Chapter Text
It’s been a week since Stanley got to Gravity Falls. He hasn’t been eating or sleeping; all he can think about is Ford and trying to get him back. During the day he goes through Ford’s things and reads the journal, tirelessly searching for any clues or working the portal. At night, he tosses and turns, images of their last moments together playing in his head. Stan has been trying to convince himself Ford is still alive out there. He had to be. Stan can’t cope with the thought of his brother being dead because of him.
It’s barely noon, and snow is falling softly. Light is filtering through the closed blinds scattering light in odd places. Stan is pacing the living room, and mumbling to himself when he hears a faint knock at the door. He stops in his tracks, thinking he’s imagining it, until it happens again, but louder this time. A more distinct and urgent sounding knock. Stan hesitates & walks to the door, trying to peer through the window without disturbing the curtain. He doesn’t get a good glimpse other than seeing it’s a tall man with glasses. He contemplates for a second before opening the door. He isn’t able to get a word out before the stranger grips him by his shirt and starts speaking. They’re face to face and Stan can feel the man’s warm breath.
“Stanford, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you and I shouldn’t have left. I don’t want to lose our friendship, will you please forgive me? I truly feel terrible for what happened.” The stranger looks at Stan pleadingly before sighing and continuing without making eye contact. “My wife doesn’t want to see me, and I have no one else to turn to.” The last part is said softly.
Stan looks past the man and sees there isn’t a vehicle in the yard. Did he walk here in the freezing cold? Stan raises an eyebrow. He’s confused and really isn’t sure how to proceed. On one hand, he’s hesitant to talk to the stranger, and tell him who he really is; but, on the other hand, he can feel the strangers pain and feels an obligation to tell him what happened. It’s one thing to lie to townspeople who had no connection, but this guy obviously was more than acquainted with Ford. Stan also knows this could also be an opportunity to find out more about his brother and how to bring him back.
“Please say something, Stanford.” The stranger speaking pulls Stan out of his racing thoughts. He’s still holding onto Stan, as if, for dear life.
“I,” Stan sighs, “I’m not Stanford.” The man’s face scrunches and he lets go of Stan. He takes a step back and looks over Stan carefully, taking in every detail. “I’m his twin brother, Stanley.” Stan feels awkward as hell and shivers. He hadn’t brought a coat to open the door and the snowfall had picked up with gusts of wind.
“Where’s Ford?” The man’s eyes meet Stan’s. Stan’s taken aback and doesn’t want to answer the question.
“I think you should come inside.” Stan opens the door and motions for the man to follow him in.
Stan starts to walk towards the kitchen, but notices the stranger going towards the basement stairs.
“Woah, hey, where are you going?” Stan asks following him. The stranger doesn’t answer and continues down the stairs. Stan has a feeling the man is intimately aware with the place. “At least tell me your name.”
They stop on the stairs and the man looks at Stan, searching for something in his eyes. “It’s Fiddleford.” He continues down the stairs.
Fiddleford’s eyes widen when they get to the bottom of the stairs and he sees the portal broken. He hesitantly walks towards it then stands in front of it, staring up. He grips at his face thinking the worst. “What-? Where-?“
“He’s gone.” Stan finally says, breaking the silence and confirming the nightmares. Fiddleford falls to his knees and clamps a hand to his mouth.
Stan stands looking between Fiddleford and the portal. He doesn’t know what to do. Does he comfort him? Stand and wait? Go back upstairs? Stan sighs and takes small steps forward. He reaches a hand out to Fiddleford’s shoulder.
“This is all my fault,” Fiddleford mumbles. He grips tightly at his hair and folds in on himself, pulling out of Stan’s touch. “I knew it was dangerous, I should’ve tried harder to convince him to stop. This is all my fault.” He starts to cry.
“It’s not all your fault.” Stan can feel himself start to cry too. He feels immense guilt and pain over losing Ford, he can’t let someone else share the full burden.
Fiddleford looks up from his hands at Stan with tears running down his face. “You don’t know what I know.”
“I can say the same to you,” Stan says with a weak laugh.
Fiddleford gets up without saying anything and heads back up the stairs. Stan is left stunned before hurrying to catch up.
“Hey there’s no need to run off so fast.” They walk through the house towards the front door. “I’m going to get him back.” Stan says as Fiddleford reaches for the door.
“How?” Fiddleford doesn’t remove his hand from the doorknob, nor does he look back at Stan.
Stan takes a deep breath. He wasn’t sure if he could even pull his plan off, but he tells Fiddleford nonetheless. “I’m going to try turning the portal back on.”
Fiddleford whips around and glares at Stan. “You can’t do that.”
