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Snow blankets heavily on every object outside, obscuring much of the scarlet paint of the El Diablo and weighs ominously on the cabin’s roof. Everytime the wind picks up, making the house creak and groan, Stanley finds the breath ripped out of him. It is senseless that the sound of a settling house freaks him out, but it does so anyway. He cannot help but watch the air leave his lungs in frosty wisps and imagine that his soul is slipping out more and more.
His fingers tremble over the frigid sheets of paper scattered across the wooden table. Mathematical equations and hypotheses unfamiliar to the average person burn Stanley’s eyes as he struggles to make sense of it all. Tears threaten to pour as frustration bites away at him. He cannot help but feel like it is all futile and that he is simply doomed to fail every time he gives things a go.
When he crawled out of that wretched laboratory basement, nothing in his mind was computing. He stumbled about the scientist’s house in a daze, hardly noticing the skull he saw just thirty minutes prior to the incident or the jars of mysterious origin. It was an appalling amount of paper that eventually shocked him out of his disorientation. His foot slid slightly on a loose stack on the ground, heart stopping momentarily. The decision to bring his brother back slipped into his mind as he read the title: “Introduction to Quantum Mechanics”.
Stan is aware that he is a moron, however, he also knows that he is one stubborn son of a bitch and will try anything to repair what he has broken. Unfortunately, he is feeling the effects of having no sustenance in his system and his mind is crumbling at this certain array of information in front of him. If there was a fire, the impulse to set them aflame would certainly grab onto him. He needs to eat something. Feeling the fiver in the pocket of his beaten up bomber jacket and flexing his toes in his crusty boots, he sets off into the frozen wasteland of Gravity Falls, Oregon in the dead of winter.
Cursing like a sailor who has never tasted soap, Stanley trudges toward his car. His fingers are instantly red from the freezing temperatures. He fights with the car door and plops unceremoniously into his seat. Everything in it is as cold as ice, burning Stan when he touches the interior. With a flick of a key, the engine sputtered on. The whole car seems to shudder from the weather as if it is a dog shaking itself out. Snow covers the windshield and all the windows. Stan mutters as he gets back out of the car to rummage in the trunk for a scraper. He makes quick, choppy work at the car when he does acquire it.
After a few moments of seeking warmth, the man reluctantly drives away from the cabin. Snowflakes fly into his view, the ice dances across the car’s exterior with a vengeance. Stan grits his teeth when the car finds a particularly icy patch. It proves to be a nerve wracking experience…
…
It is a miracle he has made it to the convenience store in one piece. Luckily, he also catches the elderly couple running the store just before they decide to shut down early. His pleas barely leave his mouth as they look him over with the most pitiful eyes. He genuinely hates this feeling, guilt pools in his stomach as he looks at all the cheap food he plans on pocketing. Stan does not like to steal, especially from little old people, but he has learned to stuff his emotions down enough. He still decides to buy some things with the measly five dollar bill. Of course as he makes his meager purchase of beef jerky and microwavable meals, a scene ensues.
“M-My! I-Is it cold out there?” A thick-accented, warbly voice calls out.
The woman at the cash register’s face twists into a scornful expression. Stan is disturbed by this change and looks behind him at the person she’s glaring at. There, standing as awkwardly as a fully grown human adult male can, is a bedraggled guy. He takes in his uneven dirty blonde and silvery hair and the haphazardly stitched up outfit he is wearing. The man’s glasses are askew on his nose. There is a patchy five o’clock shadow on his face. Truth be told Stan has no room to judge him…the woman (Duskerton?), however, has quite a few words to spew. He watches as she grabs a brom from seemingly nowhere, charging at the stranger.
“I told you to stay out of here!” She screams and hits him repeatedly.
Stan notices that the man does not fight back, his frame shrinking at her relentless attack. Exposed arms raise above his head in a futile attempt to shield his head. He cries in gibberish at each strike. It is when his feet scramble on a puddle of melted snow that Stan sees that he is not wearing any shoes. Streaks of blood subtly appear on the filthy tile. He moves before his mind catches up to him.
