Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley clutched his lighter like it was a lifeline. And, right then, it was.

The flames he was conjuring from it were the only thing between him and the two Rippers who were itching to live up to their names by ripping him apart. His chest was heaving from the amount of magic and running he'd been using to get away from them.

But they were fucking Rippers. Creatures of dust and darkness! They didn't get tired, so the only thing the chase had done was wear him out. This was not what he signed up for when he was asked to come to New Mexico to take a look at something weird going on. Some “strange animal attacks” by the woods that didn't look right.

The magic folks thought it might have been some loose beast or a mystic guard animal that wasn't leashed right. At least, that was what his client had thought it was.

“Nothing too worrying,” the guy insisted when he’d hired Stan over the phone the previous week to come take a look around. “The humans think it's a couple of coyotes. I’m pretty sure they’re wrong, though. I just want a clearer picture so I can call in a professional to handle it.”

“Animal Attacks” his ass.

Ripper attacks were nothing to make jokes about. He’d never seen one firsthand, but Pops had made sure to cover them so Stanley would know when it would be smarter to get the hell out of dodge instead of sticking around.

Honestly, Pop's descriptions hadn't held a candle to the real things, now that he’d finally had the chance to see them himself.

They were tall and human-shaped, but there was something wrong with them. And the pitch-dark forest and light from the half-moon above certainly wasn’t making them look any better.

Their limbs were too long and thin, their skin stretched taut over their bones with hands and feet a sickening black and tipped in claws like wild animals. Their snarling mouths were rimmed in the same black as their hands and feet and opened just enough to show jagged-looking fangs. Fangs that looked like someone tried to make teeth out of a bunch of obsidian daggers and stuffed them into a human-sized mouth that couldn’t quite fit them. He could barely see their sunken, hollow eyes glowing a faint sickly yellow in the dark from between the trees. Tattered clothing hung off of their too-thin frames and matted hair draped around their faces, they looked like corpses that were somewhere between the stages of “newly dead” and “risen zombie”.

And they were up and moving in the dark forest, where it would have been near impossible to see them until it was too late. Or if, like Stanley, they had gone there specifically looking for something strange and unusual in the forest.

He’d gone out to gather some evidence during the night since some beasts would only come out at night and he’d been trying to figure out what it may have been.

The client had said it wasn’t a big deal and he’d believed them and hadn’t been ready for anything big. He’d expected something small, something relatively easy for him to handle. Or at least identify for someone else to take care of.

But no it had to be fucking Rippers!

A lone handyman like him wasn’t enough for a single Ripper, never mind two of the damn things! That was a six-man job at the very least! But he’d made the mistake of going off on his own. Admittedly because he hadn’t had enough information at the start but still. (Of all the nights to forget his knife in his duffle instead of strapping it to his belt.)

Clearing them out was beyond his skill range. It just wasn’t possible for him to pull it off alone.

Stan gritted his teeth through his exhaustion, the flames at his fingertips flickering weaker for just a moment. He was running out of steam and he knew it. The damn things had been running him ragged, and the pitch-dark forest wasn’t helping either. He had no idea how close or far he was from town, or if he could find some miraculous way to lose them while he tried to figure it out.

(Damn it, he was already running on fumes thanks to Rico’s bullshit about Stan “owing” him. He’d barely managed to ditch the bastard’s lackeys before he’d gotten this call. Stan didn’t owe him shit, he just wanted a witch under his thumb. )

He didn't know how long it was until sunrise would show up and save his sorry ass. It was probably the only way he’d be getting out of this alive. He just had to hold on until then. Just until the sun came up.

A bitter part of him whispered that he probably wasn't going to make it out of this one.

But, if by some miracle he did survive, he was demanding double- no triple pay from the guy. And extra for the medicine he’d be using to patch himself up. Most of the shots he’d taken so far were minor (or he hoped they were minor) but he doubted his luck would hold for much longer.

If he didn't make it then, at the very least, he was going to take one of these bastards down with him. He wasn’t planning on going down without putting up one hell of a fight.

There was a rattling hiss and one of the Rippers vanished.

Shit.

Stanley wasn't able to get the makeshift barrier of flames up fast enough to stop the attack from hitting home.

In the span of a blink, the creature was in his face, snarling and hissing.

He screamed as a warped hand of blackened claws raked down the side of his face and neck, blood splattering on the ground. He stumbled back from the sudden, blinding pain radiating from the wounds.

(Was it deep? He didn't know and there was no time to figure it out.)

The second Ripper surged after the first, successfully sinking its teeth and claws into his arm, ripping a hole through his clothes and ripping out a chunk of skin and muscle when he wrenched free on reflex. 

Fire roared from the lighter clutched in his hand, roiling around him in a wicked tornado of light and heat. Scorching the two horrid things and driving them back enough for Stanley to gasp out a spell to strengthen the blaze and push them further away. But with the dangerous side effect of near-blinding him after his mad dash through the black forest around him.

His heart hammered in his ears and he squinted desperately through the flames to keep watch on the rippers. The two vile things screeched and charged again and Stanley threw himself blindly from their path, once again desperately trying to lose them.

(Distance. Distance. He needed to get some distance between them and him. And find someplace where he could properly see to fight back.)

He’d nearly slammed into a tree in the effort, stumbling over a tree root. By some miracle, trying to keep from breaking his nose on the trunk also managed to let him evade the claws of one of the rippers.

His hair still stood on end at how close they came.

Adrenaline turned the fight into a blurry haze, after that.

A whirlwind of claws and fire and increasingly desperate blasts of magic. Stanley threw everything he had in his (too small) inventory at them, but it was far from enough to keep himself safe from harm.

Even if, by some stroke of good fortune, he’d found his way to the far, abandoned edges of town. But now he was being backed against empty buildings where no one would hear him if he screamed for help.

No, he was still on his own. With the promise of help being dangled in front of him, just out of his reach.

Claws and fangs ripped at his arms, his legs, and his back. He could barely stand from the damage he was taking. There was a serious new slice over his stomach that was agony but he forced himself to ignore it. The only things keeping him upright and moving were the potent mixture of stubbornness, spite, and adrenaline. (And some terror.) All he could do was power through the pain he was in to survive.

(But he was still losing. He wouldn't make it to sunrise. He would never see the people who'd changed his life again. He’d never see his family, his brothers, his Ma, ever again.)

Sunken, glowing eyes glared into Stanley's as one of the Rippers got past his guard again, seizing his face in a painfully tight grip. He didn’t have a chance to do more than gasp in pain from the sudden pressure on the gashes that had been carved in his face before the thing smashed his head against the brick wall behind him.

His world went dark and he never felt himself hit the ground.

(He didn't know that, at that moment, a group of Hunters arrived on the scene after hearing his initial scream, following the blind flames like they were flares. They saved him from the Rippers that had been terrorizing the area and the reason he’d been hired in the first place, though he hadn’t known it when he’d first come.)

(He didn't know that one of them had called an ambulance for him. Claiming that they'd found another “Animal Attack” victim and saved his life in the process. Thanks to them, he survived the attack. And that had been more than he’d thought he’d manage that night.)

(He was on the fence about everything that unfolded afterward.)

Chapter Text

Fiddleford was worried about Stanford.

Well, actually, he was worried about a lot of things. It just happened that the majority of them connected back to his college roommate and dearest friend.

Ford was a genius. He was an amazing researcher whose zest for the unknown and impossible had drawn him in years ago and never fully let him go. It had made college a delight, learning and exploring and challenging what people thought was impossible. He remembered the secondhand pride he’d felt when he’d heard that his friend had been given a government research grant after they’d graduated.

Fiddleford had been delighted when Stanford called him to help with his research in Gravity Falls.

Yes, some of their adventures were more terrifying than exciting, but it all felt worthwhile initially. Uncovering the impossible, seeing things that had only ever been in his dreams with his own eyes.

But lately… Lately, something was just- Not right. He couldn’t eloquently explain what was bothering him. But something had shifted from when he’d first signed up to work as an assistant for Stanford and now.

Stanford was very adamant about his self-sufficiency. Getting him to ask for help, or even acknowledge when it needed to be more than just the two of them, was like pulling teeth from a hog. It was like he was allergic to the word “help” for anything more than the phrase “write this down”. And that wasn’t even getting into the man’s tunnel vision when he was working.

Honestly, some days Fiddleford was sure the man would have starved to death if it weren’t for him making sure to put food in front of him.

And that he bathed. Bathing was important, too. Not just for appearances, but to keep things clean enough to avoid contaminating experiments.

(That had always been one of his best weapons to get his fellow science-types to do important self-maintenance.)

And he was so secretive now. More so than he'd been back in college and they were still learning about each other. Getting personal details out of his roomie had been shockingly hard in those days, but now the exact nature of their inventing was just as much a secret at times.

Working with his best friend used to be fun and exciting. A new adventure each day! It had changed from those days. And he didn’t like how it had changed either. Something just wasn’t right anymore.

Not right with the area. Not right with their labs. Not right with Stanford.

But Fiddleford had no idea how to broach the topic. Or even what, specifically, was the root issue.

Well, actually, he could think of one thing. The very thing Stanford had called him to Gravity Falls for in the first place. That damn portal.

It felt… Beyond the reality he knew.

Sure, he made it his bread and butter to bring science fiction into the real world, but the idea of being able to hop between dimensions… It was a lot to wrap his head around, even if he could see it all in theory.

And Ford was adamant that his portal could do it once they finished building it.

He was an engineer, but there were days where he couldn’t fathom the calculations and construction ideas that Ford seemed to pull from thin air for that thing.  And, somehow, managed to make it work, despite it. He went at it with a fervor that Fiddleford wasn’t fully sure he liked. There were times when Ford just wasn’t himself and it made his hair stand on end.

Something was up with that thing, and Fiddleford really wished Stanford would just tell him what it was so he could help.

He wanted to go back to those days. When everything was new and exciting. When they were unraveling the mysteries of the area when they weren’t locked up in the basement. (When he didn't need the memory gun to find peace at night…) Sure, some of the adventures were more scary than he normally would have liked, but… They were finding things that could change the world. Challenging what people believed was and wasn’t real and finding proof to back themselves up. And he’d made so many leaps and bounds in mechanical engineering because of it all.

