not a popular town, but it was cramped, especially at times of the day where the sun was bright and high in the sky. Not so many tourists, but plenty of locals and just-passing-through’s.
Filbrick had grown up in this town, and he could barely remember his life before it - not that he’d want to. All of his memories of Europe, before and after his family’s immigration, were tinged with the smell of blood and smoke, warped and distorted images like glass.
As a child he’d grown up under the flourishing fantasy of the American Dream. A land of the free in which you could do anything if you set your mind to it. Filbrick had spent his whole life trying to claw his way out of the lot he’d been given, but he only ever seemed to slide right back down to the bottom eventually. Back to Glass Shard Beach.
He was beginning to think he might die here. What a horribly bleak thought.
Even if he couldn’t make it, he had once comforted himself with the idea that his children would be better off, would be a higher step up in life than he’d once been. Everything he had, he’d had to lie, cheat and steal for - he’d wanted to think that for all his efforts, at least his children, his sons, would have better prospects.
Two of them did.
It was only at this time of the day that Filbrick allowed himself to think about his third son. Only when the sun fled the sky and night descended onto the dirty streets, did he not stop his mind from wandering to the boy.
And so he walked, not calling but looking nonetheless, for a child he’d long stopped hoping might come home, who he hadn’t even so much as said the name of out loud in a long, long time.
He was beginning to think he would never be able to stop himself from looking whenever the warm, distracting light of the sun retreated from the sky.
Some men lied awake in bed at night, haunted by thoughts of the past that swirled overhead like vultures. And instead Filbrick thought all the same thoughts, and walked in a vain attempt to outpace them.
He was beginning to think he might not stop until he died. What a horribly bleak thought, in so many more ways.
Caryn nursed her cigarette like she’d die with out it, like without smoke in her lungs she’d surely pass. At this point, she just might - withdrawals were shit like that. Not like she’d ever know - here’s a spoiler for you, friends. The ending of this woman’s story rhymes with rung lancer.
Shermie, not blessed with omniscience but nonetheless able to make very educated guesses, winced at the smell and sight, but said nothing.
This house seemed to get smaller every time he stepped foot inside it. As though he was outgrowing his own past - or as though the past itself was slowly closing in on the rest of his family that remained. Shermie was neither a poet nor a prophet - he didn’t have the answer.
He wished he did. He wished he had the answers to the questions that hung over their family’s heads like the blade of a guillotine. But he didn’t, maybe no one did. The case had gone cold long before it was ever even opened.
Shermie didn’t always think about Stanley this often, as long ago as it had been, but being back in this house brought back the memories. Not even so much memories of Stanley himself, few and scattered as they were, but the memories of his presence - the ghost that had hung over the Pines family for years, unnamed and unmentionable.
And now, when Stanford left he took the last bits of Stanley with him, it seemed. Where before trying to get Caryn or Filbrick to talk about their third son was like pulling teeth, now it seemed like a pipe dream to get them to say his name at all.
It wasn’t the same for Shermie. He lit a candle, he put up a photo, and he did the closest thing he knew to moving on. But for his parents, the wound had festered in neglect, and had grown infected in them. Shermie had the scar, but for the rest of his family, it never even healed.
So Stanley went unspoken of. It wasn’t what the kid deserved - he deserved to be remembered. To be talked about. But they were the Pines family, and so Stanley would have to take what he could get.
Caryn sighed suddenly, the sound drawing Shermie out of his thoughts. She patted out what remained of her cigarette in the ash tray on the end table - she’d finished it that fast? - and turned to him.
“Well, what have you been up to?” She folded her hands across her lap, slender fingers lacing together.
Shermie shot her a small smile. “Nothing much. Work, you know? At least my boss set me and the wife up with a nice place in Piedmont.” He shot Caryn a look. “You could come up with us too, if you want. It’s a nice neighborhood - I’m sure we could get you and Pa a good apartment somewhere nearby…”
Caryn scoffed lightly, shaking her head. “Filbrick will be dead before he give up his pawnshop, you know that. Besides, we’re established here. There’s good business in this town, and neither of us are at retiring age yet.”
So she always said, whenever Shermie tried to get her into moving elsewhere. Even offering to pay her move never worked.
“Sure, Ma. With the house getting as empty as it is, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to work,” Shermie said, trying to see the up-side in a way he knew Caryn would agree with.
“Oh, now don’t you go reminding me,” Caryn sighed dramatically. “All my babies are leavin’ me. Work is good, but it ain’t nothin’ compared to havin’ a full house, all my boys around - that’s a mother’s dream. But you two just had to grow up so fast, didn’t you?”
Shermie smiled slightly. Two. Ah, sorry, Stanley. Shermie shouldn’t be so negative. “Sorry, Ma.”
“Hmpfh! Maybe when you become a father, you’ll understand what its like.”
To that, Shermie only shrugged loosely. “Yeah, maybe.” Privately, he thought he might end up a very different parent than either of his parents, but he had no plans to voice that.
He found his gaze wandering down, hand coming up to fiddle with his small pendant again. The warmed metal edges dug into his finger pads as he idly slid the charm up and down its chain, listening to the soft clinking sound as it went this way and that.
“I wonder what Stanley’d be doin’ right now,” Shermie found himself wondering aloud before he could think better of it. A small laugh rumbled out of him, picturing his late brother graduating or getting married on day, in another life. “Probably raising some real hell somewhere. Do you remember-?”
“I’d say it’s about time to crack out the wine- what do you say, hun?” Caryn blurted out abruptly, practically jumping up from her seat and scurrying over to wine cabinet. “How about some reds?”
“Ma, I told you I don’t want to drink,” Shermie said, words tightening in steadily growing agitation. “Do you have to do this every time? We can’t just-”
“Just one glass! You need to loosen up a little, hun,” Caryn said too quickly, too stiff to be natural.
An old wound in Shermie’s chest flared, pain and anger rocketing up his veins and making his teeth grind together. He drew a tense breath in through his nose, trying to reign in the reaction. He grit out, patience wearing thin, “Ma. Please.”
But Caryn had her back to him still. “I’ll even break out the good spirits, just for you. What do you think?”
Shermie thought it was a wonder he hadn’t torn his own hair out by now.
Filbrick paused in front of the door to the police station.
White light from inside bathed the sidewalk in a fluorescent glow, practically obnoxiously blinding. Solid, well-kept brickwork stacked up to make the looming shadow of the station. A lot of Filbrick’s tax money ended up in this building, he knew - for all the good it did him.
With a deep sigh, he pushed the door open, shoes clicking against the floor as he strode through the lobby with well-practicedness of a man who’d been here quite often, going straight for the receptionist.
Perched at the front desk was that young woman Filbrick recognized - she worked this shift often. Her eyes flicked up from the paper she was reading as she heard him near.
As soon as she saw him, her shoulders dropped slightly in a silent sigh, paper falling from her hand and gliding down to the desktop. She set her elbow down on it, propping up her head with her hand. “Mr. Pines.”
“Ma’am,” he rumbled, tipping his hat slightly in greeting. He didn’t bother with any formalities - they both knew why he was here. “Any news?”
She sighed wearily, dropping her cheek into her hand, looking up at him with a vaguely exasperated expression. “No, sir. I’ve told you, they closed your son’s case years ago. The trail went cold.”
Filbrick ground his teeth together, huffing angrily. He’d heard this spiel before - and really, what did this girl know? Who did she think she was? (That look in her eyes - the clear disrespect frothed at him, like acid boiling his heels.)
His hands twitched at his sides, curling fingers into fists. “My son is still missing, in case you haven’t noticed. How can you stop searching while he’s still out there somewhere? I don’t pay my taxes for you lot to sit on your asses!”
“We. Found. Nothing.” She emphasized each word, beginning to sound quite annoyed now. (You watch your tone, young lady.) “I’m sorry, but your family isn’t the only one with a case. It’s been twenty years. If it weren’t for your persistent insistence towards the opposite, he would have been officially declared dead ten years ago!”
“I- I refuse to spend a single penny on a funeral for a man who isn’t dead! There is no body-”
“Twenty years!” The receptionist cut in agitatedly. (Who does she think she is, interrupting him?!) “I understand it’s hard to come to terms with, but sir, your son went missing twenty years ago. He was five!”
“So?” Filbrick spat, baffled by the absurdity of the implication. Moses, did this girl even think? “I don’t see how his age has anything to do with this. How inept do you all have to be-”
“For the love of- he’s gone, Filbrick Pines!” The receptionist snapped, slamming her hands down on her desk. “You left a five year old boy alone at a gas station twenty years ago, and there’s been no trace of him since! He’s dead!”
You could have heard a pin drop in that lobby. Filbrick completely froze, a torrent of emotions he didn’t understand rushing through him with all the force of tsunami. His chest seized and convulsed, spasming so intensely he almost thought he was having a heart attack.
On the outside, he suddenly went stiff. His face twitched, mouth still open slightly. Visibly buffering.
The receptionist was breathing heavily. Some of the haze of anger cleared from her eyes, blinking like she’d shocked herself.
“I’m… sorry,” she said slowly, rigidly. “That was… unprofessional of me.” She looked like she wanted to go on, but she cut herself short, clamping her mouth shut like she was trying to keep her thoughts from escaping out from her tongue.
“…yes,” Filbrick grunted stiffly, far softer than he meant to. He couldn’t help the way the shock buzzed through him, making his nerves electrified and somehow numb at the same time. “Well,” he said, and then didn’t go on.
The words he was searching for jammed in his throat. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say.
What the hell do you know? he thought but didn’t say.
I’m his father, I have a right to know, he thought but didn’t say.
It’s a man’s duty to fix his mistakes, he thought but didn’t say.
His mistakes. His mistakes-
He could see two round brown eyes staring up at him. A big smile beaming up at him, a bloody tooth in his hand. Sixer said we should tie my wiggly tooth to the door knob and yank it out that way. And look, it came out! Can I keep it, Pa?
He could see little hands, lifting himself up far as his short legs would let him go, squirming to peer up at the bank teller, wide eyes darting between her and the jar of candy on her desk. Can me and my bubba have a candy? Can I have the carmel and he gets the bubblegum flavored one? Pretty-pretty please? My Pa said I can.
He could see a boy even younger than five, shaky legs toddling over to his side, toothless gums gnawing on his own fingers. His slobber-wet hand popped out his mouth and latched onto Filbrick’s pants leg - Filbrick grimaced and scowled, but the boy spoke first. Pa, pa, dinner time? Dinner time now, p’ease?
He could see Caryn eagerly showing him how she’d dressed both boys up - one in particular dressed up in yellow plaid, and sunglasses too big for his chubby, serious little face. No ru-funds!
Please, please. He was so small. He can’t be gone, he thought but didn’t say.
Stanley couldn’t be gone.