Stan furrows his brow and pushes Fiddleford backwards. “And why the hell not?”
“That machine will cause the apocalypse. It’s too dangerous-“ Fiddleford stops and shakes his head. “This is deja vu. I can’t do it again.” He tries to walk out but Stan grabs his wrist.
“Just talk to me, will you?” Stan looks up at Fiddleford with his big brown eyes and Fiddleford can’t help but to blush. This is how Ford would look at him, and his heart couldn’t take it. Fiddleford shakes his head.
“I can’t.” He says and walks out into the cold. Stan watches him leave and is once again left alone in the cabin.
Stan is dumbfounded and has no idea what to make of the whole interaction. He’s been left with more questions than answers and none of them he could possibly begin to answer. Fiddleford was obviously close to Ford and knew more than what he was willing to tell, but why?
Stan shakes his head and runs a hand through his messy hair. What the actual fuck just happened? Stan goes to the kitchen a pulls out a beer. He really needs one after whatever that was. He sits and drinks, his mind not able to leave the mysterious Fiddleford no matter how much he tried. He wanted, no needed to know more. Stan kicks himself knowing he should’ve tried harder to make him stay.
Stan unintentionally falls asleep at the kitchen table, and when he wakes up it’s late into the evening. The last bit of sun is dipping below the horizon and owls are hooting in the woods. The snowfall has stopped, but the wind is as harsh as ever and it rattles the roof violently. Stan blinks before standing up and yawning. Shit, he didn’t mean to fall asleep. Stan makes himself a cup of instant coffee before heading down to the basement. He’s groggy, but determined to find something referencing Fiddleford or Ford’s connection to him.
Stan plunders through desk drawers and stacks of papers. He’s not finding what he’s looking for, but what he is finding makes him sick to his stomach. It’s pages and pages of thoughts increasing in paranoia and delusion. Stan finds sticky notes in a different handwriting than Ford’s cursive, crumpled and thrown into back corners of drawers. Stan feels a pain in his chest.
Everything down here, everything in this house, is a reminder to Stan that Ford was descending into madness. Knowing that Ford sought him out because he was in such a bad state is bitter sweet to Stan. Stan feels nauseous, but pushes the feeling down.
After hours of meticulous searching, Stan doesn’t find anything. There’s nothing referencing Fiddleford in here and Stan doesn’t understand. If they were close and worked on the portal together, shouldn’t he be in his notes? Stan groans and slides against a wall to the flood. This is not how he expected this day to go when he woke up this morning.
Stan’s mind races as he sits on the cool stone floor. He doesn’t have the willpower to get up, so he’s resigned to staying seated. He grabs a book off a shelf nearest to him and a paper falls out.
‘Society of the blind eye,’ it reads. Stan furrows his brow. What the heck is that? Was Ford in a secret society? Stan clenches his jaw at the thought and stares at the portal. Ford what have you gotten yourself into? Stan sighs, he’s not one to judge; his own past has gotten him in lots of trouble and it’s still catching up with him.
Stan flips through the book the paper fell out of and thinks he might’ve found what he was looking for. There’s journal entries dated for early 1982, just a couple months ago. A lot of what is there has been scribbled over, but Stan can make out some of it.
‘Fiddleford’
‘Memory wipe gun’
‘left the project’
‘i’ll show him, i’ll show them all’
Stan decides this is something he should look over somewhere comfier. He closes the journal and starts to get up when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs. He freezes. Fuck, he definitely forgot to lock the door back after Fiddleford left earlier. Stan holds his breath and reaches for the nearest heavy object and slowly moves towards the door.
“Stanley?” A voice calls for Stan. No, Fiddleford’s voice calls to Stan as he steps off the bottom of the stairs. Stan lowers his weapon and stares at Fiddleford confused.
“Uh, Fiddleford? What are you doing here?”
“I thought about it and you’re right; I think we should talk.” Fiddleford’s voice is shaky and hesitant, but Stan somehow believes him. Fiddleford looks beyond Stan and towards the portal, “not down here though.” Stan is reluctant to talk to anyone right now, but he’s desperate for more information.
Stan and Fiddleford walk upstairs and to the kitchen. They sit across from each other at the table. For a few moments they’re silent and gathering their thoughts. Fiddleford is the first to talk.
“I’m sorry to barge in on you like that. I feel bad about storming out and yelling at you like that earlier. It wasn’t right.” Stan looks at him softly, and Fiddleford feels his heart do backflips. He feels a blush creep across his face and hopes Stan can’t tell.
Stan is just touched he got an apology. He can count on two hands the amount of times someone has apologized to him. Fiddleford faking the time to come back just to apologize and talk, warms his heart.