Now though? Now he was starting to wonder why they were even doing the things they were.

Between them, they had enough things they could publish and patent to set themselves up to live comfortably for decades. All they had to do was write it all down and send it out to the offices and publishers. He’d already sorted out the final and best versions of his general inventions and got them ready for final print.

But the only notes Ford had put to paper this year were either in his journals or scattered randomly on sticky notes and printed papers throughout the house. None of it was properly consolidated into a single thesis or volume that he could send out. Hell, parts of his research weren’t even kept in a single room. He really needed to start gathering things together and sorting them out, the folks giving him the grants were bound to start asking for his results soon.

(His grants were biennial, so he only needed to publish or submit something big every two years. He had to submit something before the end of his sixth year in the area.)

Sure, Ford had the receipts for stuff he’d been buying with his grant money so he could mostly prove he hadn’t wasted it all on frivolous things. (No fancy sports cars or hot tubs or anything like that.) The scientific community needed proof that research was being done. They wanted written papers, completed blueprints, or even finished inventions. No taking the money and running while vaguely assuring people that there was research being done.

The brunt of Ford’s grant money was going into the portal after he’d finished building the house. And his sub-basements. And the bunker, too. The last one was still in progress, technically though. They were still finalizing the security for it but it was just about finished.

And yet, for some reason, Ford had yet to sum everything up all neat and clean for the folks who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come to Gravity Falls and see it all themselves. At least, not for his upcoming survey in the spring.

Fiddleford would have to start nipping at his heels to get him to start drafting things to show. Waiting until the last minute would just make things harder for him. He certainly had enough projects to choose from for it, it was high time Ford narrowed his options to figure out which one he planned to show off.

(Maybe he could build the whole thing around that odd egg he’d found while they were first building the bunker? It was still in lockdown until the specimen room was finished but it wouldn’t be hard to pull it out of storage and start working with it. If it ended up hatching, then they at least would have a subject for the cryogenic tubes.)

He sighed over his cup of coffee, looking out at the color-changing leaves outside the window. Fall was slowly working its way into the town, painting the forest around the house in beautiful shades of orange, red, and gold. The colors were a warm contrast to the chill in the air.

It was a right pretty sight. He could see the appeal of “leaf-peeping” as folks called it. Taking time to admire the changing seasons.

Maybe he ought to invite Emma-may and Tate up sometime to see it. He oughta’ take a few pictures himself to send back home. He was sure there was a cheap camera squirreled away in his apartment somewhere that he could use.

(He needed to do more for his dear wife. Things were getting rocky between them and… He wanted to fix it. He loved her and he wanted to take care of her and Tate as best he could. And lately, he hadn’t been feeling like a very good husband. He needed to do something special for her.)

He was fairly sure there was enough room in his little apartment for them both to stay without it being too crowded. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Tate would love to see the area during Halloween. The folks around Gravity Falls seemed like the sort who’d go all out for it. Summerween had been a gas and Fiddleford was actually pretty excited to see what they would do for Halloween proper.

But those were future plans.

Plans he’d hoped to run by Ford before they set to work that day. He should have known better than to think it would be that simple.

He’d showed up early that morning with the week's groceries packed into his truck since Ford had a dreadful habit of forgetting to do them. It was just chilly enough outside that the box in the bed of the truck where the groceries were didn't need to be refrigerated to keep them cool. He fully planned to make something for the two of them for breakfast once he got to the lab. Maybe discuss a plan for the day before they went off and started working.

But, of course, Ford wanted to hurry outside and check on something that was supposed to only show up in the early morning and had hurried outside before Fiddleford had finished walking into the house.

Which left Fiddleford at the table, by himself, having long since finished eating and waiting for his friend to finish whatever it was he was doing. By now, the food he’d made for Stanford’s breakfast was cold. Ford would have to reheat it when he finally came inside since cold eggs and sausage didn’t taste very good.

He propped his cheek in his hand, staring into his coffee like it could give him the answers to the universe. (If only things could come that easy from a cup of joe.)

And nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone started ringing.

Stanford (to his knowledge) never got phone calls. So if someone was calling his home, then it must be important. Or an emergency.

He scrambled up, yanking the phone off its place on the kitchen counter.

“H-hello? Uh, the residence of Dr. Pines?” Shoot, was that the kind of answer Stanford would want him to use? They never talked about how to pick up if Fiddleford answered the phone before Stanford did… Or how Fiddleford should introduce himself if he did. “Th-this is his assistant, McGucket, speaking.”

"Hello Mr. McGucket. I'm Marsha Jakes, an ER nurse at St. Bartholomew's General Hospital in New Mexico. May I speak with Dr. Pines?” Came the calm, professional voice of a woman he didn’t know. He faltered for a moment when his head finished processing what she’d said.

A nurse? From New Mexico? Why would she be calling Ford?

Fiddleford's eyes flicked to the window. Stanford was still outside and the phone cord was too short for him to take it to the door…

“Um… I'm sorry, he's out at the moment. Can I… I can take a message for him?”

“Well… It would be better if I could speak to him. But if he's out I suppose a message will have to do for now. He needs to come down here as quickly as possible. Are you aware if Dr. Pines has a brother?”

A brother? Yes, Fiddleford was pretty sure he had two brothers. There was Shermie and… an estranged one that he hadn’t talked to in a long time (as far as he knew, at least).

He was pretty sure the fella’s name also started with “Stan”, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Stanford didn't talk about him too much, but he’d mentioned a few things when they shared a room about the guy.

(And maybe a drunken ramble once? They had both been very drunk so he couldn't remember how much had been said.)

Fiddleford could remember a few of those details. Ford’s brother had stopped living at home around the time Ford left for college. The two of them had, at their father’s insistence, taken boxing lessons as kids. They used to play at a beach near home a lot, having the usual treasure hunts little kids would play at that age. And said brother used to have a pet possum when they were kids.

(Fiddleford wasn’t as sure about that last one… Maybe it had been a neighbor kid who’d had the possum?)

So, yes. He knew that Ford had two brothers, at the very least.

“Ah, yes. I believe he has two brothers.” Fiddleford felt his heart sinking as he spoke. If a hospital was calling about one of Stanford’s brothers then… Oh no…

“A man we believe is one of his brothers,  a mister Stanley Pines, was brought into our ER this morning and has been in surgery for several hours now.”

Fiddleford sucked in a sharp breath. Oh god…

”His condition is serious. Dr. Pines is the closest family we could find contact information for on Mr. Pine’s person, in a pocket address book he was carrying. And we’d like him to come in if they’re related.” The woman’s voice remained calm and professional as she spoke.

“I- Of course! I’ll tell him right away, what’s the hospital’s phone number? In case he thinks it’s his brother and decides he needs to head down?” Fiddleford frantically scrambled for a small notebook, hurriedly scribbling down the number the nurse rattled off.

”If it turns out that we’ve made a mistake and they’re not related, please call us back and let us know.”

“We will. Thank you for calling. I’ll try to get him to call back as soon as he can.” He set the phone down on the receiver and then sprinted for the door, clutching the little notebook in hand.

Fiddleford burst through the door, stumbling slightly over the front mat. His head whipped over the yard, trying to spy the sweater-clad form of his friend against the fiery leaves of the trees. He spotted him at the edge of the woodline, hunched over something and scribbling away in one of his journals.

“Ford!” He yelled out, voice cracking slightly from the volume. He could see Ford jump and turn to him. “Y-You got a call! It’s important!”

Ford was quick to cross the distance, lightly jogging across the grounds and up to the porch. If it was because he wanted to know what the call was about or because he didn’t want either of them to strain their voices yelling, Fiddleford wasn’t entirely sure. But he appreciated not having to yell the news into the forest, either way.

“Had- had to take a message since you were outside. You- you have another brother, right? Other than Shermie?” Ford frowned at the question and there was a note of… Something that Fiddleford couldn’t quite put his finger on.

(He wanted to say it was annoyance. And maybe just a little bit of… Bitterness? And something else that was too small for him to puzzle out right then. He could untangle his friend’s expression later.)

“Yes?” was the short, slightly hesitant answer.

“Would his name happen to be Stanley?” Fiddleford asked. The sick feeling in his stomach grew worse when Ford nodded. “Ho boy, that’s- Okay, we might wanna go inside then. The- The call was about him.”

To his immense surprise, Ford groaned in a mix of anger and annoyance.

“Stanley’s gotten himself in some kind of trouble, hasn’t he?” He didn’t wait for Fiddleford to answer before continuing, anger and frustration seeping from his tone as he did. “Oh, who am I kidding? Of course, he has. It’s Stanley, he used to always get himself in trouble. It’s a wonder he hasn’t called sooner to ask for help. Probably to ask for money, or because he needs to be bailed-”

Fiddleford’s jaw worked uselessly, caught flat-footed by the reaction. This was… Not what he was expecting. He could see Ford working himself up (for the completely wrong reason) over what he thought the call was about.

“No! That ain’t it at all!” The words came out at a near-shout, cutting into Ford’s rant and forcing the other scientist to look at him in surprise. (Fiddleford didn’t like raising his voice unless he had to.) “Ford, the call was from a hospital. In New Mexico! Yer brother’s in the hospital!”

He watched Ford’s face freeze.

“A-A hospital?”

“Yes, he’s in their ER. Got brought in this morning, they found yer address in something he was carrying and called to ask ya to come in. It’s- The nurse said it’s serious.” Fiddleford could see the anger on Ford’s face being replaced with concern. Fiddleford continued, “They said you were the closest family member they could find a contact for. An’ if they’re looking for family then…”

He didn’t need to finish that sentence, he was sure. Stanford was a logical fella, he could fill in the blanks himself.

Ford was arguing with himself, Fiddleford could see it in his face and the way he was holding himself. Since he started out being angry, it wasn’t a surprise that he needed a moment to wrestle it aside. He was probably logic-ing his way through the information he’d just gotten. Finishing the sentence and coming to terms with it all in that rapid metal-fire way he always did.

