Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ford decided to call him (he’d found out the creature was in fact male) Remus, after the founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus. Ford was fond of those sorts of old stories - he studied cryptids and stuff of folk tales, after all. Ancient myths weren’t too far off. 

(He used to sit up at night in bed, sharing his pillow, sharing the same warmth and breath, whispering recollections of the stories he’d read to cover up the fighting downstairs. And Stanley would whisper back things like “Why’d he do that?” and “He shoulda done, I woulda done-” and Ford would shush him between the lines, whispering back, “It’s a metaphor, it’s emblem-attic of the society it's from,” and “That’s just how the story goes.” Stanley never liked those answers, but he’d quiet to listen nonetheless.)

The connection between man and creature seemed apt for a name. It was that or ‘Mowgli’, and that felt a bit too childish. ‘Remus’ fit the creature anyways, and rolled off the tongue much better than ‘Romulus’ did. 

Right now, Ford was trying to coax Remus into the bathtub. The faucet of the tub rumbled as it coughed out spurts of water, not so hot as to be painful to the touch but warm enough to be comforting. No bubbles, as he’d rather not heighten the risk of getting soap in Remus’s eyes. 

Remus eyed the tub suspiciously, hunkering down to the ground, chin to the bathroom tile, and growled softly at it.

Ford huffed. “Come now, Remus, it’s just a bath. I bet you’re itchy, with your hair as dirty as it is.” He  was also hoping the water might kill some of the bugs Remus likely had, if they did exist. 

Despite the sound logic, Remus didn’t seem appeased. He kept glaring at the bathtub like he expected it to jump at him.

“Is it the noise? Is that the problem?” The pipes weren’t particularly good, hastily installed as they were, and the tub was full enough now. Ford pulled the handle to stop the flow, and it coughed out one last burst before settling, the pipes going quiet. Some of the tension in Remus’s frame softened slightly. “There, now will you get in?” Ford patted the edge of the tub in what he hoped looked inviting. “I think you’ll like it, if you gave it a shot.” 

Remus’s eyes followed his hand, face and body still showing some clear apprehension. His eyes flicked towards the closed bathroom door consideringly. Ford sighed.

“Here, what if I went first?” Ford kicked off his shoes, then pulling off his clothes with a clinical detachment. Dropping his clothes on the ground and pushing them outside of the perspective splash zone, he set his glasses on the sink and eased himself down into the water. It was warm, really quite comfortable. He met Remus’s eyes, and gestured meaningfully to the water. “There, see? Perfectly fine.”

Remus watched him carefully. Creeping forward on his hands and knees, he lifted his head to peer into the tub. He dipped a tentative hand in, then hummed, the crease in his brow relaxing a tad. 

“Just water,” Ford continued, knowing full well Remus didn’t understand him and talking nonetheless, “Nothing to be afraid of.” He reached over to pull softly yet insistently at Remus’s upper arm in a clear gesture to get over here. “Now get in before it goes cold.”

Remus clambered awkwardly over the side of the tub and flopped in. 

“Remus!” Ford spluttered, wiping his face of the sudden splash of water Remus just sent in his direction. “Good lord, man!”

Remus popped out of the water, panting a bit - his version of a laugh, Ford had learned. Remus yipped at him, something playful mischievous in his eyes, bringing an arm down to stir up even more water at Ford. He barked excitedly before dropping the lower half of his face back under the water, blowing bubbles. 

“We’re not here to play, Remus,” Ford said in what he hoped was a sufficiently stern tone. “You’re very dirty, and for your own health and comfort we need to clean you up. I’m only in the tub with you to make you feel more at ease in this unfamiliar environment.”

Remus looked up at him innocently and blew more bubbles with his nose. Ford sighed. 

“You’ve had your fun, now turn around so I can get at your hair.” It would be a bit uncomfortable, and Ford usually didn’t allow people that close to him, especially without clothes on. But he knew that that was purely a cultural, societal thing. Remus wouldn’t think it was weird, and Ford didn’t need to think that hard about it. It was only Remus, after all. 