“It’s okay, it was definitely a big shock.” Stan gives him a small, but sincere smile. “Is that all you wanted to talk about? Or..?” He trails off hoping they would be able to talk about Ford and the portal.
“Oh! No, uh, I also want to talk about Ford. How much do you know?” Fiddleford isn’t sure how much Stanford had explained before being sucked into the portal.
“Not much honestly. I’ve only been here a week and he got sucked into the portal the day I got here. He tried to explain to me what it was, but we got sidetracked by… other topics.” Stan didn’t mean to say all that, but he’d been holding it in.
“It’s only been a week?” Fiddleford’s taken aback. “I missed him by a week…” He trails off and stares at the table.
Stan nods and stands up. “Feels like longer though.” He walks towards the refrigerator. “Want a drink?” He asks teaching for a beer.
“Please,” Fiddleford says. “Do you mind if i smoke?”
“I don’t care.” Stan sets a beer down in front of Fiddleford and retakes his seat. He pops the top and takes a sip watching as the other man pulls out a silver cigarette case. He opens the case and Stan is instantly hit with a smell he knows isn’t tobacco.
“Ford hated the smell of this stuff and I was never able to smoke around him without him fussing about it. The catch is he chain smoked cigarettes.” Fiddleford laughed a bit and shook his head.
Stan smiles at Fiddleford. It’s nice to hear him talking about Ford. Stan didn’t know Ford was a heavy smoker, but all the empty cigarette packs strewn about make sense now. Stan watchers Fiddleford light the joint and take a long hit before offering it over. Stan takes it without missing a beat. He’s not one to turn down free drugs especially with his state of life right now. Stan takes a long drag before handing it back.
“Heh, that’s not surprising. He’s always been a bit of a prude.” Stan takes another sip of his drink. “Me, personally? I’ve done worse.” He shrugs. This comment makes Fiddleford chuckle.
“You look like the type.” He takes another hit before passing it back. His mind keeps wanting to see Stanford instead of Stanley sitting in front of him. He watches Stanley raise an eyebrow at him and take the joint. “Not in a bad way, just the mullet, the clothes, and your overall disposition; you seem like a cool guy who’s seen his way around.”
Stan feels his chest tighten. Fiddleford is complimenting him, and it seems sincere. He can’t tell if the heat he feels is from blushing or the alcohol.
“Ah I’m not that cool, but, uh thanks.” Stan says trying and failing to be nonchalant. He’s blushing hard and trying not to make eye contact with Fiddleford.
The two men sit in silence passing the joint and finishing their drinks; the intoxication washing over them and calming all their worries temporarily. They’re both glad to have the company of the other, feeling like they alone can share this pain.
Fiddleford ashes the last of the joint and sets it in a nearby ashtray that’s neatly lined with cigarette filters. All the little reminders of Ford feel like a stab in the chest. He’s not dead, but he might as well be. He reaches for his silver case again.
“Want another?” He holds up a joint to Stan.
Stan nods and gets up to get two more beers. He’s enjoying himself and being able to hang out with another person and not be on the lookout for cops. It felt, relieving. Stan sets the beers down again and this time sits in a chair closer to Fiddleford. He reasoned this to himself by saying it’s easier to pass the joint this way rather than reaching across the table each time.
After a few more hits, Stan feels all his inhibitions melt away. He looks at Fiddleford and wonders what he knows. There’s a gnawing feeling in his chest like he has to ask, but he doesn’t think now is the best time. Stan bounces his leg, he needs to ask.
“How do you know Ford? And.. did he ever talk about me?” Stan blurts out.
“He did,” Fiddleford chooses his words carefully, knowing the truth would definitely hurt Stanley. Most of what Ford said about Stanley was venting. “He mentioned the science fair project incident and the aftermath. He would occasionally mumble to himself about you and I think.. he wanted to contact you sooner.” Fiddleford toys with the lighter in his hands.
Stan scoffs and takes a big drink of his beer. “If he wanted to he would have,” tension hangs in the air, “but that doesn’t matter now.” Stan relents.
“Ford and I met in college. He was driven to a fault and we actually parted ways after graduation. He continued to pour over anomalies and I went to California.” Fiddleford tries to lighten the mood.
“California, huh? What did you study there?” Stan remembers the first interaction they had with Fiddleford apologizing and mentioning his wife.
“Engineering. I had an idea for personal computers and was running a business out my garage for a while.”
Stan doesn’t find it too odd that Fiddleford didn’t want to mention his family. He’s curious about it, but knows it’s not his place to pry.