“I- I think we may need to pause our work for a bit,” Ford said, his words hitching ever-so-slightly. “I need to make a phone call. And pack for a trip.”

“O’ course. Don’t forget to grab their address when you call.” Fiddleford passed him the notebook with the hospital’s number.

It took an hour, roughly, for Ford to make the call and confirm that he’d be coming down. And for Fiddleford to haggle his way into convincing Ford to not only use his truck for the drive but to let him come as well.

Because, sure, Ford could make the trip on his own with the local bus service but it was just more convenient to have your own mode of transport. And, with the two of them, they could take turns driving down, which would make the trip less exhausting and boring in the long run. (Going from Oregon to New Mexico was a mighty long drive, after all!)

Plus, he really didn’t want to leave Ford on his own when he knew his friend’s brother was in the hospital.

Ford had caved under the logic, and finally agreed to his friend’s terms and set to packing up a bag for himself. And Fiddleford headed back into town to pack a bag from his apartment.

It took roughly fifteen to twenty minutes for him to get from Ford’s house to his apartment. It was a decent building, not too big and not too small.

His place was on the ground floor, in one of the bigger apartments they had in the building. It was actually, technically, a two-person apartment but he’d gotten his lease at a steal. However, that may have been due to the fact that Gravity Falls was a pretty small town and most of the young folks were leaving town once they got old enough. It was pretty common for young folks to go where there was work and Gravity Falls didn’t have much work.

It wasn’t quite a retirement town but it wasn’t a hopping hub of activity either. There wasn’t much reason for most young people to stick around. Which left a lot of places with extra room and no one to fill them.

But that left plenty of room for folks like Fiddleford to find a place to stay without getting gouged for it.

He jogged inside, quickly grabbing one of his larger suitcases from where he’d left it in his living room, knocking a large number of notes onto the floor as he did, and dragging it to the bedroom. Tossing it onto his bed, he unzipped it and started rifling through his wardrobe to figure out what he wanted to pack for the trip. And the necessities always came first.

Firstly, he needed to pack clothes that were lighter than the ones he was already wearing since New Mexico was undoubtedly warmer than Oregon was. At least one extra change of clothes in case something spilled on him. Then he needed to pack up some of his toiletries from the bathroom, with some extra medications for headaches or if he (or Ford) hurt themselves by accident. A spare change of shoes, since he planned to wear his boots down. He probably wouldn’t need them, but it would be good if he wanted a set of shoes he could change to in a hurry.

He only needed to pack one case since this would, hopefully, be for a week or so at most. At least, he hoped they would only need to be there for that long.

(It would be terrible, for everyone involved, if Stanley had to stay there longer than that. He could feel it in his bones.)

Though he couldn’t help grabbing a small box of tinkering projects to bring with him. Nothing that would require a huge amount of tools to work on, but enough to keep his hands busy. He had a feeling he would need things to keep him occupied during all the times he wouldn't be allowed in because he wasn’t part of the family.

Maybe he could use some of them to help distract Ford, too. He would probably need it since it was his brother who was laid up. (Even if he would probably deny that he was worried.)

Fiddleford knew he would want distractions if it was one of his siblings was in a hospital.

He also snagged a couple of books, to give them both something to keep their minds busy as well. Mostly technical manuals, but he had a couple fiction books too.

Then he packed it all into the back of his pickup, making use of the larger tool crates anchored in the back to keep the cases from sliding around. (He was glad he’d snagged one that was much larger than he’d needed while coming down to Gravity Falls.)

Then he’d hopped back into his truck and made the long drive back to Ford’s place.

Ford was sitting on his porch when Fiddleford pulled up, one ragged-looking suitcase (which was a bit smaller than his own case) sitting beside him and a large leather satchel hung over his shoulder.

“Everything ready to go? Got the address handy?” He asked, looking over the few items Ford had packed for himself. It… Wasn’t a lot. He hoped that meant they were both hoping things would be okay and that they wouldn’t be staying for very long down there.

“Yes, I have everything. I wrote the address down on a notepad that I’ve put in my coat pocket. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Ford said with a sigh, standing up and gathering his case to put in the back of the truck. Fiddleford helped him lock it down in the back, and then they both climbed into the cab.

And then they were off and on the road, all the way to New Mexico.

Fiddleford didn’t think of himself as a busybody. He wasn’t prone to sticking his nose into other people’s private business. If people didn’t want to tell him things, he didn’t try to force them to. Even if he couldn’t help calling out when he knew someone was hiding something. Though that was less about wanting to know than not wanting people to lie to him.

(He didn’t like it when people lied to him. If they didn’t want to talk about it, that was fine. He just preferred when people said that instead of being dishonest.)

He was a scientist, curiosity was in his nature but he tried to keep it to machines and theorems over people.

Except he hardly knew anything about Ford’s other brother, even after rooming with Ford for four years in college. So it really wasn’t strange that he would ask his friend about the guy. (Especially considering how he’d initially responded when Fiddleford said someone had called about him.) Really, it was only a matter of time until his patience ran dry and his curiosity became too much. 

And it did, roughly an hour into driving them both down the interstate. 

“Soo… Stanley,”  he hesitantly started, glancing at Ford from the corner of his eye. “You’ve mentioned him before. Back in college.”

“Yes. I probably have.” Ford’s response was terse and short. Not angry, but not terribly cheery either.

“You’ve never said a whole lot about the guy. Can ya… Tell me about him?” Fiddleford asked. There was a moment of silence in the truck. “If ya want to, o’ course. It’s fine if you don’t. I just- I’d like to know a bit about the guy before I meet him. Assuming the doctors are right and it is yer brother, obviously-”

Ford cut him off with a gusty sigh.

“No, it’s… I should tell you. Since there is a very real possibility you’ll be meeting him soon.” He let his head fall back, thumping lightly against the back of the seat. “I just- need to think of what I should start with.”

Ford took off his glasses and wiped at the lenses, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before he started talking.

“Stanley is my twin brother. Our parents were expecting only one child but ended up with two. I was born first, then came Stanley roughly fifteen minutes after,” Ford said tiredly, setting his glasses back on his face. “It was a surprise that our mother had been delighted about. She believed having twins was good luck.”

“Really now?” He uttered, keeping his eyes on the road despite his mind running wild. It took a tremendous amount of Fiddleford’s self-control to keep himself from reacting to that. The last thing either of them needed was for him to send them off the interstate or get into an accident before they’d even left state lines.

A twin? His best friend had a twin brother? And Ford had never told him about the guy before! He’d have thought that a twin would have been far more likely to talk about their sibling than just a few in-passing anecdotes and vague mentions. And yet, Fiddleford was only just learning about Ford’s twin brother while on the way to a hospital for the guy.

It was a head-scratcher for him, he loved his siblings and was only too happy to tell folks about them all. But, he had to remind himself, not everyone's family was like his own. And the Pines’ family didn't seem the sort to talk much about themselves unless it was about their livelihoods.

(He supposed this was marginally better than it could have been. At least Fiddleford had been aware that Ford had more than one brother before this conversation.)

“Yes. We’re technically identical twins if one were to ignore… Well.” Ford lifted a hand, spreading out his fingers. He didn’t need to finish the sentence for Fiddleford to understand what he meant.

“Identical twins… Well, I’ll be.” Fiddleford flashed a small grin. “Guess I’m gonna be seeing double for a bit.”

The little joke made Ford let out an amused snort.

“We have the same face, but it’s been a very long time since we looked properly identical. Stanley was more athletic while I was more academic. When we were teenagers, he had continued to take boxing lessons even after I left and ended up far more muscular than I was. I’ve caught up a bit since then, but I rather doubt Stanley has let his skills fall into decay.” Ford said, fingers idly tapping a random pattern on the car door. “He always preferred more… Casual clothing than I did. Simple T-shirts and jeans and such. He had a varsity jacket he’d gotten from a thrift shop that used to wear every fall. It’s probably been thrown out, he’s likely outgrown it by now.”

Fiddleford nodded, smiling as he tried to picture Ford’s brother in his head. He sounded… Sporty. And all he could imagine was a jock version of Ford and that just left him biting back snickers.

(No offense to his friend, but he just wasn’t the type. He was so far from that type that it was hilarious to try and picture it.)

Ford’s smile faltered.

“I… I haven’t seen him in a little over a decade now.”

Wait, what?

“A decade?!” Fiddleford was in disbelief. He couldn’t imagine not seeing or hearing from any of his siblings in a year, never mind a decade.

“He… There was an argument. Around the time our school was being visited by scouts for various colleges, looking for prospective students. I made a special project to present in hopes of getting a scholarship from one of them.” Ford’s voice was growing tense as he spoke. In that way it usually did before he clammed up entirely to avoid losing his temper.

Fiddleford vaguely remembered this story. Or, at least, a version of it that Ford had told him before.

Back when they were in their first year at Backupsmore, his roommate had told him that the school was his emergency plan and not the school he’d wanted to attend. Ford had wanted to go to West Coast Tech but he hadn’t made the cut. He’d never elaborated on it, only muttering about someone being jealous.

 He’d thought it was an angry classmate but had it been…?

“He… He broke my project on the day of the presentations. And refused to take responsibility for it when we found out. Our father was furious with him. I was furious with him as well. The whole thing was… Messy.”

Fiddleford bit down on his reaction. It was a terrible thought, that Ford’s brother had sabotaged him. Except… Except something didn’t feel right.

Maybe it was a sign of Fiddleford’s own hopeful, sunny disposition but he couldn’t quite believe that could have been what happened.

He had shared a room with Ford for years and felt like he’d come to know him fairly well. He had learned some things about his friend, from both actions and context clues he’d picked up over that time. Ford had a habit of jumping to conclusions when it came to people and their possible motives which he didn’t do with his research. He would either be completely oblivious to what other folks thought or felt about something, or he would assume the worst about them without getting all the facts.

(He could remember one, particularly vicious fight that Ford had gotten into with a classmate when he’d thought the guy had stolen his blueprints for a project. It was the nastiest Fiddleford had seen his roommate get and had taken at least three teachers to calm the two down.)