Remus, of course, didn’t do as Ford commanded. He lifted his head out of the water and blew a small jet in Ford’s direction. 

Ford huffed, but it was a weak sound. Stan used to do something similar, when they were young enough to share baths together. Splashing, kicking and laughing, throwing water in Ford’s face. The Stan Ford remembered would’ve hated this bath - there weren’t enough bubbles, and no toys to speak of. 

Stanley had had a way of making everything, even the most mundane activities, fun. He was the one who came up with new games, who had all the best jokes. 

Ford missed him.

He was brought back to the present by a hand pawing at him, Remus whining. He was looking at Ford worriedly, patting at Ford’s face clumsily. His own cheeks were damp, Ford realized - he’d started tearing up without realizing. 

“I’m fine, Remus, thank you,” Ford said softly, gently pushing Remus’s arm away.

Remus kept whining, giving Ford a truly pitiful look. He shrank back, hunching until it was just his eyes above the water, looking down. It was strange, almost like he was-

“Oh Remus, no-” Ford grabbed him by the bicep, gently but firmly pulling him back up. “It’s not your fault, no need to act all guilty.”

Remus whined at him, but it was softer now. He looked at Ford with something like hope in his eyes, tentatively leaning towards him. Ford sighed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” He pet Remus’s hair, trying to be comforting. It seemed to work - Remus stopped whining, just leaning close. His previous energy seemed to have dimmed, leaving him subdued. It put a weighted, slightly guilty feeling in Ford’s chest to see Remus so restrained, even if it would make bathing him easier. “I just… get a bit in my head sometimes, that’s all.”

Using his hands he gently guided Remus to turn around, putting his back to Ford. Remus kept trying to turn around to look at him, but Ford just insistently pushed him back into place each time. He leaned over the side of the tub, picking up the soap bar and washcloth he’d left there. 

“I lost my brother when I was a boy, you know,” Ford started, not really thinking about what he was saying as he wet the washcloth in the water. He rubbed the soap into the towel, covering it in suds and a faint, pine-y smell. “I was only five years old at the time.”

Remus stopped trying to move once Ford put the towel to his shoulder and started to scrub. He seemed to recognize what was going on now, and he relaxed contentedly into Ford’s working hands.

“We were traveling on a road trip to visit some distant family a few states away.” Ford scrubbed away what seemed like decades worth of dirt and grime, moving from Remus’s shoulders to his back. “I can’t remember what the occasion was. A shiva or a wedding, I suppose. My family wasn’t much for vacationing.” He smiled, wry and bitter. 

Then he paused. He’d scrubbed away most of the grime on Remus’s back, finding it dirtier than he had realized. But underneath it was faded, scarring of rope-like slashes, thin and thick, long and short, that had been obscured before. They didn’t look like animal scratches. 

Ford swallowed, forcing himself to go back to washing Remus, his hands now shaking slightly. “...I had fallen asleep in the car,” he continued, voice now trembling, struggling to keep his mind from the memory and his eyes from Remus’s back at the same time, “And when we stopped at the gas station, I didn’t wake up. Long car rides, they always… put me to sleep…”

Soapy water ran down his hand, the washcloth clenched so tight that his knuckles were bone-white. He switched to washing Remus’s arms. 

“I guess he went in to steal us some snacks, but he must have forgotten to tell my parents, and they were in such a rush to get there on time, they just… they didn’t notice he didn’t get back in the car.” 

He dropped the towel in the water. For a minute he just watched it sink, caught suddenly in the moment, unable to move. The soap dissipated into the water, the towel drifted back up to the top. He pushed it away, reaching for the small water pitcher he’d set aside. 

“If I hadn’t fallen asleep, if I’d been awake to tell them he wasn’t back, if I had been able to go with him-” he snapped his mouth shut suddenly, breathing sharply. He knew the answer to that.