“You’re a big time genius, too.” Stan compliments. “No wonder you and Poindexter got along so well.”
Fiddleford blushes at the comment and fidgets in his chair. “Yeah, we were greats pals.”
Fiddleford watches the way Stan moves; from the way he roughly drinks from the beer bottles, to how he leans sloppily against the table. Stan seems so different compared to Ford, but Fiddleford can’t help but be intrigued and find him familiar.
“What about you, Stan?”
“What about me?”
“What kind of things have you done?”
Stan pauses mid drink. None of what he’s done has been anything noteworthy, and he doesn’t want Fiddleford to start thinking he’s a bad guy. He’s not sure how to respond, but Fiddleford is looking at him expectantly. Stan shrugs and continues his drink.
“I was a traveling salesman for a bit, went from state to state trying different tactics. None of it really seemed to be my ‘thing’ though.”
“You’ve been across the country? Traveling around with nothing holding you down sounds like a pipe dream to me.”
“Heh, yeah, but it got old quick,” Stan hesitates. He doesn’t know how vulnerable he can be with Fiddleford. He doesn’t trust him yet, but something inside Stan feels comfortable with him. “It got lonely on the road by myself,” he admits.
Fiddleford looks at Stan with a sudden seriousness.
“You can be lonely surrounded by a room full of people, Stanley; at least you were free.”
Stan feels awkward again. He doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. Stan and Fiddleford sit in silence again, passing the last bit of their third joint. They finish it without a word and Fiddleford sets it in the ashtray.
Fiddleford beats himself up for what he said and feels explaining will further put his foot in his mouth. Stan looks so much like Ford, he can barely take it. Fiddleford wonders what he’s even doing here.
Stan senses the anxiety coming from Fiddleford. “You can stay here tonight,” he offers. Stan can feel his eyes growing heavy, and he realizes it’s pushing midnight. “It’s too late for you to leave, especially with the snow we got today.”
Fiddleford meets Stan’s gaze. He definitely needed sleep after today. Fiddleford can still barely wrap his head over the thought of Ford being gone. “Thank you,” he says.
The two men get up from the table. Moonlight pours in through uncovered windows as they walk through the house. Fiddleford pauses in front of Ford’s bedroom. Stan notices and stops.
“What? Do you want to sleep in there?” Stan asks, looking between Fiddleford and the closed door. Fiddleford shakes his head. Stan’s relieved, he hasn’t had the guts to open that door and see what was inside. They walk to the living room where Stan has been ‘sleeping’ on the couch.
“You can take the couch, I’ll sleep on the floor.” Stan tosses some spare pillows off the couch and a blanket to the floor. Fiddleford is silent as he watches Stan act. This is just all too weird and too familiar to him, whenever he would stay over before he would pass out on this same couch. The only difference is that Stan’s here now instead of Ford.
Fiddleford and Stan lie quietly in their respective areas. Fiddleford didn’t put up much of a fight about sleeping on the couch and letting Stan sleep on the floor. As selfish as it may be, he needs this. The couch wraps around his body the same way it did before, a comforting hug like it remembers him from months ago. Fiddleford tosses and turns, he thought being intoxicated would help him sleep, but it’s actually done the opposite His mind races and emotions spike in ways he hasn’t let it in months.
Stan softly snores on the ground. He’s sleeping on his side and turned away from the couch. The intoxication knocked Stan out like a light, which is what he really needed. The comfort of having another person around also helped ease him into sleep; for the first time in almost a decade, he didn’t need to be on guard while sleeping.
Hours pass and Fiddleford hasn’t slept more than 20 minutes. He’s restless and the weed and alcohol have made their way out his system by now, leaving a groggy feeling where the high once was. Fiddleford sits up and puts his glasses on, lying here trying to sleep is pointless. He quietly leaves the room and walks through the cabin. It’s completely silent and feels eerie. Fiddleford feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up as he slowly approaches Ford’s bedroom. He stops in front the door and takes a shaky breath, reaching for the doorknob. He slowly turns it and pushes the door open.
The room is dark and the air is still. Fiddleford reaches for the light switch and he has to blink to adjust to the sudden blinding. He takes small steps forward, his heart thumping so hard in his chest that he hears it. Fiddleford’s feet softly pad against the carpet and he stops at the foot of the bed, staring down at it. The sheets are a mess and there’s a few dark red stains on them. Fiddleford grits his teeth and grips the footboard. Ford was always one to make up his bed, and those stains are unmistakably blood. Fiddleford knows should never have left Ford alone with Bill; he feels so much guilt and regret.