If Ford’s father was the same way, then it was possible that Stanley hadn’t been given the chance to explain himself before the “argument” broke out between them all. And sometimes the reason someone wouldn’t take “responsibility” for something was because they didn’t do it.

“Stanley, he… He left home that night. I saw it through the window of our room but couldn’t hear what he and Pa were saying very well. But he left with a duffle bag, his car, and the furious promise that he would be richer than any of us when we saw him again. I was- I left for Backupsamore not long after that. It was the only school I could afford without a scholarship to help me.” Ford shook his head, that bitter frown returning as he did. “He calls our Ma, on occasion. I’m not sure if he talks to Pa. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he deliberately avoided talking to him. He’s never tried to contact me during that time.”

Fiddleford still had that itch in the back of his mind. The one whispering that there was probably more to the story. He was only hearing one side of it, after all. And from one person who felt like the other had wronged them intentionally. (Whether or not it was true.)

“Have you tried?” Fiddleford couldn’t help asking. “Reaching out to him instead?”

It’s what he would have done, but Ford wasn’t him.

“No. I… I don’t have a number for him. Ma told me he… He travels the majority of the time. I don’t think he’s ever given her a number to call. He was always the one calling her.”

Well… He supposed that made some sense. If Stanley traveled for his work and Ford never had a number to call, it would make sense that they would have fallen out of contact with each other. And it would have been harder and harder to get back in contact as the years went on.

And Ford could hold a grudge like no one else Fiddleford had ever met, so the same was probably true for his brother. If the two of them got in a fight, then the chances of them just getting over it and making up on their own were near non-existent. So one or the other reaching out to try and make up probably wouldn’t happen for anything but the most extreme of circumstances. Or if someone on the outside was helping.

As much as Fiddleford wanted to keep asking, to lay some potential groundwork to help Ford move past this grudge, he knew his best friend fairly well by this point. Ford’s patience for talking about someone he was furious over was running out.

It would be better to let things lie for a while and come back to Stanley later. He wouldn’t be surprised if Stanley was the same way if he was asked about Ford.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t start fighting when they were finally put into the same room.

(But Ford obviously cared. He wouldn’t have been willing to make the drive so soon, so readily, if he really, genuinely hated his brother. So there was still hope, in some form, that whatever was between them could be fixed.)

Maybe Fiddleford could help them, then? Acting as a third perspective to help ground them. He couldn’t imagine holding a grudge against one of his siblings for so long… He couldn’t help wanting to help them out.

He could ask for Stanley’s perspective on the matter, and his side of the story, and see if there was a way to help them both. Figure out what had actually happened so they could finally make up with each other, At least enough for the two to be able to talk to and about each other again without things devolving into a fight. Or shutting down and going no-contact.

It would take time, effort, and patience. And Fiddleford had plenty of all three.

Chapter Text

They made it to New Mexico in near record time, by Ford’s calculations.

Fiddleford had been right, of course, that both of them taking turns driving (and resting) in the truck enabled them to cut a tremendous amount of time out of the drive. They did stay in a motel overnight at least once, despite the worries that were eating at them. Ford even remembered to call the hospital and ask for an update once they were checked in. Which was, thankfully, that Stanley had made it through the surgeries. But they were keeping him asleep medically for just a little longer.

(They were being cautious, was the explanation. But he couldn’t confirm that he was related yet so that was the most they could disclose to him over the phone.)

It had been an emergency when they called, so they’d had to make the trip quickly. ( He had to be there for Stanley. He had to.) Even if it resulted in them both being very sore and somewhat irritable by the time they finally arrived in the city that housed St. Bartholomew's.

The city, Chaltuga, was on the smaller side as far as cities went and was surprisingly forested on one side of the city. He hadn’t thought there was much greenery in the southwest, outside of bushes and cacti, let alone enough for a full forest as thick as the one he could see as they drove into town. However, that may have spoken more about Ford’s lack of travels to that particular area of the country than anything else. (He wasn’t much of a traveler, outside of the hiking he did for his research.)

Chaltuga was a way-point city, of sorts. Rather than any one specific pull or industry of its own, it formed from people stopping by and resting for a day or two before moving on to other cities. Then it swelled in size from there, gaining its own market and staying strength from the people who came and never left.

It wasn’t a bad place, from what he could tell. It was a little kitschy if anything. Many of the buildings on the road were very “chic” looking. Everything looked very artsy from what he could see outside the windows of the truck.

He wondered if that kind of casual pull was what had drawn Stanley there. He’d always been good at fast talking and drumming up interest. The idea of him working as a salesman in a shop in a comfortable little town like this was… Actually pretty easy to picture, when he set aside his own feelings.

(He’d always thought Stan would be fine. He didn’t need to worry about his troublemaker brother. Like Pa told him.)

It still… It still didn’t feel real.

The idea that Stanley, of all people, was in the hospital. Part of him was still certain that it was a mistake and Stanley was fine. His brother was fine and off doing… Whatever it was he’d been doing over the past decade that he’s been gone. Traveling and putting all the people skills he learned from their Ma to use. Stanley, like their Ma, had always been good with people.

He’d been better with them than Ford had been growing up. And able to get himself both in and out of trouble by himself easily. He was able to take care of himself just fine. Like Pa had said, he didn’t need to worry about whatever his brother was up to.

After all, it had been ten years and it was only just now that Ford was hearing about him. Even though it was because… Because he was an emergency contact.

(Did he have their parents listed? Or was it just Ford? Was he even listed as family or did the hospital just assume they were based on their names?)

Stanley called Ma on occasion, he knew that much. She’d told him about it the few times that Ford remembered to set his research down and call her. She’d mentioned talking to Stan every once in a while, that he’d been by a particular city at some point, but not much more than that. It was always a passing note, sandwiched between other things that Ma wanted to tell him about before Pa told her to hang up.

(Long-distance calls were expensive, after all. And Pa hated spending money unnecessarily.)

Not that he could remember, anyway. And he’d never really thought to ask about him when she mentioned it. He’d needed to focus on his schooling, getting as many credits as he could to get the highest degrees and diplomas that he could manage.

Those calls were likely how Stan had gotten his contact information. Ma had probably given it to him, hoping Stan would reach out to him or something. Maybe. It was also possible that Stan had just looked him up after Ford had gotten into the papers after graduating.

Perhaps he ought to ask Ma the next time he called her. Just to clarify how his brother had gotten his phone number.

(Sweet Moses, how was he going to tell Ma about this? How would Pa react when he found out? Or even Shermie? Sure, their brother had moved out before they did and probably wouldn’t be home when Ford made the call but… He was still family and deserved to know that something had happened. Ford would have to call him directly to tell him.)

Fiddleford was at the wheel for this final leg of the drive, quickly reading signs and following the directions Ford figured out from the old gazetteer that his friend kept in the truck. It might have been a touch out of date, as he was sure he could see a few roads that weren’t listed on their map as they drove by, but the hospital was on it and that was the most important thing.

His friend was muttering about needing to get a new gazetteer while they were in town, squinting around to read the street signs as he drove. Which was probably a good idea, even if he didn’t travel very much.

“There it is!” Fiddleford said, his relief bleeding through when they finally spotted the building they were looking for.

Ford looked up at the clean, sturdy building that made up the hospital. Solid, red brickwork with lots of duller colors and surfaces. Likely to avoid blinding visitors in the bright sunlight normal for the area and to keep things cool in the prevalent heat.

(Because it was hot out here, good gracious. Wasn’t it supposed to be September? Fiddleford had just laughed at him when he’d commented on it.)

Fiddleford pulled up to the front doors, shifting the car into park but not turning off the engine. He turned in the driver’s seat to look over at Ford.

“Alright, you head in and start sorting through all the papers and such. I’ll find a spot to park and meetcha inside,” Fiddleford said, nodding at the front doors as he did. “Since it’ll probably take a bit to get through it all and there’s no sense in both of us standing around when you’re the only one that needs to fill out the papers.”

“Right, I- I’ll see you in a few minutes then.” Ford climbed out of the car, clutching his bag tightly so he wouldn’t drop it by accident. He took a fortifying breath, listening as Fiddleford left to find a space big enough for his pickup, then turned to the front doors and forced his feet to carry him forward.

The lobby was small, as far as hospital lobbies went, and sparsely decorated. A few low-maintenance plants and a landscape painting or two, some decently comfortably looking seats for people waiting, nothing too over the top for a hospital. The front desk had a single nurse manning it, focused on something on her computer screen.

She looked up at him when he approached the desk and gave a polite smile.

“Oh, good morning sir. What can I do for you today?” Her tone was polite and professional.

“I am Doctor Stanford Pines. I was called about a patient who was brought into your hospital a few days ago. A Mr. Stanley Pines?” He said, trying to keep his voice calm and polite. He habitually folded his hands behind him as he continued, “I believe he’s my brother, but it still needs to be confirmed with the doctors here.”

The nurse straightened up in her seat, immediately typing at her computer.

“Of course, sir. Give me just a moment to check the records.” There was a moment of silence as she worked, then she smiled up at him. “Yes, he’s been cleared from the ICU and is in a patient care room now. I’ll page Dr. Matthews and he can help you get everything squared away.”

(He could see the appeal of personal business computers in this situation. Being able to quickly check if a patient was in and who their attending doctor was without having to dig through a file cabinet would certainly make things like this easier.)

He listened to the page over the hospital speakers then the nurse looked back at him.

“Please have a seat sir, the doctor should be here shortly.” Ford simply nodded, seating himself on one of the couches to the side of the room. It was within sight of both the doors to the parking lot and the ones that led further into the hospital. Making it easy for both Fiddleford and the doctor to find him.

There was a small part of him that still didn’t think it was Stanley.

That there was some mistake and it wasn’t his brother who was staying in one of these rooms. That it was a simple case of mistaken identity. Stanley wasn’t an uncommon name, after all. Nor was the name Pines. So it wasn’t impossible for there to be more than one “Stanley Pines” in the country.

(But, as the more logical part of his brain argued, how many of them would have Ford’s contact information on their person? He didn’t have a way to refute that.)