(It would be all Filbrick’s fault.
All his fault.
All his fault-)
“Sir?” There was one hand in front of his face, snapping repeatedly. “Sir? Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” Filbrick snapped, voice coming out far hoarser than he intended.
The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again, frowning at him.
Filbrick had respected authority, once. They were people who worked hard to get what they got. People who really knew how to yank themselves up by the skin of their teeth and the fibers of their bootstraps.
Then he lost his son, and they did nothing.
Like St- like the boy had been the flimsy barrier between Filbrick and his entire reality crashing down around his ears. Bastard cops, who sat on their lazy fucking asses and did nothing while Stanley was still- still…
(When was the last time Filbrick had said his name aloud? It had hurt too much at first. Now he wasn’t sure. He was a man, and yet he couldn’t say his own son’s name without fearing it might come out too jagged and raw- twenty years and he still couldn’t say it without fearing his once iron will would betray him.)
“…forget it,” Filbrick growled darkly, turning sharply on his heel and marching out, hands clenched in fists at his sides.
“Sir-” the receptionist tried, but Filbrick stomped right out the door, and didn’t look back.
The world outside was darker than when he’d went into the station. Door slamming shut behind him, Filbrick stormed into the night without thinking, mind whirring and thundering like a brewing storm.
How dare she! How dare all of them- his taxpayer money, wasted on a bunch of fraud hacks, lazy pieces of shit, and- and-
Anger was easy. It was easy to reach for that boiling rage burning internally, but in reaching for it he brushed pasted a pain far deeper than the anger could completely cover.
A very small part of him, the part of him that was still a very small boy with a lazy eye all of his schoolmates made fun of him for and a thick Russian accent still curling around his words, the part that Filbrick had thought his own father had stomped out a long time ago, didn’t feel angry.
That was the part of him that, despite his father’s best efforts and years of self-discipline, still wanted to curl up into a ball and weep like a girl.
Filbrick was supposed to be better than this. A better man, one who stood stoic in the face of adversity, and didn’t falter. A better father, one who’d steer his sons right.
Had it ever been enough?
He stopped walking. Darkness surrounded him, only the dim lights from windows and decades upon decades worth of memories of this town let him know where he was.
The dilapidated swing-set creaked as the wind brushed by. Some common hoodlum (as Filbrick considered them) had stolen one of the swings, leaving only one lone seat, rocking back and forth in a chill breeze, on a lonely beach.
The rusted metal let out an almost mournful sigh as it swang in the wind. The waves hummed softly where the rocked back and forth on the sand. Filbrick stood, and he stared.
“…Stanley?” he called softly. That name, so ill-used in the past decades, sounded almost like a stranger’s in his mouth. He hadn’t said it in so long.
The sea gave no response.
Red wine sloshed around the glass as Caryn poured two generous cups. She set the bottle aside and took up her glass, taking a long drink. Shermie just watched, not even touching his own cup.
His fingers tangled themselves in the chain of his necklace, worrying at the metal ends.
He still remembered hearing how they’d lost him. Stanley, his young brother, only five years old. The cops had half-heartedly searched for him for a while, before giving up the act, because why care about some Jewish kid from a poor, second-generation immigrant family? They dropped the case as quickly as plausible deniability allowed.
Shermie had always been proud to be slow to anger. He was the opposite of his father in that way, whose anger exploded like a fire bomb and burning searingly bright, destroying everything in his path. Filbrick would burn everyone and everything he loved, and he would always have too much pride to admit regret.
He’d been the one to put his foot down on any and all talk of Stanley, good or bad. They were to go on as normal, as if everything hadn’t changed permanently. As if Stanford had gone from a bright-eyed and smart little kid to a withdrawn, near-silent little ghost of a child in just a day.
He’d spent days just in bed, not doing anything but staring up at the ceiling with an eerily vacant expression. Nothing had seemed to make him happy anymore, nothing seemed to break the spell. In those days, Shermie had been genuinely worried his brother would actually die of heartbreak. In a way, he sort of had - the Stanford they once knew was gone, replaced by a kid just off-center, not quite right. Words a little too quiet, smile a little too small. He’d push his favorite food around the plate without eating it. The things that normally interested him seemed to almost bore him.
He’d gotten better slowly, but there was always something malformed about him after that. Like a broken bone that never quite healed right, Stanford was never quite the same after he lost Stanley. They’d been so close.
(Shermie tried so hard to help. He tried so hard. He was so tired, and it hadn’t even worked.)
Caryn had walled herself off in her own ways. She had been the one to take down photos of Stanley when the search slowed, to pack away his clothes and toys and drawings, any remaining piece of him stripped away and shoved into a box somewhere, to gather dust. Stanford had been inconsolable - it must have been like losing his twin all over again, to wake up one morning and see every possible reminder of him gone, like he’d never existed in the first place.
But Caryn had been unswayable in her decision, even when Stanford cried and Shermie tried to reason with her, she hadn’t budged an inch. She hadn’t even explained why she’d done it - just brushed it all off.
If Filbrick was trying to move past it, then Caryn was trying to forget altogether.
“Have a drink, hun. Loosen up! You’re so stiff all the time,” Caryn urged Shermie, pushing his wine glass towards him.
“I’m fine, Ma.” Shermie waved her off. The wine would only make him more melancholy - besides, he’d never liked the taste anyways.
He breathed in through his nose, sighed it out again, shoulders sagging.
Caryn nudged his shoulder gently. “What’s on your mind, huh?”
A soft, tired sort of smile flitted across Shermie’s face. He felt like he looked like that a lot around his family. “Just… everything. The past, I suppose.”
“Mm.” Caryn took a sip of her already near-empty wine glass. “Ain’t that one just a bitch to deal with.”
“Yeah,” Shermie laughed softly, looking away. “Yeah, I guess it is, huh?”
He thought of his own son, his little Davey. What he’d do if something like ever happened to the little squirt - he couldn’t imagine it. The very thought filled him with a feeling equivalent to sludge. A stomach-plunging, dread-inducing feeling that stuck to his thoughts like dark matter. It was always in the back there, a little black dot in the corner of his mind.
He tried to do better with Davey. He’d never let it happen, he told himself. He wasn’t even sure if he believed it possible, that what happened to Stanley could be prevented, but he needed to tell himself that. To keep sane.
Shermie’s eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. The dark hands ticked - numbers that showed Shermie was due home about fifteen minutes ago. Hm.
“I think it’s time for me to go,” Shermie said mildly, already standing up. “Thanks for having me, Ma.”
“Oh, you’re going already?” Caryn frowned, setting her glass down. “Well, I s’pose it is getting late.”
“Mhmm.” Shermie pulled his coat off the back of the couch, shrugging it on. One arm in, then the next. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the far wall, Stanford’s face staring down at him from the photos. Stanley, absent as a ghost.
Not that Stanford was really there either. Even in the photos, there was an emptiness lingering in the corners of his eyes.
“You’ll call, won’t you?” Caryn pressed, back popping as she stood up to follow him. Neither commented on the sound.
“Sure, Ma. I’ll call try to call when I can.”
“I know you will,” Caryn said. “C’mere, baby.”
Slender arms pulled Shermie into a hug that was stronger than his mother’s bony frame suggested she was capable of.
“Don’t you go giving me the cold shoulder, like Stanford does,” Caryn said sternly, pecking Shermie’s cheek affectionately. She smelt sharply of cigarette smoke and wine, and not much else.
Shermie knew it bothered her more than she let on, that Stanford was so- hm, what was a good word for it? Cold, Shermie supposed. Distant.
It wasn’t hard to figure that his mother had been worried for his younger brother. Honestly, it was a reasonable thing - Stanford had gone years with little to no contact, it only made sense that Caryn would fret.
But then again, it made sense that Stanford wouldn’t want to call either.
“Yeah,” Shermie said, suddenly feeling so tired.
Damn it, he was too old for this. Stanley was little more than bones somewhere, and yet his family’s attempts to bury him only seemed to drag him out again. In trying to let him go they only grafted him permanent residency in their thoughts.
And Shermie was tired of this. He was tired of dancing around this.
Shermie had never been brave, nor bold like his parents. He still didn’t think really was. But what they don’t tell you about cowardice is that it, too, can be just as tiring to hold onto.
And Shermie was ready to let go.
“Ma,” he said suddenly, a feeling of something flooding him. That feeling you get when you’re standing on the edge, and you’re just itching to jump. To pull the trigger on the building tension and feel its release.
Caryn blinked at him. “Yes?”
Shermie stared into her eyes, frowning seriously for a moment. Twenty years worth of everything he’d ever wanted to say clamored in his mind, but none of it seemed to fit.
I miss him. I wish you didn’t try and make us all forget. I wish you tried harder. I hate you. I wish I hated you. I wish I could forgive you. I wish this didn’t hurt so much. I wish I could just cut you off forever and be done with it. I don’t know what you were thinking. Why, ma? Why? Didn’t you miss him?
“I…” he paused, trying to think of a way to say it best. “I’m… sorry. I’m sorry about your son.”
As a child, he hadn’t been able to understand her. Stanley was his brother. But he was a father now, and while he couldn’t quite relate he could… fathom it.
He’d lost a brother, but she’d lost her son.
Caryn’s expression visibly spasmed, her face going tight and drawn, like she was so holding so damn tight to keep the dam from cracking open. “W-what do you mean? You’re… you’re right here!” She laughed tightly, too forced. “Don’t tell me something happened to Stanford?”
“I’m talking about Stanley, Ma,” Shermie said softly. “You know that.”
The clock ticked the pass into the next hour. Shermie wondered if his mother was looking at him, or her reflection in his glasses. She didn’t seem to be seeing him.
“Ma,” he whispered hoarsely, something almost pleading leaking into his voice. A kid again.
“I…” Caryn’s eyes were glassy, staring past Shermie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just us, Shermie.”
“You gave his teeth to Stanford,” Shermie reminded her gently.
“I sent Stanford his baby teeth,” Caryn said vaguely, faintly.
Shermie blinked at her. That really didn’t mean much to him. “Ma, look, I- I know you’re… doing what you have to. Look, I just…”
Shermie sighed, shaking his head. He couldn’t fix this. He was getting tired of trying, of lying low and trying to pick up the pieces of a family that seemed to break underneath its own weight.
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for your loss. I know we never really talked about it.” Chewing the inside of his cheek, Shermie looked away, sighed. “I’m sorry, Ma. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m just…”
He’d made peace with Stanley’s death, but his family’s silence? Their tight-lipped, hidden grief, the cold walls they all put up to keep the hurt (and each other) out?
That had never stopped hurting.
“I’m just trying to make peace with it all, I guess. We’re only getting old, and the past isn’t changing.”
Caryn still wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t really reacting at all, standing there still and slack, staring at nothing. Shermie just leaned down, gently returning the peck on the cheek she’d given him.