Hands tear the broom from the old woman’s grip. She gasps at the action. Stan vibrates, red clouding his vision.
“That’s enough,” he grits out.
She might have started rambling out excuses, but Stan ignores her. He focuses on the figure, now openly weeping on the floor. Fury fills his veins at the sight of old bruises and a fresh cut on the guy’s hand. As gently as he can manage, he crouches down to the man’s level, and lays a hand on his arm. The skin is freezing to the touch. Stan wonders just how long this guy has been outside.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Huh?” The man inelegantly responds, his head bounces up.
Stan’s eyes meet his somewhat unfocused ones. He is reminded of the times he would gaze into a motel’s shitty mirror right after giving into one pill or another. It is startling how visceral he is feeling just looking into this stranger’s eyes. Familiarity briefly lights up the man’s face, but it quickly shutters. Stan is not a fan of how his eyes darken.
“Are you uh-alright, pal?” suddenly feeling awkward.
He watches as his eyebrows knit together in confusion, as if his voice is throwing him off. His mouth is drawn up, Stan suspects he is biting at the inside of his mouth. Thankfully the dude nodded his head and that was enough to pull him up onto his feet. Stan notices how calloused his hands are, curious about what he does.
“Say, do I know you? I swear I’ve seen you from somewhere…” He fixes his glasses.
That question sends a jolt of fear into Stan’s jackhammering heart.
“Uh…”
“W-Wait! I do-!”
Stan plasters a false smile and bravado, turning to the storekeeper. He rattles out how he should take this fine gentleman outside and all that jazz. His hands are already pushing the sputtering mess towards the exit. Stan thinks the woman says something along the lines of “Good grief” or “Good riddance”, but his body is halfway out the door by then. Stan mourns the loss of food he did not get to buy.
“S-Stanford! Stanford, listen to me! Hey, Stanf-!” the lanky guy exclaims and Stan puts his hand on his mouth to shut him up.
“Shush! Okay, look so you obviously know that name, which means you know my brother…so,” Stan starts.
Eyes bug out at him, wildness contained behind them. He is practically vibrating where he stands in this miserable parking lot. The man scans the treacherous hand still covering his mouth and bites down on it. Stan yelps and pushes the other away by instinct.
“Ow! What the fuck is wrong with you, man?”
He responds by huffing as if he just got back from a marathon and looks back at the hand he just bit. Five fingers cradle five fingers. Something is not right. Dots are not connecting and he wants to cry at his error. Nothing makes sense anymore.
“You’re not Stanford,” the man now openly weeps at Stan.
Stan feels a pang of sympathy even though his hand is now throbbing. Whatever problem this guy has is surprisingly not alcohol, Stan finds. However, he fears this is more of a mental thing and he feels he is less equipped to deal with this kind of problem… Fuck it, he will try anyway.
“No, I’m not… My name is Stanley,” he replies slowly.
Something clicks in the other’s brain, as if a switch was just flicked up. He watches clouds momentarily clear from his shaky gaze.
“I reckon..y-you’re Stanford’s twin!”
Countless emotions start to swirl in Stan’s stomach, but relief washes over him at this stranger’s recognition. Hope trickles in like a stubborn serpent worming its way into the soul. Stan fights to smack it down, to not get his hopes up. It only leads to more misery from his experience…
“Yeah…” he digs his heel into the ice and snow.
“Well, shoot! ‘Name’s Fiddleford Hadron M-McGucket! Stanford told me all sorts about you…I think,” Fiddleford introduces himself, hand out for a handshake.
Stan looks to Fiddleford’s hand and to his own. ‘Fuck it.’ He shakes it.
“Nice to meet you…McGucket.”
He looks around for his car, the red stands out like a sore thumb against the blankness of the wintry tapestry. Flakes are starting to drift like ashes upon the two of them. Trees creak ominously as if they are to tumble at any given moment. Stan is unnerved by Fiddleford’s rattly breathing and the way he nervously holds himself. He remembers the blood on the floor… Stan is not about to leave him out here to die from infection or hypothermia.
Stan is unsure where Ford found this guy and what he meant to him, but he guesses he is about to find out.