He took off his glasses and rubbed at his forehead, the wondering and worry were giving him a headache. It didn’t feel real, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t. The irrational desire to deny what was happening was difficult to ignore. He barely noted when Fiddleford arrived beside him, trying to keep himself calm as he waited for the doctor to arrive.

His friend didn’t say anything. Simply sitting beside him and offering his silent support.

“Dr. Pines?” Stanford nearly jumped at the unfamiliar voice. He put his glasses back on and looked up at the man now standing nearby.

“Ah, yes. That would be me.” He stood up, holding out a hand to shake. He saw the man’s eyes flicker down to his hands, widening ever so slightly at the six fingers there. But, to Ford’s immense relief, he didn’t comment on them. “Dr. Matthews, I presume?”

“That’s correct. We still need to confirm some things but I suppose the easiest to start with would be…” He said, flipping through the clipboard in his hands. He carefully pulled something from the board and handed it to Ford. “Can you confirm that this is your brother?”

It was a driver’s license. A driver’s license with his brother’s name on it, and a face identical to his own pictured on its front. It was from a different state (of course, Stanley would have needed to get a new license after he turned twenty-four) but there was no mistaking it.

That was Stanley. That was his twin brother.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Yes- yes, sir. That’s- That’s my brother.” The doctor gave him a sad, sympathetic look. (Why wouldn’t he? Ford had just confirmed that his brother was in their hospital.) He could feel Fiddleford set a hand on his shoulder, a silent show of support.

“I see. This way then, please. He’s no longer at high risk, so I can take you both to his room now. We’d like to keep him here for another day or two longer for monitoring. After that, you can bring him home again.”

He nodded numbly, trailing after the doctor as he led him to Stanley’s room. (Sweet Moses, his brother was in the hospital. ) He could hear Fiddleford trotting beside him, though he wasn’t sure his assistant would be allowed in since he wasn’t family.

It didn’t matter to Ford. He would just let Fiddleford in himself if the doctor tried to stop him.

He stopped the moment Dr. Matthews did.

“Here we are,” he said, waving to the door beside them. “Mr. Pines is on very strong painkillers at the moment, so he likely won’t be awake for a while. But you can still see him.”

Ford was only half-listening, opening the door and stepping through.

The room was a relatively standard hospital room. Plain white walls (one of which had a wide window set into it) with an equally plain white ceiling, a plain gray tiled floor, a few stiff chairs for visitors to sit down in, and a rolling table for patient meals to be served on. There was a simple light set into the wall over the bed that could prop the patient to a sitting position, and some monitoring equipment beside it.

(An IV and a heart monitor. There was equipment for putting a patient on oxygen as well, but it wasn’t in use.  Thank Moses that it didn’t need to be. )

The most important part, the one thing that Ford couldn’t tear his eyes from, was laid out on the bed. His twin brother, Stanley Pines, whom he hadn’t seen in a decade, was finally in front of him.

Stanley was asleep, just as the doctor said he’d be, and he would have looked peaceful right then if not for the fact that he was obviously in a hospital.

Part of Ford wanted to snatch the clipboard off the end of the bed and start reading the notes on it, find out exactly what kind of injuries had landed Stanley there in the first place. But he wasn’t sure the doctor would be very happy with him if he did that. (After the man left, then. He would save his snooping for then.)

“What- What happened to him?” he asked instead, looking back to the man politely waiting just inside the door.

“We believe your brother was the victim of a serious animal attack. He’s shockingly lucky, as we’ve had a large number of them over the past month but he’s the first to actually survive the encounter. That said, his injuries are still rather severe and need some specific care. It will take several months for him to recover, at the very least.”

Ford felt sick after hearing that. Animal attacks were nothing to joke about. They could do serious, long-term damage if they weren’t tended to quickly and thoroughly. Especially during the recovery process. They were some of the riskiest injuries to deal with simply because of how often people didn’t take them as seriously as they should have. He’d done some research into the kind of things he needed to be careful of while studying in Gravity Falls, to avoid being felled by something he hadn’t thought was dangerous, and… well, some of the risks made him nervous, to say the least.

(Most common were serious, life-threatening infections from bites that weren’t properly cleaned… Animal mouths were riddled with all kinds of bacteria that humans normally never encountered. The wound had to be carefully monitored because of that.)

“We’ve had to stitch them closed, despite the usual procedures for animal wounds, because of how large many of them are. They’ll need to be cleaned regularly, with medicine applied to them each time. We can send along notes to allow your local doctors to inject antibiotics once you get home.” The doctor looked directly at Ford as he continued. “I would advise against leaving him home alone while he’s recovering. He’ll likely need help around the house to avoid the injuries reopening during that time. Mr. Pine’s right arm and left leg had some of the worst damage, so he’ll need some physical therapy after his release.”

“Will we need to look into getting a wheelchair fer him? Or will he just need a crutch?” Fiddleford asked.

Ford was relieved he’d come with him. For some reason, he couldn’t seem to get his voice to work to ask important questions. The things he needed to know to help Stanley recover. But Fiddleford knew the right questions to ask. The things they needed to clarify while they were there. He knew he could leave it to him.

He let the conversation flow around him, not quite tuning them out but not really paying much attention to what was being said. Instead, he let his eyes roam over his brother’s sleeping form.

The covers were pulled up to his chest and his left arm was laid atop the covers with the IV and heart monitor connected to it. (Likely because of the injuries sustained on his right arm.) Most of his twin was covered by the blankets, but what little Ford could see was covered by bandages. He could see them peeking out from under the hospital gown, wrapping their way around Stanley’s neck and over the left side of his face. They didn’t go over his eyes, thankfully, but it still would be difficult to take care of without help.

(They were still dangerously close to them, nonetheless. It made the skin near Ford’s own eyes prickle in phantom discomfort.)

His hair was longer than Ford could ever remember it being, as well. It was certainly longer than Pa would have let him grow it, he would have never let either of them have hair that long. Although, for some reason, his bangs were very short and messy looking. As if Stanley had decided to cut them himself instead of going to a barber. But he’d cut them with a knife instead of a set of scissors. It wasn’t quite a mullet but it was very close.

Stan was a tad more broad-shouldered than Ford remembered, too. Just enough that he could probably lift Ford without much trouble, even if he was more in shape than he’d been as a teenager. It was the kind of build found in someone who’d done a lot of heavy labor-type work. It could also be gained (and maintained) by regular visits to a gym or some other kind of regular exercise regime. He could only assume that Stan had tried to keep his boxing regime despite not using the gyms at home.

It seemed that he’d gotten a lot tanner than Stanford, on top of the other little differences he could see. It looked like he’d spent a lot of time out under the sun over the past summer. And maybe Stan had done just that. Ford didn’t know what Stanley did for a living, after all. He… He didn’t know what his brother had been doing for the past ten years.

(Where did his brother even live? That train of thought was… Uncomfortable.  Because he didn’t know. It’s his brother, shouldn’t he know? )

“Ford?” Fiddleford’s voice cut through the mental haze he’d slid into, making him jump slightly.

“Yes?” He asked, trying to keep his voice even. Looking around he could see that Dr. Matthews was gone, though he had no idea where. “Where’s- ?”

“The doctor left to get some of yer brother’s things,” Fiddleford answered. He gently herded Ford to a chair, which he sank into. “He said one of ‘em is a motel key fer a place nearby, and it’s probably where the rest of yer brother’s stuff is.”

Oh, so then this likely wasn’t the town Stanley lived in. He rather doubted Stanley owned a motel, he never seemed the sort when they were growing up. So it was likely the key to the room he was staying in while in town. He was just passing through the area on his way to somewhere else. (And he was unlucky enough to be attacked…)

“We’ll probably need to talk to the staff there to get Stanley’s things. And find a place fer us to stay ‘till the hospital clears him to leave.” Fiddleford looked at him, gaze concerned as he slowly sat down in the seat next to him. “What’s the plan fer when that happens?”

The… Plan? The thought confused him, for just a moment. Then it clicked into place.

Stanley wasn’t a local, he was staying in a motel in the area. They didn’t know where Stanley lived or how far away it was from there. And Ford didn’t want to just- Dump him at his house (wherever it may be) and then leave. Not when the doctors already said that he would need help during his recovery. The thought of it made his stomach lurch uncomfortably.

No, just walking away when his brother had just been in the hospital was not in his plans.  Not this time.

“If Stanley doesn’t live close enough for us to drive to in reasonable time, then we’ll take him back to Gravity Falls and he’ll stay with me. That way there will be at least one person close by to help if he needs it. I’m sure I can shuffle things around to make it more comfortable if need be.” He gave his friend a tight smile. “We may have to slow our progress with- our project for a while. I’d rather not have Stanley running around the house unsupervised while he’s on strong painkillers.”

Fiddleford chuckled slightly, shaking his head. (Likely imagining something very different from what Ford was picturing.) 

“No, I’d imagine not. Wouldn’t want him hurting himself on something we’d forgotten to put away. Or getting an infection from the chemicals you keep around.” Fiddleford hummed, idly rubbing his chin in thought. “I suppose we’ll need to do a bit of spring cleaning when we get back then. Or at least move the more breakable stuff to either the attic or the basement.”

Ford nodded. The less that could be broken the better. It would be far too easy for any of their experiments to be damaged by someone who was on powerful pain medications.

Thankfully, the portal was down in the basement and he could easily tell Stan to not go down there. Especially since one of Stanley’s legs was injured and he would likely need a crutch. He would, hopefully, be un-inclined to try it while injured if Ford told him it wasn’t safe. Actually, now that the idea was in his head, they could probably move a large number of his more fragile projects to the bunker for the time being. It would certainly keep Stanley from damaging them by accident.

“It may be better to convert my ground floor office into a temporary bedroom. If Stanley needs a wheelchair or a crutch, then he would need help every time he went up or down the staircase. Letting him stay on the ground floor would prevent the risk of him falling in the first place.”

A wheelchair was cumbersome for people unused to them and his home wasn't designed to be accessible for someone in one. Cutting down on the difficulties would make the stay more bearable for all of them. If Stanley needed one, that was.