He would’ve stayed behind in a heartbeat if it meant he could have remained with Stanley. 

That’s what got him about it all. The fact that everything would have been different if he had just woken up. How easily preventable it all was. 

But he hadn’t woken up. And now he didn’t have a brother. 

His hand tightened around the handle of the pitcher. He took a measured, sharp breath, dunked the pitcher into the bath, and promptly dumped water over Remus’s head.

Remus yelped, startled by the sudden dousing, whipping his head around to blink at Ford in surprise. Ford pushed him back into position. “I know, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll… I’ll give you a warning next time.” 

Deep breath. It’s been twenty years. 

He filled the pitcher again, placing a hand on Remus’s shoulder as a warning and then slowly pouring the water into his hair again, taking care to wet the stubborn knots and mats as well. Twenty years.

He set the pitcher aside and squirted some shampoo into his hand, then began working it into Remus’s thick hair. Ford had never had hair as long as Remus’, and it only seemed to get longer when wet. It was definitely supposed to be curly, Ford thought, but it was in such poor condition it was hard to tell. He pulled out a twig from Remus’s hair. Very poor condition. 

Stanley would have liked Remus. He would have thought he was cool at first, and then he would have thought he was fun when he got to know Remus’s personality. He would have-

“I built my lab with an extra room, you know. If I- when I find him.” Ford sighed, picking at one of the knots with his fingers. He should have tried to detangle Remus’s hair before he put the shampoo in. “Right across from mine. So that we wouldn’t have to be far apart ever again.”

The knot slowly came loose, soapy hair spilling over Ford’s fingers. He reached for the pitcher again, guiding Remus to tip his head back so he wouldn’t get soap in his eyes as Ford rinsed out his hair. The shampoo suds swirled in the water. 

Ford set the pitcher aside again, deciding to focus on the knots before he moved to the conditioner. He hadn’t had anything to de-mat hair around the lab, so he’d settled for a comb, some oil, and some scissors if working them out proved impossible. 

He wanted to keep as much of Remus’s hair intact as possible. He hadn’t devised a way to efficiently and effectively communicate with the creature yet, and he didn’t want to potentially risk upsetting him by chopping off his hair. It was entirely possible Remus might be attached to his current hair length and would react poorly to having it cut. It certainly was a very impressive length, even with the mats making it look shorter than it likely actually was. 

“That reminds me,” Ford said idly as he took up the comb in one hand and the oil in the other, “I’ll need to set up some sort of quarters for you if you are to stay here. I’m certainly not going to make you sleep outside - unless you want to, I suppose, but I think you’ll find yourself much more comfortable indoors.” 

Ford really hoped Remus would choose to stay. His lab felt much more like a home just with Remus in it - Remus somehow seemed to thaw parts of him that had long frozen solid twenty years ago, when Ford lost his brother. He felt warmed by him in that sun-touching way only Stanley had been able to do.

Perhaps if he were to make his home as appealing, as comfortable as possible to Remus, he might be much more inclined to stick around. Ford straightened a little, brain starting to waken from the murk and spin quickly, whirling with sudden activity. What did Remus like to eat? What would he find most comfortable? Would he find the stairs too awkward to climb, would an elevator just make him nauseous? Would he like it if Ford installed more windows, got some house plants? He’d need something to keep him from becoming bored indoors as well. What would that be?

Ford could remodel. Maybe he should buy new furniture. Would Remus be offended if Ford bought him dog toys? Dog treats? If Ford gave him enough food, would he stay? Ford could do, would do anything. Whatever Remus wanted, just so long as he stayed. 

Another knot unraveled between Ford’s fingers. He sighed. He’d be at this for a while. 

One at a time, Ford painstakingly untangled Remus’s hair, stopping periodically to pour more water over his head whenever his hair started drying. It took a surprisingly long amount of time, but Remus did have a lot of hair.

And as he worked, he talked.