He lies on the bed and closes his eyes, it still smells of Ford. He takes a deep breath and grips at the sheets, trying to cling to any remaining part of Ford. His mind plays images of them lying in bed together and talking into the wee hours of the morning. Alone in the bed of his former friend, Fiddleford starts to cry. He mourns and reminisces on Ford until he falls asleep crying.
Stan wakes up in the morning, sunlight pouring into the living room. He blinks slowly, trying to adjust to waking up. Sitting up, he looks to the couch and notices Fiddleford isn’t there. This wakes him up and he’s to his feet in an instant and going down the hallway. He stops when he notices the door to Ford’s room is open and the light is on. Stan looks at Fiddleford sleeping in Ford’s bed, he blinks trying to process it, and decides not to bother him. Stan turns the light off, closes the door enough that it’s only slightly ajar, and heads to the kitchen.
There’s not much in the refrigerator, Stan tells himself he’ll go to the store later and pulls the last four eggs off the shelf. Stan puts on a pot of coffee; he’s groggy from the night before. Stan hums a Johnny Cash song to himself while he makes scrambled eggs. The smell of the food and coffee mixing together makes his stomach grumble loudly.
Stan is still confused and wants to know more about Fiddleford and Ford. He can tell they were more than friends, at least on Fiddleford’s end. Stan chucked lightheartedly to himself, no wonder he wasn’t ever interested in getting a date. Stan was just glad Ford found someone to care for him, he didn’t care who it was.
Stan’s thoughts are interrupted by Fiddleford walking into the kitchen.
“Hey, morning,” Stan looks over and smiles at him.
“Good morning.” Fiddleford sits at the table obviously thinking about something. “Did you.. turn off the light and close the door earlier?”
Stan turns back to the stove to hide the flush on his face. Was that the wrong move?
“I hope that was okay, I didn’t want to bother you while you slept.” Stan finishes cooking the eggs and turns the stove off. He grabs two plates from the cabinet.
“No, it’s okay. Actually, I really appreciate it.” Fiddleford smiles softly at Stan. He’s embarrassed, but hopes Stan doesn’t put any pieces together. “I also appreciate you making breakfast, Stanley.”
Stan’s heart does backflips in a weird way he’s never felt for another guy. It’s unusual to Stan, and he chocks it up to someone appreciating him for once. He’s been alone for so long, he’s forgot what a friendship feels like, or maybe he’s never really had one.
“Don’t mention it,” Stan sets a plate of food and a cup of coffee down in front of Fiddleford before getting his own and sitting beside him. “It’s not much, but it’ll fill you up.”
“It’s been a while since someone cooked for me,” Fiddleford admits. “Small gestures sometimes mean the world.” He smiles at Stan.
Stan looks over at Fiddleford to see the sun casting a morning golden glow across him. He can see the admiration in his eyes and can tell he’s being sincere. Stan stares down at his plate, flustered. He tries to stay cool despite feeling anything but.
“Yeah, really, don’t mention it,” Stan says, his face flushed. He wants to kick himself, why is he behaving like this? He’s usually not one to get flustered easily, especially about someone Ford had ties to. He tries to push the feeling down and find something else to focus on: he notices the snow falling outside. It’s going to be another freezing day and he still has to go into town later.
The two finish their breakfast in silence, enjoying that they have company for a meal. Neither have had the chance to sit down and talk to someone over something casual in a while. It was comforting to them both.
“I should probably get going,” Fiddleford says, standing up. He’s also noticed the snow outside and wants to get going before it gets too bad.
Stan follows Fiddleford to the door and hovers in the doorway.
“Will I see you around?” Stan asks.
Fiddleford stops on the porch and looks at Stan for a moment, “yeah, i’m sure you will, Stanley. Thank you again for all you did for me. You’re a cool guy.” He smiles. Stan turns bright red, and wants to hide his face in his coat. There Fiddleford goes again calling him cool.
“Do you want a ride somewhere?” Stan stumbles over his words. Fiddleford shakes his head.
“I ain’t going too far. See you, Stan!” FIddleford waves behind him and walks off into the woods, leaving Stan dumbfounded. He just walked into the woods? In the freezing snow? Stan shakes his head and closes the door.
Fiddleford is an odd man; someone who has a lot of secrets hiding behind his southern twang. Stan can’t help but feel intrigued and want to know more of what he knows. He walks back through the house to the kitchen for clean up, moments with Fiddleford replaying in his mind. He has a millions questions, and last night only made it worse.
Where did Fiddleford even walk off to? Should Stan be worried? Stan runs a hand through his long hair. He doesn’t need someone else to worry about right now, his priority should be getting Ford back. He knows this, but he can’t stop his heart and mind from pulling him to think about Fiddleford.