Had the doctor said if he needed one? He'd gotten lost in his own head and hadn’t heard…

“We won’t need to worry about a wheelchair. Seems that Stanley was lucky enough that he’s not gonna need one. But he’ll probably need a crutch for the first couple weeks and a cane later on.” Fiddleford spoke up, gently filling in gaps that Ford had missed when he’d zoned out. “Most of the injuries are bites and lacerations. No broken bones, but at least one sprained ankle. Though that oughta be healed up by the time we leave town.”

Ford felt his shoulders relax. It was still uncomfortable, thinking about his brother being hurt like this, but knowing it wasn’t as bad as he’d first thought was making it easier. They still needed to figure out the arrangements they’d need to set up if Stanley was going to be staying with him until he recovered.

Hashing out living arrangements for him with Fiddleford’s help, hypothetical though they were right then, helped Ford clear his head. Made him feel more in control of the situation.

(It was always easier when he had a task he could put his mind to. It made it easier to deal with a lot of things over the years. Putting his mind to work was easier than letting himself spiral needlessly.)

Fiddleford had plenty of thoughts and ideas for things that Ford hadn’t considered that would make things easier for all of them. Especially to help Stanley to work around the injuries he had to deal with. Things that would be secure but still accessible to someone who was having issues moving. Or for someone who could only use one hand to do things.

He was hesitant to let Fiddleford start modifying his home appliances, but his friend was making some very good arguments about it. Some of them also being useful to Ford later on, if he could make them work the way he suggested he could.

(Some of those could be very good patents for Fiddleford to submit at a later date. “Nest Egg” money, as the mechanic liked to call it.)

Dr. Matthews returned as Fiddleford had started scribbling ideas for altering the shower to be more accessible.

“Ah, I see you’re… discussing preparations then.” The two looked up as the doctor walked over, depositing a box on the table they had dragged over to write on. “These are the belongings your brother had on his person when he came in. Unfortunately, you may need to get him a fresh change of clothes.”

Ford, in the morbid curiosity that sometimes got him into trouble, couldn’t help looking inside the box before the doctor had finished speaking.

On top was a worn little pocket address book, a leather wallet which was likely where they found the driver’s ID (which he still had in hand), some kind of waist bag that felt decently full yet not as heavy as it looked like it should be, a ring of keys with a single car key attached to it and several keys for locks (none of which looked like house keys, interestingly enough), and a large tag with a single key hanging off it. The last item was probably the motel key that the doctor had mentioned to Fiddleford. And underneath those items were… Under those were…

Stanley’s torn-up, bloody clothing.

Part of him wanted to pull them out. Examine the damage and try to puzzle out what animal it was that did it and help the locals identify it so it could be taken care of.

But another part of him was just- Frozen. Frozen as he stared at the blood that he *knew* came from his brother. They were further proof that Stanley had been hurt so badly that he’d been hospitalized. (Those were the clothes Stanley had been wearing when he was attacked.)

He swallowed and forced himself to look at the motel key, picking it up carefully.

“Do you- Do you know which motel this is for?” He asked, looking up at the doctor. The man smiled.

“Yes, actually. I have a niece who worked at that motel one summer. The Delmar, it’s closer to the edge of town. Not a bad place to stay at, but it’s not one of the fancier places to stay in town.” The Doctor listed off the directions so Ford could write them down. Then he handed a clipboard to him with several papers clipped to it. “These are the papers we need filled out for Mr. Pines, now that we’ve confirmed your relation to him. Your brother probably won’t wake up until tomorrow or the day after, but he’s stable and will be able to recover as long as he takes it slow and steady. Once he’s awake, he should be alright to check out. Please just hand over the papers at the front desk before you leave today.”

“Certainly, I’ll make sure to do that,” Ford said with a nod, shuffling the items around so he could write on the desk itself. Dr. Matthews straightened up and left. He looked up at Fiddleford once the door was closed. “Once I’ve finished filling these out, we’ll take both sets of keys and sort out Stanley’s belongings. Perhaps the motel will let us rent a room while we’re there.”

“That would make things easier,” Fiddleford said, nodding. “Guess you better start filling them out then. I’ll check the address on my maps.”

Ford turned back to the papers and started filling everything out.

(He hoped his muse would forgive the delay. But they were already making very good progress, so it should be fine.)

The paperwork didn’t take long, though Stanford really had to scratch through his memory at times to find what he needed to put in. It was a good thing they were twins since it meant a lot of their health issues were shared ones. (Except for the ten years after Stanley  was kicked out left home.) The nurse accepted that when he said the two of them had lost contact for a while after moving across the country separately. Which wasn’t a lie, per se.

They had lost contact while traveling. That just… Wasn’t the full story behind it. (And he certainly wasn’t going to explain that to someone he didn’t even know.)

After that, he took the two sets of keys, the two of them climbed back into Fiddleford’s truck, and then they left to find the Delmar Motel.

Just like the doctor had told them, it was on the fringes of town and across the street from a combination gas station and convenience store. (Which was advertising that they sold fried chicken, of all things.)

He looked over the building as Fiddleford pulled in. It was a small place, a single-floored building that was colored in whites and blues. It probably wasn’t used by people staying for more than one or two nights. It didn’t seem like a seedy place at least. It looked cheap, yes, but not seedy.

There was some ocean theming to the motel, for some reason. Like the owner had been on a ship at some point and wanted to show the things they found neat about it. Nothing too over the top, thankfully. There were a few buoys and some oars around the motel’s sign, a lifesaver hung on the check-in door with a welcome sign attached to it, and little sailboat-shaped number plates on the doors to the rooms. There were probably more little decorations like those inside the rooms. Enough stuff to show their theming, but not so much that it looked tacky.

And he had *seen* tacky before. Backupsmore had a truly awful seafood place just off campus that a number of his fellow students went to… Ugh, just thinking about it made him cringe. He’d only eaten there once and refused to ever return.

The two climbed out of the truck after Fiddleford parked by a red and white car that was uncomfortably familiar to Ford. He was reasonably sure he knew whose car it was. But it was still a good idea to check first. He stepped around the back of the car to check the plate and winced.

Just as he’d thought.

It was the Stanley mobile, the same car that Stanley left home with all those years ago. He knew his brother had been attached to the old car, but he would have thought that Stan would have gotten a new one by now. It seemed that he hadn’t. (Then again, there was nothing wrong with holding onto something reliable.)

He heard Fiddleford let out a delighted noise, the kind he usually made when he saw a machine he liked. Or, in this case, a car he liked.

“Oh, it is what I thought it was! A 1965 El Diablo! Those things are major collectors' cars nowadays. It looks like the guy’s still got most of the original parts on it. He musta worked hard to keep it in good shape like this.” He looked back at Fiddleford, who was suddenly near giddy as he looked over the old car. He felt the edge of a smile starting as he watched. “Maybe the fella who owns it will let me take a look under the hood before we leave…”

“I’m sure Stanley wouldn’t mind. He’s always been proud of his car,” Ford kept his tone casual, a smile tugging at his face. He fought down a laugh as his friend’s head snapped to him.

“This is your brother’s car? How do ya know?” Fiddleford asked. Ford chuckled, pointing at the license plate.

“This is the same plate Stanley had on the car when he left home. The same car, too. I’m sure of it. I remember how excited he was when he brought that thing home.” Ford couldn’t help smiling as he spoke. “He bought it for a steal from a neighbor who was retiring and planned to move south but didn’t see the point in driving both their cars down. Especially since they were only one person. He’d already saved up for months to get a car of his own and it was just- Perfect timing for Stanley.”

Stanley had been near bouncing when he’d dragged Ford out of the house to show it to him. Saying that they could drive themselves around now and didn't have to walk or talk Pa into taking them places. All Ford had to do was ask and Stan would have been happy to take him anywhere he liked. It had meant a lot to him back then, especially since driving had always made Ford nervous and stressed him out too much…

He’d gotten better about it after leaving for college but he still wasn’t big on driving if he didn’t need to.

(When was the last time he thought about things like that? When was the last time he thought about happier times with his brother? Without the sting of Pa’s yelling and anger cutting in?  Too long. It was too long. )

“Well, I’ll have to wait for him to come around before I ask, then.” Fiddleford paused for a moment, then, “I suppose it’s a good thing there’s two of us then. I don’t think Stanley would want to leave it behind. One of us can drive it back up. Unless I find a way to hitch it to the back of the truck. I might have a car hitch in one of my toolboxes, now that I think about it…”

He hummed quietly. A car hitch would make it easier to get the car back.

But cramming all three of them into the cab of Ford’s old pickup would be a bit of a tight fit. It may be easier to do a variant of how they drove down and just switch vehicles every few hours. That would probably be more comfortable for them all. They’d have to talk it over with Stanley since he’d be the permanent passenger no matter which plan they went with.

“We’ll have to work out the logistics later,” Ford said, gesturing to the front office. “First, we need to sort things out here. Then we can figure out how to get everyone back to Gravity Falls.”

“Fair point. We’ll circle back to this later, then,” Fiddleford said. Ford took the lead, stepping into the office. The woman who was likely the one manning the desk was watering the plants and looked up when the bell jingled.

“Oh, Mistah Pines! I was wondering where you were. Haven’t seen you around for breakfast in days. Cryin’ shame, I promised ya some good hotcakes…” She trailed off as she looked him over. And probably realized as she looked that, despite sharing a face, he didn’t look as much like his brother after a second glance. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Hello, ma’am. I’m Stanford Pines, my brother was the one who rented a room here.” The woman straightened up, looking bashful.

“Gracious, I’m terribly sorry dear. What can I do for you two gentlemen then?” She smiled kindly at him, setting the watering can down by the plants. Ford winced, slightly.

“I’m- I’m here because my brother was admitted to the hospital a few days ago,” Ford said, his tone even, despite the small stutter at the start. The woman let out a little gasp, hands fluttering to her mouth. “I need to pick up his belongings if you still have them. And, possibly, rent a room for myself and my assistant, if you have any available.”

The woman was nodding before he’d even finished speaking, hurrying behind the desk and digging through one of the drawers.

