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Stanford Pines hates hospitals.
Hospitals were too sterile, uncomfortable, like voids that dwindled the room's oxygen supply, slowly suffocating him. Fragments of memories threw themselves at him left and right, making it impossible to tether his mind to any semblance of the present. Flickers of time, his mother's outraged voice demanding why nothing could be done for his extra fingers as he was presented to doctor after doctor, to no avail. Each one said the same thing as the last. "They're fully functional. Nothing can be done."
Ford shook his head as he approached the visitation desk, trying to ground himself to the task at hand. The town, more or less, was somewhat frozen in the same way it had been when he departed this dimension. More modern, perhaps, but Greasy's was in the same place - the grocery store, while abandoned, was still standing in its same spot. Muscle memory guided him through the sleepy town and to the entrance of the hospital, just like it had all those years ago. It was comforting, in a way. Gravity Falls was a secluded place, yet if you belonged, truly belonged, the town would open its arms to you and beckon you in. Inviting, alluring, accepting. Ford was grateful to see that hadn't changed in his absence.
A petite, dark-skinned woman sat at the desk, flipping through computer files over the rims of her purple glasses. When she noticed Ford approaching, she looked up and offered a smile. "Hello, friend!" she greeted warmly. "How can I help you today?"
At the sound of her thicker southern drawl, Ford's heart ached, reminded momentarily of Fiddleford. He did his best to shake it off. "I'm here to see a patient." He shifted his weight from heel to heel, hoping he didn't sound or look too out of place amongst the space. Thirty years of isolation, apart from people pledging their lives to kill him, had clearly taken a toll on his social skills. To his surprise, the woman didn't seem fazed at all. The smile fixed on her face was still warm and friendly, and she nodded, clicking to a page on her desktop Ford couldn't see, fingers poised to type. "Of course! The name, dear?"
"Pines?" Ford offered.
The woman typed. "Mason?"
"Er- yes?" Ford winced at the way it sounded like a question. Stan had told him Dipper, not Mason, but he shrugged it off. Machine components whirred, as a sticker ejected from the printer on her desk. The woman rolled over to it, took out the paper, and peeled it off the sticker paper, offering it to Ford. "Mason is in the ICU," she explained, gesturing to the left hallway with her pen. "Up the elevator, floor five, right there. He's in room 618."
Ford took the sticker, noting the way the woman's eyes lingered on his hands. He patted the sticker down on his turtleneck, said his thanks, and turned, descending down the hallway. Anxiousness fizzed in his calves, making him walk faster to the elevator. He thrummed his hand against his thigh, waiting for the door to open. From the summary of events he gathered from Stanley and Mabel, Dipper was Mabel's twin. Initially, the notion was heartwarming, the prospect of twins running in the family. Until his questions about the boy cultivated awkward "Ums," pauses, and tension that could be cut with a knife.
"Kid got into some trouble," Stan had said, swirling a can of Pitt-Cola in his hand like it was more interesting than the discussion he was having. "Like you, in a way. And... well, he's in the hospital. Comatose, the doctors said. That he was lucky he survived a fall like that at all."
Despite Ford's pressing, he wasn't able to gather anymore information. Stan had made is clear asking Mabel was off limits, and seeing her grief-stricken face whenever his name surfaced, Ford wasn't about to argue. Ford hadn't lost a twin like that, the way she was currently experiencing. And between his lack of social skills, inability to work well with children, and his slow adaption back to normal society, Ford did his best to steer clear. He frowns to himself. How does a child fall off the water tower? What could have driven this child to do something so reckless and dangerous? Unless it was intentional. The thought repels him, sending a wave of nausea to crash over him. He does his best to shake it away, but its impact follows him all the way to the ICU, room 618.
Never before had Ford seen something appear so small. He pauses in the doorframe, taking in the scene before him. A small boy lays on a gurney, eyes closed, cheeks ashen. His body is bare, scars, bandages, IVs, and cords on full display, littering him and holding him down. Ford can only see slightly below his chest, a scratchy, white blanket concealing the rest. Mason's hair is matted, revealing flickers of something beneath on his forehead. Ford enters the room, hand outstretched to brush the tufts away. The Big Dipper is engrained on his forehead, a peculiar birthmark. Ford begins to trace it absentmindedly.
"Hello," he says, his voice foreign in the otherwise silent room. The words feel awkward leaving his tongue, but he remembers stories and movies, where the comatose patient can hear the world around them as they drift in a sea of darkness. Whether or not its true, Ford is uncertain, but the notion is comforting, so he continues. "I don't know if you can hear me or not, Mason..." he trails off, searching for words to make his explanation hold a single ounce of sense. "I'm... Stanford Pines, your great uncle. You've been living with my brother, Stanley, for the summer."
Ford lowers into the visitation chair, clasping the boy's small, smooth hand in his larger, calloused one. He stares at him solemnly. "I've heard quite a bit about you," Ford's voice drifts into the empty air, his eyes fixing on nothing. "That you were a reservoir of excitement and eagerness to learn. Brave, adamant, determined. I wish I could've seen it. You strike me as a kindred spirit."
Something catches Ford's attention. He turns. His journal is propped against the wall on a bedside table. At this, Ford frowns, cold running through his veins as he reaches for it, afraid to open it, yet knowing his curiosity will force him to anyway. Where his small, cursive hand stops, a loopier, eager, blue hand begins. He looks at the boy lying before him. "Did... did you write these?" he asks, knowing he won't get an answer, yet skimming the words all the same. He turns a yellowed, battered page, and a paper slips through and floats into his lap.
Note to self: Possessing people is hilarious! To think of all the sensations I've been missing out on - burning, stabbing, drowning. It's like a buffet tray of fun! Once I destroy that journal, I'll enjoy giving this body its grand finale - by throwing it off the water tower! Best of all, people will just think Pine Tree lost his mind, and his mental form will wander in the mindscape forever. Want to join him, Shooting Star?
Ford can't breathe. His lungs seize and clench inside him, sputtering for air that won't come. Terror sinks its claws into him, holding him down as bile rises in the back of his throat, and Ford isn't sure if he's going to vomit, have a panic attack, or combust under the intense sensation of agony that crashes over him in waves. He closes his eyes to no avail. Flickers of a figure leaping from a tower play over and over, impossible to expel. The journal is out of his hands and clatters on the ground before his mind catches up to the physical action of throwing it.
"Fuck." Ford's eyes sting, and he realizes he's weeping. No, sobbing, a dry heave escaping his mouth before he can stop it. He reaches for Dipper's hand again, his throat tight. You did this. You did this. You did this. Ford grits his teeth and screws his eyes closed, knowing the onslaught of shame and remorse that's bombarding him is more than deserved. He did this. It was his hubris that summoned Bill in the first place, and now, the consequences of his actions lay right before him, barely clinging to life. Tears fall freely. He doesn't wipe them away.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice raw and scratched. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He could repeat it forever, and it would never be enough, will it? Bill harming Ford was one thing. Harming his family...
Digging his nails into the vinyl of the seat beneath him, a flicker of rage ignites into an inferno inside him. "When we meet again, Bill," his voice is low, dripping with venom, "there is nothing in this multiverse that can save you from me."
Dipper's breath hitches, then exhales. The machines beep in a rhythm that's all too slow to be a heartbeat, and Stanford Pines weeps, his hand in Dipper's.