“I’ve been studying anomalies in Gravity Falls since I graduated,” he said, using the comb to work out one of the mats. “I was originally going to West Coast Tech, but, ah,” he frowned, grinding his teeth together at the memory, “It turned out they had already met their Jewish quota for that year. I could have waited, I suppose, but I was desperate to get out of the house. It was suffocating in there.”

Remus idly stirred his hands in the water as Ford worked, content and patient. He seemed to enjoy the attention and the ministrations, leaning towards Ford when he could, seeming happy whenever Ford picked the work back up after a brief pause. Ford wondered if he thought of it as being groomed - Ford was no expert in coyotes, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that was a way they strengthened social bonds. It was a common behaviour among social mammals.

“The rules are rigid and outdated, not to mention discriminatory.” Ford sighed, feeling his brow furrow as he continued trying to comb out a mat. He continued, voice becoming more quiet and bitter, “It’s always something, Remus. If it’s not my hands, then it’s my family background, or something to do with my behavior, somehow.”

The mat finally came loose under his hand and comb. Ford moved on to the next one. 

“I don’t understand people. They’re like aliens to me, Remus. There’s so many rules, and they can be so illogical - and they never tell you what they actually think, or how they’re actually feeling, you’re just expected to know, somehow.” Ford exhaled sharply out of his nose. “It’s part of the reason why I dedicated my life to studying the strange and paranormal. To me, that’s easier to understand than why someone might have reacted a certain way to something I said.”

Remus swirled a finger in the water, making patterns out of the soap and shampoo that had been washed in and floated on the top like foam. 

“You don’t even speak and yet I already feel so much more at ease with you than I do with any of the locals in this town, and I’ve been living here for years.” Another mat finally came free under Ford’s comb and hands. He moved to the next. “…I was the same with Stanley, you know, it just came so naturally, before…”

Ford swallowed.

“We were so close, and…” The comb caught on the mat, becoming snagged. “And then…”

Ford stamped his mouth shut. No. He wasn’t doing this again. Stanley wasn’t dead, he was fine, any day now Ford would get a call saying they’d found him, any day now he’d come back to Ford. 

“He’s going to come back,” Ford finished firmly. “I know he will. We won’t be apart for long.”

For now Ford sat in a bathtub, the water slowly going cold, picking knots and mats out of a wildman’s hair.

A pile of sticks, leaves, and other assorted small objects accumulated on the ground as he worked, pulling them out of Remus’s thick brown hair. 

The sheer length of Remus’s hair was a marvel in and of itself. As Ford unraveled the years worth of tangles, knots, and mats, it seemed only to reveal itself to be even longer and longer, spooling down Renus’ back, his shoulders, his front, fanning out in the water. 

He looked like a creature out of a fairytale, an ancient fae of the forest. But then Remus tilted his head, glanced back at him with wide brown eyes, and the faerie-like illusion was broken. There was no century-old unknowableness in those eyes - they were wide and open and trusting. His eyes were human.

Ford guided his head back to looking forward, tsk’ing softly. “This wouldn’t take so long if you took better care of your hair. For an anomalous entity, you certainly don’t seem to have any sort of magic about you. I’d think one of those fae-types would be able to keep themselves tidier than this.”

Remus tilted his head toward the bathroom door consideringly. Ford huffed.

“I’m almost done,” Ford said. “I’m actually working quite quickly, you know. This is hardly an easy job.”

Picking up the scissors and a bowl he had set aside, Ford made quick work of the mats that had proven impossible to tame. He did his best to keep the hair from falling into the water - the mats would probably clog the drain if given the chance, and besides, their bath wasn’t over yet. 

Once the last of the mats were gone, he put the scissors and the bowl to the side and ran the comb through Remus’s hair one more time. It took a moment to get through all of it, the hair being as long as it was. It didn’t snag even once. Ford nodded to himself, satisfied.

“Right. Now we just have to apply the conditioner and wash your front, and we’ll be done.” Ford set the comb aside and reached for the pitcher, scooping up some water from the bath.  “I think you’ll find yourself enjoying how loose your hair is after this. It hardly seemed comfortable as it was before.”