“Oh, certainly dear! In fact, the two of you can stay in Mistah Pines's room. Lemme get you the second key.”

“Are you sure?” Fiddleford asked, stepping closer to the desk.

“It’s no trouble, dearies. Mistah Pines’ room was actually a double room, it was meant for two people. It was the only one we had open when it was reserved and paid off before he arrived. Since he’s yer brother, I’m sure he won’t mind letting you stay there.”

Ford held back a twitch at that. Logically, he knew the woman didn’t know about the problems he and his brother had. But he also wasn’t fool enough to ignore when someone was making an assumption that was helpful for him.

Staying in a room that was already paid for would be much more helpful than canceling for the days that Stanley wasn’t going to be using it, and then reserving a new room for himself and Fiddleford on top of that. Especially without Stanley there to help sort out his side of the payments and paperwork.

It was simply less of a hassle to use the room that was already there. Even if it was, technically, not something they should have been doing.

“Thank you, ma’am,” was all he could really say.

“Oh, my name’s Martha, dear. Martha Wilks. My husband is the one who owns this motel and he handles most of the maintenance on the rooms. Here’s the other key!” Mrs. Wilks let out a little cheer, straightening up and presenting them with the second key to the room. “Now, this is for room twelve and it’s got two twin beds in it. Should be perfect for you two gentlemen. It’s got the usual things you find in a room these days; a TV so you can check the news, a phone in case you need to make any calls, and the bathroom even has a standing shower. We’re mighty lucky to have that last one, considering how much the water bills have been going up lately!”

Water bill? Ah right, this was New Mexico. Water was harder to get, considering how much of the state was desert. He was glad he never had to worry about that, since his cabin had a ground well that it got water from.

“What happened to Mistah Pines?” Mrs. Wilks asked hesitantly. Ford looked back at the woman, who was nervously fussing with her hands now. “I mean… He was such a nice fellow when I was talking to him.”

“Well, Stanley was the victim of an animal attack, apparently. According to the doctors we spoke to, he’ll be alright but will need time to recover,” he said. Ford didn’t want to go into too much detail. This woman seemed kind, but this felt… Private.

“Oh my! Did he go up by North Street?” Ford’s brow furrowed at that.

“North Street?”

“Yes, there have been a lot of animal attacks up there over the past month. According to the news, they think some kind of wild animal is the one doing it,” she said, a hand tapping nervously on the counter. “A lot of folks are saying coyotes, but to me, they sound more like mountain lion attacks.”

“Mountain lions?!” Fiddleford squeaked, eyes widening in shock. Ford felt his own breathing hitch at the thought. Sweet Moses…

“Oh yes! It’s the only thing big enough that I can think of that could do the kind of harm I’ve been hearing about. If I had known he was heading up there for work, I would have warned him to wait ‘till the sun was up…” Her voice trailed off. Fiddleford looked at her curiously, turning the key over in his hands.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Most of the animal attacks happened at night. Everyone assumed that you’d be safer doing any kind of work during the day instead.” Mrs. Wilks stated, leaning on the counter with a frown. “At least until animal control can finally get things back to normal over there. He must have stayed out later than he meant to…”

“But why would he even be out at night?” Ford couldn’t help muttering to himself. Poor visibility would make any kind of work very difficult.

“I think he was worried about being in trouble with the fella who hired him. The room was actually reserved by a local, who’d hired him for a job in the area. I knew he was coming, so I stayed late around the day he was supposed to arrive in town,” Mrs Wilks answered, making Ford look back at her curiously. “He checked in real late at night. So late it was almost morning! I was out like a light after I finally hit the hay.”

Yes, that certainly sounded late. Did Stan have to make a long drive to get here? He must have to’ve arrived at a time like that.

“He slept the whole day away before he finally came in here for a town map and to ask when the nearest place to eat was. Said he was a handyman who was hired to come to town and take a look at something someone was trying to fix up by the north side of town, up by the woods. I can’t quite remember what he’d said he was doing specifically, since it’s been a couple days since then.”

A handyman. Stanley was a handyman now. That was- not something he would have expected from his brother. It sounded so… Mundane.

He remembered Ma talking to him about some of the absurd commercials that his brother had managed to get on to the public broadcast channels. A bunch of scam products that he’d put together that weren’t worth whatever Stanley had paid to get them played on the television networks. It had been obvious (to Ford at least) that his brother had been trying to squeeze every penny possible out of anyone dumb enough to purchase them. But the commercials had all stopped by the time Ford had finished his first year of college.

He’d assumed that his brother had wised up and taken his snake oil elsewhere. The people of New Jersey weren’t geniuses, but they weren’t fools who could be tricked forever. It was only a matter of time until people examined the quality of his products and brought it up to the appropriate authorities. He had assumed Stanley had stopped when that had happened and that was why the commercials had stopped.

Those commercials had always been in the back of his mind on the (very rare) occasions he pondered what his brother was up to. All he could picture was Stanley as some over-the-top, irritatingly chipper salesman selling low-quality products for absurdly high prices.

(And, maybe, getting in over his head. Breaking laws to sell things he shouldn’t to get rich quickly. Or running into a “customer” with a grudge over some subpar product he had sold them.  A Liar. Selfish. Greedy. Like Pa always said. )

The idea that Stanley would have decided to change careers at some point had never crossed his mind. Never mind his brother taking on a common, mundane job like being a “handyman.”

Although he supposed, a handyman would find more consistent business in the long term than a self-employed salesman would. While not a job that would get him a large amount of money very quickly, it was certainly a more stable line of work. There was always a need for a handyman, no matter where you went.

Stanley had been trying to get to work after sleeping in and ended up being attacked by a wild animal.

What terrible luck…

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilks.” Ford looked back to Fiddleford, who was smiling politely at the woman. “We’d best start getting settled.”

“Of course, dears. Come by in the morning, alright? I try to make some breakfast fixings for the folks staying here, so if you want something to eat then please stop in.”

“We’ll keep that in mind!” Fiddleford called cheerfully, waving as they left the office. He looked back at Ford as the door closed. “We oughta grab our bags from the truck and bring ‘em to the room.”

Ford nodded.

“Right. No time like the present.”

Both of them went back to the truck and pulled out their respective luggage. It was good luck that they’d ended up parking next to Stanley’s car since it was also next to the room he’d been staying in. Which was now the room they would be staying in.

(Stan must have taken a taxi to get to wherever he was working. Likely because he didn’t know the local streets very well.)

Ford slid the key into the lock of room number twelve, opening the door with a click and stepping through.

His first thoughts were that the room was, in fact, meant for more than one person to stay in. And the second was that the room smelled like lavender.

Which was… Not what he was expecting. Though he hadn’t really expected any kind of smell for a motel room. And yet, the room smelled like lavender and a few other herbs that he couldn’t name off the top of his head. Like someone had burned incense or some scented candles or something in the room. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was enough for him to notice.

“Huh… Smells kinda floral in here,” he heard his friend mumble. “Better than most motel smells, at least.”

He hummed in agreement. He walked further in, looking around as he did with Fiddleford at his heels.

The room was small with two twin-size beds pressed against a side wall, just like Mrs. Wilks said they would find. There was a desk against the wall opposite the beds and an old TV propped up on top of the dresser. Heavy curtains hung over the window, blocking the light from outside and making the room fairly dark.

Fiddleford was quick to wander further in, opening the curtains so they could both have a better look around the room.

The room was decorated in cool colors, lots of blues and whites with some black trim on various parts of the room. The pillows on the beds were white, the comforters were dark blue, and the headboards were wood and painted black. The desk, chairs, and dresser all had the same black painted wood. Though the chairs had blue patterned cloth cushions on them.

Just as he’d theorized in the parking lot, there were more nautical-themed items in the room.

A painting on one wall with a large ship depicted in it, a lampshade with ocean waves printed on it, a coat hook designed to look like an anchor hung up by the door, and a few other simple things like that.

Only one of the beds looked like it had been slept in, the one furthest from the window. The one that Stanley had slept through his first day in town in, most likely. It was partially made, and obviously not by the employees, with the large blue comforter pushed down onto the floor. One of the extra pillows was set on top of it.

Stan seemed to be using the other bed to lay out a dull orange and dark green duffle bag and an old-fashioned suitcase instead of putting his belongings away in the dresser.

Which would make sense, since Stanley probably wasn’t planning on staying for very long. Why unpack everything when you would only need a few things for one or two nights? He’d obviously just thought it was easier to keep it all in the bags until it was time to leave again.

(And Ford wasn’t inclined to disagree with that logic. It was something he would have done as well.)

There were some books sitting on the desk, next to the motel’s telephone. One was left open with a pen laying on top of it and another, a larger book set in the middle of the desk. There was also a dark brown, rattan picnic basket on the desk, opposite from the side that the phone was sitting on, with a few green dishes and silverware laid out beside it. A small cooler sat on the floor near the desk chair.

Since Stanley had arrived at the motel late in the night, he must have had some food of his own that he’d eaten before going to bed. Carrying a picnic basket for dishes was actually rather clever since those were usually made to carry dishes safely while traveling. His brother must have picked it up while on the road since he was certain Stanley hadn’t owned one before he’d left.

(Their father would have never kept something like that around, let alone allowed Stanley to have it. He would have been far more likely to sell it than keep it.)

As for the food in the cooler, it had probably gone bad by this point. Unless they were some kind of dry stock that Stanley just kept in a cooler for convenience. He would probably have to check it later, there was no reason to let something rot inside. Mold was a pain to clean out, too. So the sooner they took care of that the better.

There was an ashtray sitting on the bedside table between the two beds under the lamp, designed like a lighthouse with a large lampshade over it, with what looked like a half-burned cigarette sitting in it. But it didn’t look like the kind one would normally buy from a store.

Coming closer, the herby-floral smell grew stronger. Was it some kind of herbal cigarette, then? He supposed that would explain why it looked so unusual. He almost wanted to say it looked homemade, as well.

(And it didn’t look like weed. He’d never partaken in the substance himself, though he remembered people from college who’d used it. Fiddleford had tried it once, purely out of curiosity.)