“Bye, Ma,” he said softly, voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “I love you, okay? Just… please don’t drink too much. I’ll call you later.”
Hiking his coat up, with one last glance over his shoulder, Shermie walked out the door without further word.
Down the stairs, then he was standing in the street, under the dark sky, glittering with stars.
For the first time in a long time, he felt free.
“Thanks, Stanley,” Shermie whispered to the heavens. “Sorry that took me so long to do. Shrimpy Shermie, huh?” He chuckled softly, melancholy.
So he stepped into the dark, feeling lighter than he ever had before.
In the silent of her now empty apartment, Caryn stumbled over to her wine cabinet. Shaking hands pulled out a full bottle, nails scrapping against the glass as she struggled to pull the cork.
Finally it popped loose, wine sloshing and splashing on her front. She paid it no heed, desperate, scrabbling hands lifting the bottle to her mouth, slipping against her mouth as she drank with a frenzy. Gulp after gulp in one long swig, a bead of red wine bubbling out of the corner of her mouth.
The pungent smell, the buzz, it flooded her nerves - she let the faint burn in her throat chase away the ghost of the freckled, sunburnt corpse burned into the grooves of her mind.
It wasn’t her son, she told herself. She’d only had two sons. Two living adult sons, she’d done a good job hadn’t she, even if one of them was rather ungrateful, but that was fine. Boys will be boys.
The room blurred as her mind began to slow from a racing uncontrollability to sluggish and lethargic. She felt the frozen fingers digging into her mind lax and disappear, if only for a while. If only for a moment.
It was totally normal for a woman to be drinking alone on a… a… what day of the week was it? Oh, it didn’t matter. She’d done a hard day of work, she’d… she’d…
“Mama,” the tiny voice whispered from the wind-ruffled curtains, the creak in the floorboards. “Mama.”
“Go away,” she hissed out, face flush and warm. “You’re s’posed to go away now…”
“Mama,” the soft echo in the walls just cried softly at her.
Ghostly white drifted across the rug - her head whipped around, world spinning with the motion, and, and…
…and it was only the cat. Whiskers twitched at her, white fur with gray fur emerging around an aged muzzle. It was only the cat. It was only the cat.
A sound wrenched its way out of Caryn, a horrible cross between a laugh and sob. Of course, of course.
She’d only ever had two sons. Two.
That was a nice thought.
(She wished she believed it.)
Ma and Pa were arguing again.
Stanley was pretty sure his parents argued like no others. It was Ma who did most of the talking - her animated hands gesturing to this and that in grand flourishes, complaining about things that both had and hadn’t happened, as Pa gave her small grunts and clipped words in response. All in all, a pretty normal interaction for the two of them.
“It’s just like you to not even bring a map,” Ma ranted. “Now we don’t know where the hell we are, and you won’t let me ask for directions-!”
“I don’t need a map, I know where we are,” Pa grunted angrily, glaring at the road, at the pimply gas station attendant awkwardly pumping their gas.
“Oh do you? Then where, oh wise one, are we?” Ma hissed.
Pa said nothing.
Ma kept ranting, but Stanley tuned them out. He turned instead towards Sixer, who was faintly snoring, with his cheek pressed against the door and a small line of drool rolling down the side of his mouth. Stanley snickered at the sight. How gross!
“Sixer,” he whispered, nudging him. No response. “Sixxxxerrrrr-”
Sixer made the small snorting, grumbling noise of someone who was still mostly asleep and would quite like to stay that way. He flapped his hand in Stanley’s direction. “Go ‘way, Stanley,” he mumbled, pulling his hand back and tucking it under his chin. He was back asleep in seconds.
Stanley giggled softly to himself. Deciding mercy upon his sleeping brother, he sneakily slid himself across the seats (thankfully their parents didn’t believe in booster seats, leaving Stanley freely mobile) and to the other side of the car. Small hand hovering over the door handle, he paused.
“Ma? I’m gonna go inside. I need a pee.” And some snacks, but he wasn’t gonna tell her that. ‘cause he was little liar, just like his mama!
“What? Stanley-baby, don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to your father. Anyways, Filbrick, you-”
Stanley tuned that out too. Whatever, his Ma had heard him. Now that someone knew where he was going, he was good to go!
Popping the car door open and shimmying out, Stanley softly shut it behind him and darted into the gas station.
First he went into the bathroom to do his business. Some of their classmates at school still couldn’t go to the bathroom on their own, but Stanley was a big boy. Him and Sixer were so good at going potty, they never needed anyone to help them. Just like they didn’t need anyone to help them take bathes, or make dinner when Ma drank too much juice again.
After washing his hands (Sixer said it was super important to be clean, or else you might get syphilis like Al Capone and bleed out of your privates. Stanley thought that sounded kinda cool, but Sixer made him promise not to try to get syphilis on purpose, and unfortunately Stanley was honor-bound to keep his promises. All the ones with his brother, anyways), he went back into the gas station, ready to make like a Pines and get himself a five-fingered discount.
He crept all sneaky-like around the aisles, keeping a watchful eye out for any onlookers. As soon as he decided he was in the clear, he quickly shoved a bag of jellybeans down his shirt. It didn’t even crinkle that much! Stanley was getting so good at this.
He even got himself a bag of toffee peanuts, as an after thought. There! Now both him and Sixer had candies for the road. Was Stanley the best twin brother or what?
Successfully escaping the store unnoticed, Stanley walked back to the car with a skip in his step, already imagining the look on Sixer’s face when he woke up and saw that Stanley had gotten him his very favoritest candy in the world, and-
-and.
And.
And the car wasn’t there.
Stanley standing in the parking lot, two bags of candy stuffed down his shirt, completely and utterly alone.
“Sixer?” he called out, fear making his voice sound shaky and small.
Only the blare of car horns and ambient talking of the people around him could be heard. The pump where Pa’s beat up old truck had sat was empty now, save for the dark drops of spilt gas on the tar. Where-
Hello! I have finally finished up the fic I wrote for the Month of Maybel 2025! I decided to make a meal out of the crumbs of Mabel bonding with Ford in The Book of Bill. Thanks to @hkthatgffan for holding this event. I hope you all enjoy!
There was a tiny part of Mabel– like, super tiny; tinier than even the tiniest kitten in a mini box of newborn kittens– that thought maybe, just maybe, Grunkle Ford… didn’t like her.
Which, of course, was totally bananas!
... Right?
Right!
It wasn’t as if Grunkle Ford was mean to her, that would be totally messed up! There’s no way would Dipper or Grunkle Stan be okay with that; they’d never talk to Ford ever again if that was the case! Besides, Mabel knew she was delightful to be around!
… Right?
… Except sometimes people told Mabel she was annoying, or silly, or (when they were really trying to be jerks) dumb. Which, again, was bananas, because she definitely wasn’t dumb!
… But maybe, and again, just maybe, Grunkle Ford couldn’t see that, because he was just so smart that everyone else looked super-extra dumb in comparison! Maybe that’s why he always hung out with Dipper instead, and why Grunkle Ford asked her brother to stay in Gravity Falls as his apprentice. Maybe he thought Mabel wouldn’t be as good at science junk, or didn’t care about solving mysteries involving aliens and monsters and secret cults.
Which she did! Duh! Hadn’t she been on all those adventures over the summer with Dipper and their friends? So what if she just happened to like boy bands and stickers and glitter just a bit more?
And… maybe, maybe, maybe… Grunkle Ford was mad at her for giving Bill Cipher the rift, causing the end of the whole ding-dang world. Maybe any good will she had earned when they first met went in the trash when the sky opened up and monsters started spilling out of the hole in reality.
Mabel supposed she could just talk to Ford about these feelings she had– a lifetime of talk shows and magazine articles had taught her that most problems were solved by communication. Everyone knows that, if you’re ever worried about anything, you can always tell a trusted adult! Mabel was worried, and Ford was an adult! The solution should have been so simple, absolutely easy-peasy to solve, right?
… Right?!
Except… hadn’t Dipper just told her about her tendency to be a bit self-absorbed? That maybe it was just a little needy to start pestering Grunkle Ford about a mini-insecurity after everything else that had happened over the last few days. The last thing she wanted was for Grunkle Ford to think she was selfish.
It probably didn’t matter, anyway. Mabel was going home soon, and Grunkle Ford was going to sail across the world with Grunkle Stan, and the two were never going to talk about any of this anyway, never ever. Womp-womp.
Mabel had just sworn to keep her feelings to herself and leave Grunkle Ford alone when the latter showed up and asked if she wanted to go thrifting with her this afternoon.
“I need to gather some supplies for our expedition,” Ford explained, “and I was hoping you could assist me. Besides, I think I owe you a late birthday gift–”
“OMG yes please! Let’s go, let’s go!!!”
As the two headed out the door, Mabel asked, “Aren’t Dipper and Grunkle Stan coming?” She crawled into the passenger seat of the old Stnlymobile.
“Both looked busy the last I saw them,” Ford told her as he took his seat behind the wheel. “It seems they’re at odds over laundry. Stan insists that if Dipper doesn’t wash his clothes by the end of the night, he’s putting it all in the bonfire. Dipper retaliated by stealing his box of Cuban cigars, and threatened to throw them in the bottomless pit. It seems that now, they’re at an impasse.”
Sure enough, Mabel saw Stan chasing Dipper around the yard, cursing and shaking his fist. Dipper, meanwhile, held an old wooden box over his head, his face frozen in a stressed-out grimace. Wendy and Soos were filming the action on their phones, egging both of them on.
“Should we stop them?”
“They’ll burn themselves out eventually. And besides, we haven’t gotten to spend much time together these last few days. With everyone going their separate ways soon, we might as well take the opportunity while it lasts.”
Ford turned the key in the ignition, the old car’s engine roared to life, and soon the pair were on the road. Mabel fiddled with the radio dials, and finally settled on a radio station that finished the last few notes of a cheesy 80’s pop song.
“All right folks,” said an even cheesier DJ, “that was ‘Fancy-Free’ from the hit movie of the same name! Next up, we’re going to keep this retro dance party going–”
“Not sure how I feel about 80’s music being retro,” grumbled Ford.
“--with the sound of Eurythmics! Stay tuned!” Synthesizers blasted from the speakers, echoing off the walls of the car.
“Oh, I love this one,” Mabel cheered, and she began to loudly sing along with Annie Lennox.
“Mabel, could we–”
“Sweet dreams are made of this–”
“Maybe we could change the station–”
“WHO AM I TO DISAGREE–”
“Mabel, please–”
“I TRAVELLED THE WORLD AND THE SEVEN SEAS–”
“MABEL!” Ford barked at her harshly, killing the vibe in an instant. He wasn’t looking at her, just clutching the steering wheel and staring out at the road. His face had gone pale, and he was breathing heavily through his nose.