He gently poured the water over Remus’s head and down his hair, making sure it was well-soaked. Remus stiffened slightly, letting out a small, unhappy whining sound.

“The water’s getting cold, isn’t it?” Ford sighed. He didn’t want Remus feeling uncomfortable, but there wasn’t much he could do. “We’re almost done.”

He patted Remus’s back, and surprisingly the creature actually did relax at that, muscles untensing under Ford’s hand with a small sigh. In retrospect, it made sense that Remus would be tactile like this - what with his affectionate behaviour, as well as his seeming lack of language comprehension, it was probably the best way to communicate with him. Ford made a mental note of that, archiving it in his head.

Ford set the pitcher aside and grabbed the conditioner, squirting a generous amount of it into his hand. He lathered Remus’s hair, finding it satisfyingly smooth and easy to work with now. Remus seemed to enjoy the attention just as he had with the shampoo - he leaned into Ford’s hands, wiggling happily in place. Ford smiled softly at him, patting the side of his head affectionately.

Once he was done with the conditioner, Ford rinsed his hands in the bath, then reached over and plucked up the washcloth that had previously been floating around, aimless and slow, on the surface of the water. 

“If memory serves correctly, you’re supposed to let conditioner sit for a minute or two before rinsing it back out.” He reached over the side of the tub, grabbing the soap bar again and rubbing it into the towel. “We can do a bit more washing up in the meantime.” 

Setting the soap aside again for the last time, Ford grasped Remus by the shoulder and wordlessly instructed him to face him. Remus looked up at him, - Remus always held himself with a slouch, like he was always trying to make himself seem smaller - tilting his head and letting out a small boof. 

“Just these last two steps,” Ford reminded him. He picked up one of Remus’s arms, scrubbing at the dirt there.

Just like with before, it took some scrubbing. The water had slowly turned gray, and it grew darker still. Ford tried not to think about how he and Remus both were marinating in shampoo, soap, and increasingly dirty water. Among whatever other things Remus had on him.

When he got both of Remus’s arms done, he moved on to his torso, and then the trickiest part - his face. 

“Don’t squirm,” Ford warned him pointlessly. “Not unless you want soap in your eyes.” 

He carefully wiped at Remus’s face. It was still dirty, but not as dirty as the rest of him. Thankfully Remus didn’t seem to be in the habit of sticking his face into the dirt nearly as much as he did his arms and back. The grime came away easier, less layers of it. 

Ford held him by the chin with one hand to keep him still, and it worked surprisingly well. Remus was completely docile as Ford washed his face and neck, running the cloth over his cheeks, his forehead, even down his neck-

-where the dirt came away to reveal a birthmark. Ford’s hand stalled.

Really, it was an incredibly benign birthmark. Two moles, about an inch apart, one right below the other, down the side of his neck. They were faint, a barely-there tint easily hidden by a shirt collar. Ford knew that birthmark. He knew it very well. 

It was on his neck too. As had it been on Stanley’s as well, because they were identical twins. Stanley used to say it was their ‘cool vampire bite scars, Sixer!’

Ford’s eyes moved up. He wiped at Remus’s face and, would you look at that.

The Pines family nose was very distinctive. It had been passed down to Ford and Stanley through their father, and his father before him, extending in an endless chain of noses. It was big and oddly shaped and a reddish-orangish color, standing out sharply from their natural Ashkenazi-paleness. 

Ford had found this nose a bit embarrassing, teased as he would be for it (he was teased for just about everything about him, because everything about him was abnormal), but then he would remember how proud Stanley had been of their noses. How much glee and pride he took from looking across a family reunion and seeing their nose on almost all of the faces there. How he’d loved how it made them look like their family. And remembering that, Ford could never feel bad about it for long, because it had been something that made Stanley happy. 

And Remus had their nose. 