There was a framed photo sitting beside the ashtray, pointed toward the bed that Stanley had likely been sleeping in. The frame was interesting since it looked like someone had made it from branches and was well lacquered to keep it in good condition. There was a small stick that was carefully attached to the back to help it stand up.

It was something he’d never expected his brother to have, yet there it was on the bedside table.

His curiosity peaked, he walked over picked up the picture, and looked it over. And saw a much younger version of his brother looking back out at him.

His hair was much shorter than it was now, though still longer than when he’d first left home, and he was dressed in a t-shirt and baggy overalls, with a large basket of apples in his arms. An old straw hat partially shaded his face from the sunlight. He looked nineteen, maybe twenty years old, if Ford had to guess. Especially since the Stanley in the picture still had the acne that Ford remembered from their teenage years.

Standing beside his brother was an old man that Ford didn’t know.

The man had a square, wrinkled, weather-beaten face with bright eyes and a full head of long, silver hair that was tied back at the base of his neck. A tattered, wide-brimmed hat was pushed back on his head, with some kind of bird feather stuck into the headband. He had a flannel shirt on with the sleeves rolled up underneath a set of overalls of his own. The old man was also carrying a basket, though smaller than the one Stan had. Behind them was an orchard and a small wagon with more baskets of apples already loaded in.

Both of them had smudges of dirt on their clothes and faces from working, standing under the bright sunshine the photo was taken in. But they both seemed happy as they grinned widely at whoever was taking the picture.

(It had been years since he’d seen his brother smile like that.)

Ford’s eyes roved over the two, taking in all the little details in the snapshot of what his brother had done after he left Jersey.

Was this a job his brother had held for a while? Was the old man his boss? Being a farmhand wasn’t something Ford would have expected from his brother. But, considering how old the man looked, maybe Stanley had decided he really needed the help.

It must have been a good job, or he at least had a good relationship with the man, if Stanley kept a photo from it near his bed…

( Had Pa put any pictures in the duffle he threw at Stanley when he was kicked out? Or had he only put his brother’s clothing in the bag? Did Ma manage to sneak any in before Pa had thrown the bag? Had his brother been able to keep anything from home? )

He gently set the photo down again, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach.

At least his brother’s life on the road hadn’t been entirely terrible, even if it had taken a path that Ford would never have expected from him. He’d had some good things happen to him while he’d been living on his own. At least one good boss who’d made a very strong (positive) impact on him.

Small mercies, he supposed.

There were worse things that could have happened to Stanley than switching his profession or working with a kind old man. There were many, many dangerous people and dangerous jobs that he could have ended up with instead.

Especially without his high school diploma to prove his education level.

(Unless Stan had gone back to the school at some point to get it on his own? Would the school have even let him take one without their parents there? Ford was pretty sure you could do that, now that he was thinking of it.)

It would have been far too easy to fall in with the wrong crowds while on the streets. Start taking jobs from the wrong people. To fall for people promising things they would never deliver, with prices far higher than he could hope to pay. To be led to believe that he was doing good only to take a fall that he would never be prepared for.

To be taken in by the worst sort and so thoroughly tangled in it that he would never be able to escape.

( Why was he only thinking of those things now? Why did it take seeing his brother in the hospital for him to consider the danger Stanley would have been living with while on the road? )

Thankfully, it seemed Stan had managed to avoid that happening. He’d avoided being in too deep. He’d avoided the worst cases. Yes, he was in the hospital, but not for the worst possible reasons. For mistakes he’d made without the rest of their family’s help finally catching up to him. He would be okay.

(Ford had been angry with his brother, but that didn’t mean he wanted the worst for him. He didn’t want bad things to happen to him.)

It was good that, at the very least, Stanley hadn’t been too far from Ford for him to help. He was close enough that Ford could come and help Stan get back on his feet again after all of this. It would cut into his work for a small time, but he wasn’t inclined to feel too bad about it.

Because Stan needed his help. Stan needed his help and he missed his brother he could handle taking care of his brother for a little while.

Besides, Stan could be helpful for a while. He’d had a few moments where he was too caught up in his notes to figure things out. He could admit that he missed the obvious on occasion. Things that, when they were children, his brother had easily been able to pick up on. Maybe he could even ask for help with a few other things if Stan felt up to it. Some of his piping had been asking odd noises and a second pair of eyes would help Ford figure out what was going on with them.

And maybe some company when Fiddleford left for the night would be nice…  He wasn’t lonely. Certainly not.

“Which bed do you want to take?” He felt himself asking, pushing those feelings and thoughts away to unpack later. They were unimportant for now.

“Makes no difference to me. Unless you have a preference?” Fiddleford was neatly packing up the books on the desk, setting them aside to be put in either the truck or his brother’s car later. Ford hummed in thought, looking back at the two beds.

“You can take the one closer to the window. That way you’re not trying to sleep in the same bed Stanley had been using.” The idea of making his friend use the same bed his brother had been using felt weird. Something about it made him feel like he shouldn’t let that happen. Besides, he’d grown up with Stanley and they’d shared beds plenty of times. So that would be fine.

“Makes sense to me,” Fiddleford said, nodding. He hadn’t really expected his friend to disagree, but it did make him feel just a little bit better.

The two set to carefully packing up Stanley’s belongings before finally unpacking their own things for spending the night. Fiddleford even took a moment to wash Stan’s dishes in the bathroom sink before packing them away. They didn’t stow everything in Stan’s car, both agreeing that it would be better to ask Stan where he wanted them put rather than just randomly putting them in.

It was while Fiddleford went off to get some dinner from a nearby take-out restaurant for the two of them that something unexpected happened. Ford had opted to stay in the room, turning on the local news to see if there was more information about the animal attacks.

He… Wasn’t sure why he kept fixating on that. Something about the descriptions had felt off to him, but he still had no idea what or why. (Maybe it was the need for some kind of closure? Assurance that whatever had harmed his brother was being handled.) 

But his moment of calm was shattered when the motel phone rang.

Ford’s head snapped to the phone, staring at it in confusion.

Who was calling? Who knew that there was anyone to call in the room? Not anyone who knew Fiddleford or himself. Were they looking for Stanley? Had Stanley told anyone he was staying at this motel?

It was possible that he had and Ford simply hadn’t known. It wasn’t as though Stan could have warned him before he came to the motel. But his brother was still out cold in the hospital. So he certainly couldn’t tell him now, or answer the phone himself.

He hesitantly picked the receiver up.

(He hoped he wouldn’t be getting his brother in trouble by answering.)

“Hello?” He asked. A very frustrated voice on the other end answered him

“Oh, so there IS someone here. Why the hell haven’t you called me yet Pines? Don’t tell me you haven’t found something by now. It’s been days since you called for directions! And you’ve been giving me nothing but radio silence!”

“What do you mean? Who is this?” Ford scowled at the strangers’ tone. Then the rest of what he’d said sank in. He was looking for Stanley and had mentioned being called for directions. Was this Stan’s client?

“Wait- Ah, shit, did I dial the wrong number? I coulda sworn this was the number for Delmar…”

Well, that actually helped, ever so slightly.

“You have the correct motel and room, sir. Stanley Pines, the person I assume you’re trying to contact, is currently in the hospital. I’m his brother and was asked to come by the doctor. I’m at the motel to gather his belongings.” He kept the irritation from his voice as he spoke.

The man on the phone was rude but, if he was his brother’s client, then he was probably irritated from not hearing anything for the past few days. Silence from a paid contractor was a mildly reasonable cause for frustration. (Even if that contractor was Ford’s brother.)

“Oh… Oh shit… I’m, uh, I’m the guy who hired him to come to town, name’s Winston. Charlie Winston. I, ah, own a plot of land I was planning to rent out some space on and needed a second opinion on them for what I needed to get fixed up. So I hired a handyman to give it a once over.”

“And that handyman was my brother,” Ford said, nodding slowly.

The stranger was being… oddly vague about what he’d hired his brother for. He could have just been very private, or not wanting to share details about his business with a stranger. But there was definitely a nervous hint to his words that had Ford’s attention.

“That’s right. What happened to him? Is he alright? Did the doctors have any idea what attacked him?”

“He will be. The doctors say it was an animal attack, but they’re not sure what animal it might have been.” Ford had checked before they left. The nurse he’d spoken to had said they couldn’t quite figure out what had hurt him, but it was something with very large claws. “He hasn’t come around to tell them specifically what kind, however.”

“I see… When he comes around, please tell him to call me. I- I had no idea that this would happen. I want to make sure I get the chance to pay him before you both leave town. Your brother should already have my number somewhere, so he just needs to make the call and I can drop off the payment at the motel. I'll even throw in extra since he’s probably going to be out of work for a while.”

That was… Surprisingly amiable. That Stanley’s client was willing to raise the agreed payment after he’d been hurt on the job.

“Certainly. I’ll be sure to tell him once he comes around. Though it may be easier to just come to the hospital to ask him what he’d found. I’m sure the hospital staff would allow it.”

“I-I can’t. I have a very busy schedule so I wouldn’t have time to stop in just to ask. Especially since I don’t know when he’ll wake up. It would be better if he called me first.”

“Well, if you insist,” Ford said with a frown.

“Please do, I really do want to hear from him.” He listened as the stranger gave a few more pleasantries before they finally hung up the phone. He set the phone back down on the hook, his thoughts buzzing.

Something about that exchange felt… Strange. Oddly nervous and stilted.

The client was planning to pay for Stanley’s services, which was good, but something rang as strange in Ford’s mind.

Maybe it was the way the guy had asked about what had hurt Stanley? Their insistence that Stan needed to call them once he woke up? Had Stan really been sent to investigate a plot of land? Or had he been looking into something else?

And how had they known that Stan had been attacked by something? He said he had no idea that there was anything dangerous in the area but… Hadn’t the animal attacks been happening for weeks now? Wouldn’t Stan’s client have known about them? And shouldn’t he have thought to warn him about them?

It seemed that his brother would be answering some questions once he finally came around.

And there was a very real possibility that Ford was going to be having words with Mr. Winston.