“Change the station right now… please.”
Mabel, without making a peep, nodded and flipped the radio off. Great. Grunkle Ford finally wanted to hang out with her, and Mabel had already gotten on his nerves. Her insides felt like they were being jumbled up. How was she going to fix this?
“Sorry,” she said, so quiet that it could barely be heard over the sound of the engine’s hum or the tires rolling over the pavement.
“No, I'm sorry,” Ford assured her. His brow was still furrowed, and his mouth had dropped into a frown. “That came out wrong. Forgive me, tone hasn’t ever been my strength. Let’s just move on, shall we?”
Mabel offered him a dim smile, even as her insides continued to twist in her tummy. Ford had a strange look on his face as he smiled, one she couldn’t quite get a read on. He said nothing, and continued to focus on the road.
Okay. Moving on. Mabel could do that. She swore to herself she was going to prove she wasn’t just an annoying little girl. One way or another, she was going to be charming as heck! Once she proved herself, Grunkle Ford would totally start liking her!
She hoped.
The thrift shop in Gravity Falls was inside a squat, boxy building a few blocks away from Greasy’s Diner. It was lit with flickering fluorescent lights, and smelled of disinfectant that couldn’t quite cover up the musty smell of the abandoned clothes and knick-knacks that filled the shop. Mabel fell in love with the place instantly. She spied all kinds of treasures that she hoped to bring home with her: a set of Dream Boy High hand puppets, a quilted backpack that had patches shaped like bunnies and chipmunks stitched into the cloth, and a pair of purple velvet witch hats!
The twist in her gut returned, keeping Mabel from getting too excited. Focus. Ford had brought her here to help out with a supply run. Presents would come after she’d proven herself.
Ford pulled out a list and some crumpled bills from his trench coat pocket, handing both of them over to Mabel.
“All right,” said Ford brightly, “here’s the list of things I want you to grab if you see them in the shop. That’s also about twenty bucks in two dollar bills, so spend that on whatever you like! We’ll meet back here at this mannequin with the grease-stained graphic t-shirt and the horrible wig–”
“Shhh!” Mabel slashed her hand across her neck. “That’s not a mannequin, that’s Bodacious T!”
Sure enough, Bodacious T was thumbing through a rack of band t-shirts. He clearly heard Ford’s comment, he was pouting and glaring at Ford, all while making off-putting whining noises under his breath.
“Oops. Well, in any case,” Ford continued, “let’s meet up in about half an hour and share our findings.”
“Got it!”
As Mabel skimmed over the list, she thought that Grunkle Ford had overestimated the kinds of things the thrift shop usually carried. She could not find moonstones, or a silver chalice, nor an athame made of cold iron. Luckily, she found some items that could probably work as substitutes in a pinch: she found a fistful of pale blue seaglass, a plastic goblet from the Ye Royal Discount Putt Hutt, and a swiss army knife that was only a little bit tarnished. That had to count for something!
With that, Mabel switched focus to finding her gift. She looked over the three treasures that had caught her eye, but again, her stomach was squirming with guilt. What would Grunkle Ford think if she wasted all her money on silly trinkets?
Reluctantly, she let them be. Her gaze then fell on a cozy corner lined with bookshelves. That was perfect! Ford liked books so much he wrote three of them! If she bought a few secondhand books, he’d be so impressed with how smart and sophisticated she was; it was the perfect plan!
Mabel combed over the shelves for any strong contenders. She picked a thin blue book she’d seen plenty of times at the school library back home, and took a quick peek:
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick,and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say anymore, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks and– eats, and everything?”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about– things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And hope she’ll be a fool– that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so– the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated– God, I’m sophisticated!”
Hmmm. Mabel wasn’t sure about this one. The passage made her super uneasy. Maybe I’ll just save that one for English Class. In any case, the book was too short. Grunkle Ford probably ate thicker books for every meal, and used these skinny guys to pick his teeth afterwards.
Mabel dug out a much larger book about science history. Now we’re talking! Grunkle Ford would be so impressed if she got this book. She cracked it open ad skimmed somewhere in the middle:
The obviously dangerous elements of Aristotelian philosophy are all represented on Tempier’s two lists of forbidden propositions: the eternity of the world, monopsychism, denial of personal immortality, determinism, denial of divine providence, and denial of free will. The rationalistic tendencies of Siger and the radicals are also explicitly targeted: after 1277 it is forbidden, for example, to proclaim the right of philosophers to resolve all disputes on subjects to which rational methods are applicable; or to maintain that reliance on authority never yields certainty. The naturalism of Aristotelian tradition also figured prominently in the condemnation of ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ…
Mabel snapped her head up, breaking out of her stupor. Oh no, this book is totally boring! She considered getting the book anyway, and only pretending to like it for her uncle’s sake, but that didn’t sit right with her. Ford would definitely ask her multiple questions about the book and she likely wouldn’t be able to fake her way through. He’d just think she was dumb and a phony. Blech…
Glumly, Mabel slid the boring book back on the shelf, only to stumble upon a stack of paperbacks. Mabel was drawn in by their cover art– attractive people who were staring out from die-cut widows in various stages of distress. They all had titles like Daisies in the Cellar or Desiree’s Doomed Desire, and they all had an aura of 80’s cheese that Mabel adored. They brought to mind Grenda’s stash of stolen, age-inappropriate romance novels.
Curious, Mabel flipped through a few pages and skimmed them just as she’d done with the previous books. Her eyes went wide over one passage, her face turning red with each word.
Oh yeah, definitely not age appropriate. I should probably put this one back, she thought.
Half an hour passed, and Ford found her still in the corner, nose deep in the middle of Desiree’s Doomed Desire.
“Okay, I think we’ve searched all over the entire store,” said Ford. “It’s time to head out. Have you found anything for yourself?”
Mabel squirreled away the paperbacks under her arm, hoping that Grunkle Ford didn’t catch sight of the cover art.
“Yup; was just, you know, reading some very sophisticated literature,” she said with a strained smile. “Just like, so sophisticated. Anyway-let’s-go–”
“Now hold on,” said Ford, his brow creased with concern. From his coat, he pulled out a black box that had antennae that whirred and spun in every direction. “It’s a weirdness monitor,” he explained. “It’ll let me check if there’s any lingering curses or hauntings attached to any item. You can’t be too careful with that sort of thing!”
“Yeah…” Mabel grimaced, but she couldn’t think of any excuse not to let Grunkle Ford look at the books. Embarrassed, she handed them over.
Ford ran the monitor over the stack, and the little device made a pleasant chime. That must have been a good thing: Ford smiled and said, “All right, it looks like we’re in the clear!”
Mabel sighed in relief; Ford had barely registered what the books were about. This was short lived: before Mabel could get them back, Ford looked over the titles and began to frown.
Oh Crap.
“Hmmm…” He squinted his eyes as he read the back of one of the books. “I’m uncertain if it’s okay for a preteen to be reading this sort of thing…”
Mabel began to deflate. This had to be the most embarrassing part of the trip so far. She was about to retreat to Sweatertown forever when Ford, with a simple shrug, smiled and said, “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re technically a teen now!” He added the books to the box of supplies without another thought.
“Seriously,” asked Mabel, delighted. “I can have them?!”
“It’s your birthday gift, Mabel,” said Ford gently. “If that’s what you want then why not?”
“And… you don’t think they’re like… dumb, right?”
“Mabel, what I think about them doesn’t matter.”
Mabel frowned; that wasn’t a no. Ford must have noticed, he quickly added, “Sweetheart, it would be intellectually irresponsible if I discouraged you from reading anything. Even if it’s… Lava Moon Paladins. Huh. There’s something for everyone, I suppose.” As they walked towards the register, he added, “I don’t have any issue with reading popular fiction, believe me. Why, once, I read… an abridged version of Les Miserables!” He looked around the room nervously, as if afraid to have been overheard. “It barely covered anything about the Parisian sewer system! It even had… contextual annotations!”
Mabel wasn’t sure if Ford was being serious, but just to be on the safe side, she let out a big gasp and cried, “Oh No!”
“It’s true. But you know what? I found it well paced and enjoyable,” said Ford defiantly.
Their items were rung up quickly; Mabel’s books came to about $3.50 all together. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else, dear,” asked Ford. “You still have plenty of money left.”
Mabel glanced around the store until she saw her treasures again. She grabbed the bag, the puppets and both witch hats, and piled them up on the checkout counter. That took the rest of the cash, save a penny.
“Thank you,” said Ford to the cashier, taking the change. He smiled, winked at Mabel, and flipped the coin into her open palm. With that, the two moved on to their next stop.
Mabel squinted as she examined Ford’s plate. A pale wad of something sat on top of a bed of lettuce. Green chunks of grapes and apples and brown walnuts were encrusted all through this mystery lump.
“Grunkle Ford, I think somebody already tried to eat your lunch before you got to it,” said Mabel, wrinkling her nose.
“Ha! You’re right, it doesn’t look pretty.” Ford didn’t seem to mind: he stuck a fork into the mystery meal and took a big bite. “It’s a Waldorf salad. It’s probably the only thing that isn’t deep-fried on the menu.”
“Old people food,” whispered Mabel.
“Perhaps,” Ford admitted, “I quite like it! Would you like a bite?”
Mabel pursed her lips; she was a bit skeptical about eating vegetables for fun. But Ford had been kind about the paperbacks, so it seemed fair to give the salad a chance. She stuck her fork into the dish and took a tiny bite.
Hey, not bad!
“I think it needs bread, but it’s tasty,” she admitted. “Tart apples and salty chicken? Great tasting food for my uncle with great taste!”
Ford beamed at the compliment. This was amazing! They were finally bonding! The day had gone so much better than Mabel had ever hoped. The knot in her tummy had relaxed significantly; famished, Mabel started on the cheesy tots she’d ordered.
“Mabel,” said Grunkle Ford, “now that we have a moment, I have something I wanted to ask you. I need someone to assist me in setting up protections around Bill Cipher’s remains– with my knowledge of arcane and your crafting skills, we should be able to set up a barrier that will protect the general public from any trace amounts of bizarronatural anomalies. How does that sound?”
If Mabel’s spirits were high before, they were now absolutely soaring.
“Really,” she asked excitedly. “You want my help with a paranormal mission?”
“Of course!”
Suddenly, Mabel’s insides began to twist again, tethering her back to reality. Her smile began to falter as well as her appetite. She stared down at the plate of fries, and began to push them around the plate with her fork.
“... Mabel? Is everything alright?”
The knot drew tighter, not just in her stomach but inside her chest. She started pressing down on one of her fries with the tines of her fork, mashing it flat.
“I mean,” she said at last, her voice strained, “are you sure sure? It’s just that… I totally screwed up and caused the apocalypse just last week. Do you really want me around when I might mess it all up again?”