A strange noise filled the bathroom, and it took Ford a moment to realize it was him. Laughing, except he didn’t find this funny. He was giggling uncontrollably, and none of this was funny at all. 

“No,” Ford said, wildly, head feeling dizzy, swimming like the water, rushing and roaring, “No, no, no.”

Remus blinked at him, making an inquisitive sort of noise. 

Ford barely processed the towel slipping out his hands or himself shrinking backwards, still shaking with high, manic giggling. “No. No! You’re not him. You’re- you’re not him.” 

Remus whined at him, leaning forward with a concerned look on his face. 

Remus couldn’t be Stanley. Remus couldn’t be Stanley because Stanley couldn’t be sitting in front of Ford, dirty, ribs faintly showing through his sides, face gaunt, hair overgrown. Not understanding English, living in the woods. Isolated from society for long enough he couldn’t remember his own language. Couldn’t remember he was human, that he wasn’t a fucking coyote. Remus could not be Stanley, Stanley could not be Remus.

Ford cackled, finding his throat constricting and his head going fuzzy. He was distantly aware his breathing wasn’t right, that he wasn’t getting enough air, but it barely registered. It didn’t matter. “This is all a very funny coincidence. You aren’t- you’re not him. You’re not him!”

Remus shrank a bit, whining loudly. He crawled forward, almost like he was scared, until he was close enough to paw at Ford’s face, his shoulders. Pawing, because he didn’t remember how to use his hands. 

No! No. Remus was not Stanley. It was a coincidence. A complete coincidence!

“Very funny,” Ford said nonsensically. “I can’t believe- I almost- and you-” Ford shook his head, giggling, vision going blurry around the edges, and he didn’t know if it was from tears or if he was about to faint and he didn’t care either way. 

He wasn’t Stanley, he couldn’t be Stanley. Stanley couldn’t be starving in the woods, small from malnourishment. Stanley couldn’t have those scars on his back. Stanley couldn’t have mats in his hair and a wild look in his eyes and visible ribs. Stanley couldn’t have hair so long from twenty years without human contact. Ford did not put his brother in a snare and Ford was being very reasonable and very logical and he did not abandon his brother to be alone in the cold and starving and having to join a fucking pack of coyotes to survive because Ford was an idiot child who couldn’t keep his eyes open for long enough to make sure his brother wasn’t left behind like a discarded toy. None of these things ever happened-!

Something wet rasped against the six-fingered hand white knuckled around the edge of the bathtub. 

Ford jerked his hand back, suddenly thrust out of his thoughts and back into the present. Remus was whining very loudly at him now, eyes wide and scared and tongue peeking out of his mouth from actually licking Ford’s hand like a concerned dog trying to calm someone down. 

Ford panted. He stared at Remus and Remus stared back. Still whining, Remus shuffled forward the water, pawing at Ford, looking like was about to try and lick him again. 

And without thinking Ford suddenly seized Remus, gripping him by the shoulders intensely. Remus yelped and for a moment looked like he might bite at Ford, but then Ford started talking. 

“You aren’t him,” Ford whispered intensely. “We’re going to finish this bath, and then I’m going to prove you aren’t him, and I’m going to feel very silly about this whole thing, and you won’t care, because you can’t understand English and you probably aren’t human anyways. And then I’m going to laugh this whole thing off and forget it ever happened.” 

Remus just blinked up at him worriedly. 

“You aren’t my brother,” Ford insisted, desperation starting to leak through his voice. “I- I would know if you were.”

(And deep down, he did.)

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

During the week it took Fiddleford to arrive, Remus was in and out of the house periodically. Ford had been wracked with anxiety the first time he’d realized Remus left, but by the third or fourth time Remus had infallibly returned to Ford’s door, he’d gotten used to it. It seemed Remus couldn’t be kept from the woods for long.

What he was doing out there, Ford had no idea. He would have loved to investigate, hopefully gain some insight into Remus’ nature, but there were other, more pressing matters.