The air went out of the room. Mabel continued to crush her fries. She couldn’t look at Ford, because if she looked at him, she would start crying, and she couldn’t be a dummy and a screw-up and a big baby too–
“Mabel? Mabel! Please listen to me.” There was a sense of urgency to Ford’s words, even though his voice was soft and gentle. Mabel looked up at him at last. He didn’t look annoyed or angry, he just looked so sad.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “what happened wasn’t your fault–”
“Yes it is,” Mabel argued, “I gave Bill the rift–”
“After he promised you something you desperately wanted in a vulnerable moment,” Ford insisted. “That’s not a personal failing on your part, that was his entire modus operandi. In any rate, I was the one who failed to share my knowledge about the rift. I was blinded by my own paranoia, my stubborn insistence to bear the weight of the multiverse on my shoulders alone.” He reached over and gave Mabel’s hand a firm squeeze.
“Promise me this, Mabel,” he continued. “Don’t repeat my mistakes. Forgive yourself, because the way I see it, you have absolutely no reason to be sorry.”
“... Really,” asked Mabel quietly.
“Really.”
The knot came loose. Mabel sniffled, and managed to smile once again.
“Okay,” she sighed. “Thanks, Grunkle Ford.”
“Of course.”
After a pause, Mabel asked, “so, tell me about this Cipher Defense Squad–”
“Oh? Is that what we’re calling ourselves?” Ford chuckled.
“Yeah! It’s got pizzazz,” said Mabel brightly.
“That it does,” Ford agreed. “Now, let me brief you on the ritual we will be performing…”
The forest was a bit too quiet when Ford and Mabel drew near their destination. Not even the birds were singing. The only sound Mabel could hear was the crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot.
A crack in the ground had formed during the chaos of Weirdmageddon. Someone had staked a hand painted sign in the ground near the ravine, labelling it “Mabel’s Fault.”
“Oh come on,” Mabel sighed.
Wordlessly, Ford drew out his blaster and shot at the sign; the beam of concentrated energy rendered it to splinters!
“Oops,” said Ford, his tone unrepentant. They continued onward. Odd sights began to manifest along the trail: shadows became sharp and pointed, clusters of mushrooms with triangle markings grew everywhere, and a sharp, metallic scent filled the air. It felt as though lightning could strike at any moment.
“... He’s over there,” Ford murmured. Mabel could see the petrified remains of Bill Cipher sticking out of the ground. His skinny arm extended out into a handshake; Mabel didn’t want to think about what could happen if somebody took his hand.
“Alright,” said Ford bracingly, “Let’s go to work.”
“Wait!” Mabel reached into her bag and pulled out the thrifted witch hats. “Put this on!”
“For pizzazz?”
“For pizzazz!”
“Right!” Grinning, Ford placed the hat on his head, smooshing down his curls down on his forehead. Properly attired, the two began to set up the ritual, placing their items on the ground neatly in front of the statue. Ford poured a bottle of water into the plastic goblet, and chanted a blessing in an alien language until the water began to sparkle.
“Where’d you learn to do that,” asked Mabel.
“A friend from another dimension taught it to me,” Ford replied. “A great oracle– I’ll tell you about her another day. Right now let’s focus. Hand me the stones.”
Mabel gave Ford her sea glass pebbles, and he splashed them with a little bit of the blessed water. Next, the knife: Ford began to carve flowery-runes into every piece of seaglass.
Once that was done, he handed them back to her with a thread woven from unicorn hair.
“I almost wish I could keep it,” said Mabel, admiring her own handiwork. “I wouldn’t mind having a piece of enchanted jewelry.”
“Would helping me illustrate the journal pages for this endeavor be a suitable consolation,” asked Ford.
“Yes! With as many multicolored gel pens as I want, please and thank you,” said Mabel cheerfully.
“Excellent,” said Ford. His good cheer faded as he stood up and approached Bill’s remains. “We’ll need to affix this talisman around the base.”
“Use this!” Mabel pulled out a bottle of Primate Polimer Glue. She handed it to Ford, and told him, “this stuff never comes out! Bodacious T used it as mustache wax once, and it’s been stuck that way all summer long!”
Ford shuddered. “Everything I learn about that man is quite alarming.”
Regardless, the glue did the trick: the talisman stuck fast to the stone triangle, and would not budge when tried.
“How do we know if it worked,” whispered Mabel.
“I’ll check,” said Ford. He stared the petrified demon down; Mabel could see his whole body begin to tense up. She recognized the look: he had the same reaction when she sang that song in the car. Hesitantly, Ford reached towards Bill’s outstretched hand. Mabel nearly cried out, but a shimmering pink glow flared around the statue when Ford got too close. He pressed his fingers against the barrier, which did not yield. It shone brighter and brighter until Ford finally removed his hand.
“Success!”
“Yeah!”
The two of them whooped and hollered in victory, bringing back some life into the still forest. Sighing, Ford looked at Bill one last time, his expression strangely melancholy.
“You know,” Ford confessed, “I’ve spent so long fighting Cipher; it’s almost impossible for me to believe he’s just… gone.”
Mabel hugged Ford tight around the middle. He definitely needed a hug. He tousled her hair, fluffing it up into a fuzzy, frizzy tangle.
“Maybe you feel this way because you haven’t gotten a chance to say goodbye,” Mabel suggested. When Ford raised a skeptical eyebrow at her, she continued, “I mean, he was awful, just the worst, but maye having the last word will bring you closure. Oh, I know! Let’s have a funeral!”
“Well… I suppose we could give it a try,” said Ford, still looking unsure.
A few minutes passed, and Mabel stood in front of Bill’s remains, Xyler and Kraz puppets flailing wildly on her hands. Ford sat on a stump just on the edge of the woods, watching the pantomime play out.
“Gather round, everyone,” said Mabel, her hands flapping up and down to make her puppets ‘speak.’ “We are here today to celebrate the loss of Bill Cipher! He’s gone everybody! Good riddance! Congresswoman Mabel Pines will now read a poem to mark this occasion. Take it away, Mabel!” She tossed both puppets into the audience; Ford deftly caught them both.
“Thank you, thank you,” I made this poem up literally just now,” Mabel continued. “Goodbye Cipher, you are dead. Blown up in my Grunkle’s head. Too much power hurt your soul. Reincarnate as a vole. Amen! Now, would anyone else like to say a few words?”
Ford breathed in deep before approaching the statue once more.
“Cipher,” he said solemnly. “You were a narcissistic void that I was barely able to escape. You cost me friendships, you cost me my mental well-being, and you very nearly cost me my own family. You tried to tear apart this universe like you tore apart my trust. I wish I could mourn the friend I thought you were, but that was just an act. You were a pompous, sadistic, sociopathic hedonist–”
“And a big, dumb jerk!”
“Exactly,” cried Ford triumphantly. “And your insistence on wearing Black-Tie accessories at all times made you look like a theater kid who’s always trying too hard!”
“And he had like, sooooo many mascara stains on his eyelid too,” added Mabel. “Seriously, clean it up girl!”
“He insisted it was a designer label that only he could own,” snapped Ford, “but it was just an eight dollar tube from the drugstore!”
“Designer?! With those clumpy lashes? No way!”
“And,” said Ford, a mischievous smile crawling across his face, “I once caught him practicing one of his spooky entrances when I broke into his palace in the Nightmare Realm!”
“Get out! Seriously?”
“As serious as the grave!”
They spent the rest of the funeral disrespecting Bill Cipher’s memory. By the time they were finished, the sky had turned a creamsicle shade of orange. Wispy, cotton candy clouds hung above Mabel and Ford as they made their trek out of the woods. Neither of them looked back.
As they drove home, Ford had a confession to make. “I was worried you must have resented me Mabel.”
“What!? Why?”
“Well,” said Ford sheepishly, “after everything that happened over the last week, and with how upset you were when I offered Dipper that apprenticeship, I felt as though you found me to be an unrepentant churl.”
“I would never call you an unrepentant churl,” a scandalized Mabel gasped. “... Mostly because I have no idea what that means. What’s a churl?”
“A big, dumb jerk.”
“Remind me to start asking you for help with vocabulary homework,” she replied. Mabel looked over at Ford and gave him a dazzling smile. “I know one thing, I would never paint a hand turkey on somebody I thought was a total jerk.”
“But you haven’t painted a hand turkey on me,” said Ford, confused.
“Then I’m going to fix that; that’s a Mabel guarantee!”
Ford laughed. “Well! That’s certainly a weight off my shoulders!”
He flicked the radio back on. Eurythmics was playing once again, but he didn’t change the station. In fact, Mabel swore that Ford was humming along to the song this time. That had to be a good sign, right?
There will almost certainly be more to this, including some Dipper and Stan bonding, but for now you can enjoy this as a oneshot. It's kind of an alternate version of the night in the first chapter of Open Book, because in the years since writing that I've changed my mind on how I think these dynamics would shift after Weirdmageddon.
Ao3
For the first time in a long time, Ford slept without dreaming. Only for an hour or so, but still, it was nice.
He forgot for a fraction of a second where he was. Maybe some part of him still expected to be in the Fearamid, or somewhere on the other side of the portal.
No, that was over, and he was back in the living room of the Shack. When he had started thinking of it as “the Shack” and not his house, he couldn’t say. He lifted his head from the side table and stretched. The place was still in shambles, probably too hazardous for two kids and a mentally injured old man to maneuver throughout. It didn’t appear that they had any plans to do so.
The kids were curled up against a snoring Stan on the recliner, still scuffed up and disheveled from the end of the world. Mabel had tucked her arms inside her sweater and rested her head on Stan’s stomach. Dipper was lying rather awkwardly on his right arm. He’d fallen asleep clutching Stan’s suit jacket. They both looked so small.
Shouldn’t you be finding some new way to tear them apart?
Bill was gone, but his voice wasn’t done away with so easily.
Really! I’m sure if you tried you could find something to start another pointless fight over.
A lot of people had a voice like this in their minds, Ford knew. For the kids, maybe it was a school bully.
Go on, make them lie to each other again. Why not give Mabel the catastrophic secret this time? Switch it up.
For Stan, it was probably their dad.
“Stanford, tell him he’s being crazy.” You could have, ya know.
It wouldn’t have done any good.
C’mon, think about it. His genius kid who’s gonna make him a fortune tells him to cool off for a sec, he’s not gonna listen? What, was he gonna throw you out on the street, too?
Or worse.
But you’ll never really know, will ya?
He had to curse his subconscious ability to mimic Bill’s sing-songy taunts. At some point, Mabel’s scrapbook had fallen on the floor, upside-down and still open.
She thinks you hate her, by the way. I mean, you did try to take her brother from her.
He picked it up, only wanting to close it and set it aside, when he spotted the edge of a black-and-white photograph.
Probably hates you, too. Sure, Stan volunteered, but all those kids saw was you pulling the trigger.
He flipped through to find a bright, glittery, nearly overstimulating collage dedicated to him. Most of the photos were taken when he wasn’t looking. Some, he remembered Mabel taking after she called his name from across the room, never waiting for him to register the camera before clicking the button. A few had captions, each written in a different color gel pen, such as, “BONUS GRUNKLE,” or, “ACTUALLY PULLS OFF THE TURTLENECK.”
Her entry from the week he came back was written in her signature hot pink:
Greetings!
…Okay, I tried it, and it is NOT working for me. Sorry, Grunkle Ford.
Turns out we have TWO Grunkle Stans! Ford just got home from a different dimension the other night. Turns out Stan’s been using his brother’s name this whole time, so all the stuff in the gift shop has this guy’s name on it. He was looking at all the bobble-heads and Burpin’ Stanford Pineses and kept using words like “affront,” and “travesty.” He’s hilarious! He still doesn’t get the whole “grunkle” thing, though. He keeps saying it’s not a word and asking why it’s spelled with a K instead of a C. I tried to tell him that it’s a state of mind and not a spelling word. He’ll get there.
In the bottom right corner was a drawing of his handprint as it appeared on the Journals, but instead of a number on the palm, there was a pink heart-shaped sticker. Not an anatomically correct one, of course, but by now you could tell him that Mabel’s heart actually looked like that, and it wouldn’t surprise him.
He’d almost forgotten about the old photo when it fell out of its corners on the next page. His eyes widened as he looked down at himself and Stan at their first birthday party. A photocopy, of course, but that meant someone had the original. Where on Earth was it?
He would ask her when there was an opportunity. He wouldn’t dare wake her now, or interrupt her time with Stan while he was healing. He slipped the copy back into place on its page and read the caption above it:
I looked through one of the old-timey photo albums in Stan’s secret hideout and found BABY STANS! Look how cute they are!!!! I couldn’t even tell them apart if it weren’t for Ford’s extra finger. I bet it gives him some kind of mysterious wisdom or author powers or something. Grunkle Stan says Ford’s dangerous, but the government guys said the same thing about him. Sorry Stan, but I’ll believe it when I see it.
He shut the book and left it on the skull-table. In his most spiteful moments, Ford had a tendency to think of Stan as a squatter. Not just in his house, but in his life. He hadn’t stopped to consider all the burdens Stan must have taken up in his absence. Someone had to clean out the old house after Mom and Dad passed, and Stanford wasn’t banned from New Jersey.
Pop quiz! Which of your parents bit it first? Go on Sixer, give it your best shot. The answer might surprise you!
A small part of him didn’t want Stan to recover that particular memory.
But he didn’t get to pick and choose, so he spent the next few hours in the lab searching for any more photos, heirlooms, anything Stan might have taken from the pawn shop. Eventually he found them in a cardboard box just under his desk. He must have pushed it there at some point just to get it out of his way, not even thinking to see what it was. Before he could get a good look at what all was inside, he heard the elevator doors open.
“Grunkle – um, Great Uncle Ford?”
Mabel came in, bathed in the glow of the flickering control panels lining the walls. She’d been illuminated like this in Bill’s fist. Those minutes moved by in a blur, but he recalled the shooting star reflected in that grotesque eye just as he was about to snap his fingers.
She looked wary now. Ford blinked.
“You know,” he said, “I’ve been here so long that ‘great uncle’ just doesn’t sound right anymore.”
That got her to smile. “What’s in the box?”
He motioned for her to come look. “Your scrapbook did wonders, but if we’re going to get all of Stan’s memory back…”
She gasped in delight and fished out a picture of the boys in little suits at a family wedding. They must have been in third or fourth grade at the time. Ford was obliging the photographer with a smile while Stan tugged on his collar, not even acknowledging the camera.
She held it up to Ford and squealed, “You guys are adorable!”
He laughed. “I don’t think we were ever more uncomfortable.”
She rifled through more mementos and picked up a spool of film. “What’s this?”
“A home movie. Don’t know which one.”
She frowned. “I don’t think this’ll fit in the VCR.”
“I’m sure we can scrounge up a projector somehow,” he said with a shrug.
“How long has all this stuff been here?”
He put a hand in his inside pocket. “No idea, but we’re lucky. If Stan’s ever going to remember past this summer, he’ll need more than this.” He pulled out the picture of them on the beach, standing proudly on the Stan O’War.
Mabel’s eyes widened. “That was in your pocket this whole time?!”
Ford had never admitted to anyone that he carried it, but now it felt natural.
Mabel bounced up and down and poked him in the chest a couple of times. “I knew you two didn’t hate each other!”
“Who said we hated each other?”
Her face fell. That was probably a dumb question.
“Well…no one, I guess. Grunkle Ford?”
He put the photo back in his jacket. “Hm?”
“The night you came back, I kinda heard you guys talking, and…” She tapped her two index fingers together. “You’re not still gonna kick Stan out of the house, are you?”
He sighed. “Mabel, of course not.” He opened his arms and she came in for a hug. He stroked her hair gently. “I’m sorry you heard that. But a lot’s changed now.”
She pulled back and wiped a tear with the heel of her hand. It started to set in what a shame it was that he hadn’t spent more time with her since coming home. He’d have to fix that if the kids came back next summer.
“I guess I haven’t thanked you yet,” he said.
Mabel raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“Dipper told me you were the one who left the portal open. You brought me back.”
She had a curious look on her face as that sank in.
“And now you brought my brother back. I really don’t know where this family would be without you, Mabel.” He took her hand and looked her straight in the eye. “Thank you.”
She smiled the way she had after she’d given him the unicorn hair a few weeks back, and sniffled. “Do you need help getting this box upstairs?”
The box wasn’t particularly heavy. He could probably stack another box on top if there were more down here and still lift them on his own.
Silly Ford x male OC one shot at 4am. 1.6k words. Enjoy :p
(the concept for a Ford fanfic where be dates Stan's boxing partner is straight up taken from a Wattpad fic i recenly read. All the props to @JoeSnappe)
The Boxer and the Scientist
Win or Lose
The stars blinked at Ford as he stared out the window, joyfully dotting the night sky. However, the teenager did not find the same comfort in them as he usually does.
You see, this is the day the Pines family had been waiting for for so long. His twin brother Stan and their partner in crime Anthony were up for the boxing final match, each in their own weight category.
Ford had been fighting off the butterflies in his stomach all week just picturing Anthony in his boxing outfit, cleaning out his opponent with ease and smiling with that shiny perfect grin on the podium, a golden metal around his neck.
Ever since they shared that first secret kiss, it was harder and harder for Ford to keep his childhood friend out of his head. He had it all planned for today; Anthony would certainly win (he'd been showing great promise in the trainings Ford popped in to watch) and after both families celebrated together, he'd snatch his beloved away from prying eyes. Safely alone, Ford would shower him with the love a champion deserves and give Anthony the letter he had carefully composed late at night, while Stan slept blissfully unaware in the bed next to his. He'd tell him he knew it was illegal, he knew it was dangerous and he knew if found, they'd both be ruined. But that he didn't care, and life made a lot less sense without his one and only. Ford was shaking with nervousness and anxiety, probably more than the competitors themselves, but he could not wait to start this new risky yet highly rewarding chapter of his life.
But life always found a way to be cruel to our favourite nerd.
Mr. Pines had come in their room in the rushed excitement of the pre-fight morning, while Stan ate the delicious "lucky" breakfast his mother had prepared. The father of the twins was looking for the spare boxer gloves Stan had tossed somewhere - he was nothing if not a cautious man. In the mess of the boys' room, he came across the letter Ford had hidden underneath the bed, and the intricate illustration of the couple that the boy had worked so hard for caught his eye.
Some other father would have put an end to it right then and there, but not Mr. Pines.
"There you are dad, mom was asking about-" Ford screeched to a halt as he barged into the room and saw his old man holding the letter.
A chill went down the spine of the younger one and the realization of what was happening knocked the air out of his lungs.
They stared at each other in silence. Ford recoiled into himself, desperately trying to read his father's stone expression. Nothing. Just the stoic distance with which Mr. Pines treated everything unknown or out of order.
He carefully folded the paper that held his son's truest and darkest feelings and tucked it away in the pocket inside his trademark tweed jacket.
"We are going to the match." he spoke in an unwavering tone. "For your bother. And you will stay put."
"But I... I wanted to watch-" the teenager piped up.
"You won't." he spat. "Whatever this is-" he gestured to the letter "-I won't encourage it. When we get home you won't tell your brother or your mother a thing and you will meet me outside. I'll deal with you then."
He walked around his broken, hyperventilating mess of a son and grabbed the door handle.
"Don't even think of pulling some crap on me while we're gone celebrating Stan." he paused for a moment as if allowing himself to come to terms with had he had to say next. "Six fingers wasn't weird enough, you had to go and" he sighed "I had such hopes for you, you know?"
The door shut as well as Ford's hopes, while his father gathered the family to leave, likely coming up with some excuse for Ford's absence.
And so he waited.
Somewhere less depressing than his room, his brother was probably being carried in shoulders by now, and his sweet Anthony was wondering where his favourite cheerleader was.
《 He's probably mad at me.》 Ford thought bitterly, burying his face in his pillow. He couldn't even begin to plan making his absence up to Anthony while he wasn't even sure he'd have a home to sleep in tonight. 《Although》he wondered, 《By the time they come home, Father might be too tired to kick my ass. They've been gone for so long... It must be a hell of a party they got going on...》
He was about to get up and search Stan's stuff for the cheap watch her mother had gifted him after his last victory, when there was a tap on the window. Ford looked up from his self pity and every problem melted away.
Behind the glass was the beautiful, comforting face of Anthony, plus the few battle badges his fight had earned him. His short brown hair flowed mindlessly in the wind, his green eyes sparkled with child like excitment, his tanned skin drinking in the moon light in a way Ford's pale and sickly tone simply couldn't. His wide shoulders and taut muscles peeked beneath the white tank, revealing the well developed figure Ford wouldn't admit to admiring every now and then. All this "forbidden bait" wrapped up in the glorious red of his boxing gym and tied up with the golden chain around his neck that confirmed the victory. Ford smiled. And then broke down crying.
"Hey, what's wrong beautiful?" Anthony asked, pushing open the window and climbing into the twins' room. He rushed over to his side and sat down on the bed, a hand running over Ford's messy hair, trying to calm him down "Ford, what happened?"
"I thought you'd... I thought you'd be with Stan and all of them." he sniffled, propping himself up to sit, an arm's length away from the boxer.
"I sneaked away. I suspected something was wrong when you didn't show up to the finals, but it was hard to get a second to disappear with all the commotion." he glanced at Ford's tear drenched face. "Seems I was right."