Ford did his best to design the new attic guest room - where Fiddleford would be staying - with no overthinking of the process whatsoever. Which, because it was Ford, meant that he was still overthinking it the same amount he would have otherwise, just refusing to admit it this time. 

The quality of living quarters Ford was able to provide could potentially influence how long Fiddleford would be staying. The better the living situation, the longer the stay could be, and the longer Fiddleford stayed, the better. To get the DNA-Machine done, of course. Certainly not anything  to do with the fact that Ford desperately wanted the company or anything like that. 

He’d got the mattress up the stairs eventually (with no help from Remus, who’d just sat at the bottom of the stairs, watching him with all the wide-eyed attention of a creature who had no idea what Ford was trying to do, but was very intrigued nonetheless), and picked out a simple bed set for him. Then he’d placed a nightstand beside the bed, with a lamp from downstairs.

Remus had also watched him do this - Ford had to pull him away from hopping onto Fiddleford’s bed several times. The wildman had a clear fondness for creature comforts - he spent most of time lying about on Ford’s bed or on the couch, watching him in a way more catlike than canine, and was very enthusiastic about whatever Ford made him. 

Perhaps Ford should have been feeding him dog food, but Remus seemed perfectly capable of digesting anything a human could. Ford had fed him food with - or Remus had gotten in to - chocolate, avocado, even onions and garlic, all without incident. It seemed he had a digestive system comparable, if not identical, to a human’s.

Even if Remus wasn’t Stanley (which he wasn’t, Ford was certain he wasn’t), it was entirely possible that Remus was some other, biologically normal human who had been living in the wild since his developmental years. There had many cases, horaxes and true, of children being raised by wild animals with little to no human contact, and Remus certainly fit the bill for it. 

It was something he’d have to look into more - perhaps in his downtime, in between working on the DNA-Machine. 

Everything was ready. Now all that needed to happen was for Fiddleford to arrive. 

Remus was lying on the couch, head propped up on the armrest, watching as Ford paced right in front of the door. When Remus laid like this, completely, relaxedly still other than his eyes moving, he looked incredibly similar to a weary old dog. 

“He should arrive any minute now,” Ford rambled to Remus for what must have been the hundredth time. “I’ll need to greet him at the door when he arrives. It’s the polite thing to do.”

Ford hadn’t played host very often at all, but he had enough vague memories of when his parents would to count for something. Guests weren’t common in the Pines household, and Ford usually hid away in his room while they were there, but he still remembered the few family visits he was forced to sit through. It was enough even to make him, now a grown man, shudder. 

“He’s driving here, you see - it’s about a two day road trip from Palo Alto.” Ford grimaced. “Maybe I should have offered to pay for his plane ticket. He likely would already have been here if that was the case.” 

Remus sighed through his nose. 

“I’m just impatient to start our project, as anyone would be. I can’t even begin the blueprints without him - I have no expertise in Biology, much less Genetics. The sooner I can get this… ridiculous notion of mine disproven and finally put to rest, I can start focusing on other things again.”

Ford suddenly stopped pacing. He glanced over at Remus uncertainly. 

“I… I would know if you were him.” 

Remus grunted, then sat up suddenly, alert, eyes snapping to the door. Ford almost asked what the matter was, before he too heard it - the rusty rumble of a car coming up the road towards them. 

Remus tensed, eyeing the door suspiciously. But Ford just smiled. “He’s here.” 

Nerves and excitement alike fluttered to life inside Ford’s chest, dancing in a flurry of confused emotion. Without another thought he giddily scurried to the door, like a child anticipating the arrival of their playdate.

“Stay here,” he told Remus, because it looked like the creature was about to pounce at the door the moment Ford moved towards it.

Then he swung it open and hurriedly darted out, shutting the door behind without even looking. Eyes locked on the rusted old pickup truck he remembered so clearly as it rolled down his driveway, wheels sending clouds of dust into the air. 

“Fiddleford!”

Fiddleford stuck his head out the window, grinning broadly at him, gap-toothed and bright. “Stanferd!”