The scientist to be sniffed.
"I wanted to be there. I wanted to see you win. I wanted to congratulate you and I wanted to give you a gift I made..." he broke down again
"That's so sweet Ford, you didn't have to-
"My dad found it"
Silence, then realization, then dread dropped on Anthony's shoulders. He didn't dare speak.
"It was this letter I wrote. Telling you everything. How I stare at you when you're not looking, how I can't stop picturing your face when I close my eyes, how everything you say feels like the most important thing in the world. How that kiss made me feel... How I hoped we could be something more." Ford jumped up, pacing the room, couting his fingers as he did when he was nervous. "How could I be so stupid?"
"I don't think you're stupid" Anthony managed to say, pulling himself from the bittersweet treat that was listenning to Ford confess everything he dreamed to hear in this way. "I think we're allowed to be in love with whoever we want"
"Of course you would think that." he scoffed.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Anthony crossed his arms and frowned. The nod to his previous adventures with sexuality didn't slip by him.
"I-I didn't mean it like that-" Ford began to stutter, but Anthony wouldn't have it.
"So what, your dad loses his shit cause you like me and all of a sudden I'm a deviant because I've fucked a guy before?" He stood up, hurt and insulted by the implied judgment of the boy's comment.
"I'm so sorry Anthony, I'm being an idiot, my dad-"
"Look, I can't make up your mind for you Ford." he opened his arms and placed each hand on his friend's shoulders, as if to shake him awake. "You are the only one responsible for your views on the world. I can only... show you. That's what I've been trying to do all along. I don't think it's a bad thing I did what I did. I learned there's a way I can be myself, no matter what the world says. I learned that what they say about me, about us, isn't true. Tell me Stanford, does this feel wrong to you?"
Tentatively, Anthony closed the distance between them and kissed Ford's lips, sweetly, caringly, the way you'd kiss your sleeping beauty in hopes she'd come back to life. They lost themselves in the haze of the intimacy, Ford deepening the kiss and Anthony pulling him closer.
When they were forced to breathe, Anthony pulled away when his lover searched for his lips again.
"Answer my question, Ford."
"Not in any universe" the taller one replied, burying his head in the boxer's shoulder.
"Then why? Why let someone take it from you?" Anthony begged, kissing the side of Ford's head, breathing him the smell of books and ink and dust that seemed seeped into him.
"It's not that simple Anthony."
"It can be." The brunette let him arms follow the length of Ford's until their hands met and intertwined, Anthony's five fingers locked perfectly between Ford's six. "Just for tonight, my dear. Let me love you like you deserve."
The invitation and the coy smile that came with it were irresistable to the Pines' first born, and every worry or parental threat slipped away.
He needn't say anything. He simply allowed himself to be pulled away by his lover, away from his father and the bigotry and the expections.
Soon enough, the couple was out of the house and on their way to a place no one could question them, but not before Ford left a note on the shared night stand.
"Gone for a walk. Safe and sound, I'll be back when I can. Don't worry and congrats on first place!
An Inspector Calls inspiration/reference bit in there because even when writing about morally ambiguous detectives I physically can't restrain the socialist agenda abt it
[p1] [p2] [p3] [p4] [p5]
Chapter 6 - Impasse
After such a successful first day, Ford was becoming frustratingly aware of just how little progress he had managed to make since. The city he arrived in felt full of danger and mystery, but it seemed to morph practically overnight into something idyllic and peaceful.
He hadn’t caught sight of his other 2 tails the entire week, nor had he been followed. He was certain he still felt eyes on him, but he had no way to confirm that they were malicious eyes or even lingering too long. It felt too convenient.
Had he spooked them by making such a big play so immediately? They’d made the first move, though – they should’ve been anticipating some form of retaliation. Or did they really expect to just knock him off the board right away, without second thought?
He frowned. It’s been a long while since he’s been under-estimated. Though it’d be an arguably more advantageous position, he couldn’t help the idea grating against his ego. He had put a lot of work into being the top of his game!
Pacing the streets restlessly, he absentmindedly chewed the pen which had made its way out of his front pocket and continued his evaluation.
His gut feeling had been right – the current police force here couldn’t be trusted. Too many all-too convenient break outs and balances which didn’t quite match up in the files they’d allowed him access to. He needed to wait for the task force he’d been assigned to filter into town. That could be another week, give or take a few days either direction, and he felt that he had exhausted all the information the man in his basement would offer him.
He could attempt other measures of persuasion, but it’s not like he particularly had anything to offer a criminal who was good for money and uninterested in immunity. It was like he wasn’t even worried about going to jail – which only served to drive home that this city’s police were not the respectable sort. Fine, okay. He’d dealt with this sort of situation before.
Torture… existed. But he probably shouldn't do that. He wasn’t that desperate yet, and besides, he had to uphold some form of morals. And F and E-M would get upset at him. So torture was a no-go.
He grunted again with the frustration of it, biting harder into his pen and denting the plastic. He was just preparing to go home and work on building up his board as a consolation activity, when his radio crackled up once. Then twice. Thrice. Numerous calls all arriving at a single time. All manner of serious crimes were going on across the city simultaneously.
Earlier that day, Stanley had sat in probably the least comfortable meeting of his adult life. Very few bosses, flanked by all their best guys, will ask you to describe your brother in detail with a very disconcerting glint in their eye.
Fuck, he did not wanna tell Cipher anything.
He tried to think of the least interesting information he could as he cleared his throat. Stuff that would be easily deduced at least.
“Uh… well, his name is Stanford. Stanford Filbrick Pines. He’s always been sorta a big nerd. Was a pretty timid kid. Pretty sickly too.”
Stan rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. It’s fine. I’m not selling him out. This is all pretty standard information – most of it’s not even relevant anymore. He took another deep inhale, steadying himself. The silence implored him to continue.
“He’s always been pretty clever, but- heh-“ he shrunk down a bit again with a nervous laugh, “guess that part’s pretty obvious, huh?”
Jeez, was it hot in here? Had Ronnie just started playing with her matchbook?
“How delightfully vague, Goldie,” Cipher said, luckily landing closer to amusement than displeasure at his anxiety, “care to expand on any of that, wise guy?”
“Ah- well… see, the thing is, me and my brother haven’t exactly been in contact for- jeez, about 10 years now. I didn’t even know he’d become a detective! ‘s not like we’d have been able ta, what, with all the address switching an’ all.” The floor seemed like a great place to stare down at his discomfort right now.
“Pretty uncommon situation for twins to find themselves in,” his boss’ voice cut through all his words, pressing down hard on that discomfort, “how’d that come about?”
Stan inhaled. Well, there was no getting around it, huh?
“There- there was this science fair. Big deal, right? Some fancy shmancy sponsors from West Coast Tech were plannin’ to stop by an’ hand out a scholarship and whaddya know, my bro just happened to have somethin’ real special to show. Some sorta machine-thingy. All I know is our principal thought he had a real good shot at it. But uh- I. There was an accident and it ended up broken before they stopped by. ‘Course, he was real upset about it ‘n all. I don’t blame him- the school sounded perfect for him. But uh, since I was more or less responsible for the accident, my Pa got real mad and. Chucked me out. Told me I wasn’ welcome no more, so. Hah. That was that.”
Stanley was at this point sinking into his seat with all the eyes boring into him. He wanted to melt away and disappear at this point, just about. There was just one small string of relief that he could hold onto from that story: the take-away.
“So, uh, nah I dunno that I’m much good for knowin’ my brother. Heck, last time I saw him he was gettin’ an F in gym and now he’s some sorta daredevil by the looks’a it. Guess a lot changes in 10 years, huh?”
He finally trailed his eyes back up to Cipher and was somewhat disappointed to see that he hadn’t lost that look of interest.
“Sounds tough, kid.” His boss eventually said, a little grin in his tone which Stan was not enjoying in this context, “he didn’t try and help you out at all while you were tossed like yesterday’s trash?”
“I- well he was. He was mad.” Stan turned his gaze away once more, face burning. “’Sides I was always the useless twin, so…”
“Feel like showing him just how wrong he was?” Cipher’s voice was playful in his suggestion, in a way which was exceptionally dangerous from him. “Prove you’re more than just a spare pretty face?”
“I-“ Stan tried to wrench away his discomfort. He pushed an air of false blasé to the surface, “nah. ‘m not that petty. In fact, I feel bad for the kid.”
“Oh?” That damn grin widened.
“Yeah. I mean, trigger-happiness aside, he ended up just holing himself up in a basement like a nerd for years, again. ‘s not like I envy his position.” He laughs a bit again. Lie until you’re no longer lying. “With the stuffy feds of all people? C’mon. He was always a stickler for the rules, sure, but he ain’t even followin’ them all that way is he? So what’s the point?”
The boss leaned back in his chair, humming thoughtfully. “Yeah, I see it now. Poor kid. We ought to liberate him from all that, no?”
Stan tried to fight the dread which so immediately filled his gut with that. He tried to choke out a laugh, some bravado. His chest felt paralysed. He couldn’t do anything but stare for a moment. Cipher seemed to drink it all in with a smirk. He’d gone too far; in trying to convince his boss that he didn’t need to cook up some revenge scheme, he’d pushed him all the way to taking matters into his own hand. This was really bad. He needed to-
“Jeez, you’d think I suggested we kill Mr. IQ!” Cipher barked out a laugh, prompting the other henchmen around them to laugh in term, “Chillax, Goldfish. What, you think I’m some kinda monster?”
Yes. “No- no I just.” He laughed again, catching some motion back in his body. “He, uh- ‘m not sure he’d be very receptive t’ all that.”
“I can be very persuasive.”
Another chill through him. He recovered a bit quicker than before, though. “Oh I know. But if you thought I was stubborn, then- jeez- you’ve seen nothin’ yet.” He laughs again, hoping all those frustrating memories Cipher has of trying to get Stan to do anything he didn’t want to do would surface right about now.
The words relaxed Stan just a bit, but he couldn’t fully let the tension leave him. Instinctively, he braced for the catch.
“After all,” Cipher leaned forward onto his hands, grinning madly as the light caught his face just enough to show his eye glint past the sunglasses, “a hunt is no fun without a chase, right?”
Yep. There it was. Stan winced, apprehension and horror swirling in his chest. Cool, yep, the madman was talking about his twin brother like he was prey. Sure. This may as well be his life. Fuck.
“Sure…” he wasn’t sure what else he was meant to say. He was uncomfortable, and frankly he wanted to leave his conversation behind and pretend it never happened. He didn’t like the way the hairs on his neck stood on their ends whenever Cipher’s voice got that snarl to it. It reminded him far too directly all the ways in which his boss was, at the end of the day, far closer to tearing the people around him apart like a wild animal than he was to being any fucking semblance of normal. Once again, Stan wanted to be sick.
Cipher’s eyes finally left Stanley, leaving him with a level of relief he hadn’t felt in years.
“Well? Far be it from us to entertain!” he snapped his fingers, commanding the attention of the entire room in one simple gesture, “the government has so kindly sent us their favourite player, we should make an effort to give him a good game!” he smiled, standing and adjusting his bowtie.
“Everyone but Goldie, go do something fun! Nobody share notes, I want to see what you all come up with. Anything you like, anywhere you like! Rob a bank, vandalise the city square—heck, kill a guy for all I care! Surprise me! Just make it interesting. And be sure to leave our new friend plenty of gifts around. We want him to feel welcomed, after all!”
The group paused, glancing amongst themselves. A mix of interest, excitement and a small amount of cautiousness passed through the air before they began to filter out the double doors of the office. Stan caught a few pitying looks as they passed by him, but none were obvious or long-lasting enough to signal much more.
Once the silence had settled back over the two men, Stan’s discomfort became very hard to hide. With all the others gone, the room felt very empty in a way it hadn’t the last time he’d had his last meeting alone with Cipher – and at the same time, far, far more suffocating.
Cipher leaned forwards on both his hands in a cute motion, one that was almost reminiscent of a schoolgirl kicking her feet.
8 Crimes, after a week of complete silence. Seemingly all in random directions, without clear motives and lacking pattern in location.
Ford snarled out an aggressive laugh – a strange swelling mix of incredulous, irritated and engaged. They’re testing me.
8 crimes – all impactful, but varying in severity. He listed them out in his head, quickly assimilating each one into the sprawling mass of strings and notes in his mind. He starts the process of furiously gnawing on his pen.
There isn’t much time to make the choice. They want something spur-of-the-moment. It’ll be hard to get around all 8 today. They know that. They want to see what I’ll prioritise.
Another snarl-laugh which doesn’t know what emotion it wants to convey rings out as he slams his hands on the nearest surface – an outdoor table adjacent to a cafe. People are beginning to look at him somewhat strangely, giving him a wide berth as they walk by.
If I go for the crime of highest significance to me, I’ll be showing my hand. He chews harder, brows knitting with intensity. They’ll know where my values stand, what pressure they might want to apply for leverage… his nose scrunches, it might encourage them to repeat it. For a reaction, if nothing else.
It wasn’t often Ford had a criminal attempt to test him, to get in his head with a moral dilemma. He’d admit to being impressed if he weren’t deeply, deeply frustrated. I mean this was a brilliant ploy, all things considered.
8 Crimes, hm? I wonder what the significance of 8 is here. He placed that up on his mental board, stowing it away towards the back for later, before refocusing himself on the tasks at hand.
Stanford realised once again that he had been so focused trying to analyse the meaning behind the simultaneity of the crimes that he had failed to properly process each of the crimes themselves. Right, onto that.
Even if he didn’t want to, he would have to prioritise. That’s what made this dilemma such a compelling and frustrating play – he was forced to engage in it, or he’d risk innocent lives suffering. He listed the crimes in his head.
Arson – the fire department will be better suited in the immediate, but the risk of it spreading is troublesome.
3 Robberies – a bank (they’ll be fine), a manor (more worrisome, though residents less highly impacted), and a corner shop (he reckons it was for the scratch cards and alcohol. It usually is.)
Grand Larceny – from the museum, an artefact gone missing. This one struck a personal chord for him, the part of him adoring of all things of research deeply infuriated. But still, no immediate risk to life, so…
Vandalism – an understatement. An entire square had been ‘redecorated’ with dubious substances. It’s probably a good point to make sure they’re not toxic…
Destruction of Property – a store-front bashed in. Seems reminiscent of a racket scheme collecting its dues. He knows Enigma Co. has these in other branches. Direct impact to livelihood.
Grievous Bodily Harm – man found in a back-alley, seems to have been ‘toyed’ with—
Ford didn’t need to think over his options after that last one. He didn’t really care about what it said about him, even to the criminals. When he imagined any person on the streets getting attacked, he could only ever picture Stanley. Logically, the odds of it being Stanley were very low, however what he’d come to understand that every one of those cases was Stanley – they just weren’t all his brother, Stanley.
He’d prioritise Stanley, always, of course he would. But the other ‘Stanleys’ roaming the streets had their own ‘Fords’ who wanted them back. It’s not fair that his brother is the only one in that position he’d protect.
The man was probably lonely, exhausted, scared and aching, so it really wasn’t a surprise to Ford that he had already unconsciously began rushing that direction. His next target would be the Property Destruction, then he would move to the latter 2 robberies – in order of whichever was closer. For the other crimes… he was willing to accept what was and wasn’t possible within the parameters of his experience. He clicked open the communicator Fidds had made for him.
“F; E-M!” he called into it, “Can you hear me??”
There was a moment’s silence before he heard Fiddleford’s response, followed an extra moment before Emma-May was online.
“We’ve got a lot of trouble today. I need you to pick up a couple of pieces for me.” His voice was harried and uncomfortable.
“Goodness, hun – for you to be askin’ for help taking cases off your hands it’s gotta be apocalyptic out there.” Em responded.
“8 Call-ins. Simultaneously. All fairly severe.” He heard the others pause in interest and apprehension before he continued. “I’ll send you the coordinates. E-M, I’m delegating you to figure out the starting point and nature of the arson on the west side as priority, then museum larceny as a follow up. F, you’re on the vandalism of town square first – just to make sure none of the substances are dangerous. After, I think your tech skills will be put to best use in the bank systems for the robberies.”
He paused, not entirely from being out of breath, but also from the silence which followed and his own dawning realisation that he was effectively ordering them as their superior, which… he didn’t do often. He paused, uncomfortably, and added softly with a slightly desperate tone, “please.”
“Well hey now, ya ain’t need ta do all’a that,” Ford could hear Fidds laugh at his addition over the line, “you got it, boss. No need ta beg.”
“We’ll be on it right away.” Em added, smoothly but seriously.
Ford nodded, closing the line, and reluctantly trusting the two of them to sort things out themselves.
Good thing he slept recently. He would need all the energy he could get for the all-nighters which would follow this.
Jeremy had to learn that the hard way. If he hadn't stood at the sidelines of his own life all those years ago, things wouldn't be like this. He wouldn't be alone.
That's why as soon as the War began, Jeremy, with nothing to tie him down, packed as lightly as he could and left. He took with him a pan, some sorrow, a knife, tons of regret, bits rope and not a single friend.
The first nights weren't hard, or gruelling, or life draining - on the contrary! They were a breath of fresh air. Back in the Big City, too big for someone like him, the buildings were skyscrappers, the people were giants and he suffocated even inside his own home, built for someone of a different species.
His drowning was silent. No one stopped to notice the short weird looking fellow running around the streets, or grocery shopping, or working at the smallest library. That's why, as gruelling as it was, it was perfect.
The journey to The Forest felt like the build up to the chorus of your favorite song. Like the tune your parents used to sing to you on your restless nights, when the questions of a curious child brain kept you up as if figuring the world out had a timer. You couldn't realize it's still hiding in your memories until you start recognizing its familiar themes and you light up as if reconciling with an old friend.
And now, as he walked further away from his makeshift home in a tree trunk and closer into the heart of The Forest, Jeremy could feel that old song all around him, so obvious, so heartfelt, so intense that he felt he could shout out the lyrics. In the midst of the Flora, Fauna and magic that build this ecosystem, Jeremy was finally home.
And as Jeremy looked around, the sweet tinge of nostalgia melting the hard armour he built around his aged core, the song screeched out of recognition. A new instrument pipping up. An unknown creature dotting the canvas Jeremy awed upon with care.
Ok, the Gravity Falls we see is kind of a single card in a whole deck of different dimensions and possible timelines. However, there are some moments highlighted in the series as unique to this reality that can help us "pinpoint" it and maybe understand how things happened the way they did.
In "Time Traveler's Pig", Dipper calculates that this is the only timelime that he wins the fair game, gifting Wendy the prize and seing the begging of her relationship with Robbie get shut down. Consequentially, this is also the only timelime where Mable doesn't win Waddles and he instead is taken by Pacifica.
We also know for a fact, thanks to The Book of Bill, this is the only reality where the Pines Family took down Bill, ended Weirdmaggedon and pulled through without any losses.
Now here's where things get messy.
In the episode "Into the Bunker", Dipper, Mabel, Soos and Wendy follow a lead on the Author's identity and instead meet the Shape Shifter. This creature can transform into anything, and when it's defeated by the group, warns Dipper against searching for answers and gives him a glimpse of his "final form" - same age, still with the Pinetree hat so we know it would happen this summer. We can assume it was bluffing and exagerating his powers, as Dipper survives, trades his hat and makes it back home. Or we can try to find if Dipper ever did take that form and it slipped by us.
If we look at the Northwest Mantion episode, Dipper has to face the ghost of a humble lumberjack, tricked by the Northwests and left to die. In the end, the ghost takes over the mansion, turning every guest at the ongoing party into wood. Dipper meets the same fate, and as we see him slowly turn, he takes the same position as the Shape Shifter predicted. However, Pacifica interviened. She rebelled against her family's shady traditions and her own parents' orders, and opened the gates to invite all the town people into the celebration, no matter their social status. Doing so, she broke the curse and released the ghost, saving everyone who returned to normal unharmed. Knowing Gravity Falls, can we think it's a coincidence a creature - not omnscient but far more knowledgable than the characters we follow - would scare Dipper with the exact same pose he would take when he later faced certain death?
What if the Shape Shifter can or has somehow taken a peek at one or more of those different timelines? What if there, it saw Dipper actually die in that mansion? What if this is actually the only timeline where Pacifica changes the course of fate and saves everyone?
Well, what is different about Pacifica in this universe that changed her and not all the others?
Waddles
This being the only timeline or not, we can say Waddle's relationship with Mabel and not Pacifica somehow affects her decision later, like the Butterfly Effect.
What about Waddles and Pacifica's alternate summer together would have kept the Nothwest child in her parents' grip? What about this beautiful pig's presence would have dampened Pacifica's urge to "break the world's worst chain" and be set on a path to become a better person? Would she not have made it to "the inner circle" at the Weirdmageddon, not taken the Lama sweater and remained unidentified as an essencial part in Bill's Zodiac? Is that why this is the only reality where they win, because Stan's ego took away their first chance at victory with everyone and later egged him to take his last action as a selfless hero?
In the midst of my Gravity Falls rambles, have I stumbled upon the missing piece, the show's Mother Rock: the realization of Waddles' true magnitude of influence and power?
I would not be surprised.
Ps: I later realized if Dipper turned to wood, there would be no inner circle for Pacifica to turn to and much more missing pieces on the Zodiac. Oh well, sleep deprivation :)
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