The truck rolled to a stop in front of the lab, Fiddleford clearly having no qualms about parking with his front tires in the grass. The sight of Fiddleford’s gangling limbs and absurd, patterned green shirt ambling out of the beat-up old pickup was enough to get Ford hurrying towards the truck. 

Fiddleford was barely two steps out of his car before Ford was throwing his arms around him, Fiddleford making a soft surprised noise, quickly reciprocating. 

It felt just the same as it did in college. Fiddleford’s bony arms wrapped around him, accidentally jabbing him with his sharp elbows, chuckling in his ear. “Well, long time no see to you too, Stanferd!”

“A long time indeed,” Ford agreed, withdrawing from the embrace with a smile. “I can’t remember the last time we spoke face to face. How have you been?” 

“Between family-raisin’ and the computermajig-in’ business, I’ve been real busy. Not a moment of peace, I’m telling you.” Fiddleford beamed lop-sidedly at him, eyes crinkling around the corners with the brightness of it. “I missed ya, Stanferd. Just ain’t the same without ya.” 

Ford smiled softly, adjusting his glasses. “Yes. It was too quiet around here without your awful banjo to keep me awake at night.” 

“And I’ve only gotten better,” Fiddleford said proudly, not an ounce of shame in his voice. He stepped back, popping open the backseat and pulling out his bags, before withdrawing the dreaded - a distinctly banjo-shaped instrument case.

“Oh no,” Ford lamented in an anguished voice, though the effect was a bit ruined by the fact he couldn’t hold back a laugh. 

“That’s right, I don’t go nowhere without her. I’ve learned all sorts of new songs she and I are just itching to share.” 

“Under no circumstances can you play that after seven o’clock.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Fiddleford waved him off. “No banjo-playin’ after the sunset, I remember.”

“Good.” Ford straightened his jacket, then eyed Fiddleford’s bags. “Do you need a hand?”

“I’m alright.” Fiddleford settled the banjo-case on his back, before scooping up his luggage with a soft grunt of effort, swaying a bit under the weight - Ford extended a hand as though to catch him, but Fiddleford stabilized himself quickly, so Ford awkwardly retracted, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “This the place then?”

Fiddleford eyed the cabin appreciatively. A small spark of pride went off in Ford’s chest. 

“Designed it myself,” Ford confirmed. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, clapping them together. “It’s half a home, half a laboratory for future revolutionary science and research. Hence its remote location.” 

“Of course.” Fiddleford nodded along. “Seems like your kinda place, Stanferd.” 

“Come inside,” Ford said, walking up to the front door. “Watch your step - I accidentally dropped some of my equipment on one of the porch steps a while back and I haven’t had the time to get it fixed. Too busy.” 

Fiddleford hefted his luggage up the steps easily, eyes roving the front of the cabin. “It happens to the best of us. You busy with whatever it is that you need the machine for?”

“Yes, actually.” Ford put his hand on the door, talking as he swung it open. “I should warn you, I’m not sure how he’ll react to you. I never have visitors over, so I don’t know how he reacts to strangers. Do forgive him for any ill-reaction, he’s a bit… well, you’ll see.” 

“Eh? He?”

The door swung open. 

But, to Ford’s surprise, it swung open to Ford’s entryway, completely vacant of any Remus whatsoever. He’d abandoned his resting spot at the couch, leaving no trace of his presence except for rustled couch-covers.

He stepped inside, looking around, but nothing. It was as though Remus had completely vanished. 

“Very nice place,” Fiddleford said, setting his bags down by the door. “What was that ‘bout another fella again?”

“He… yes. There is another resident here, a recent one. See, I found this anomaly in the woods, and I’d like to examine his DNA.” Ford wrung his hands nervously. “For scientific purposes.” 

Fiddleford blinked at him. Then snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re still a bad liar, Stanferd,” he said, fond as anything. He stepped forward, putting a warm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His eyes were earnest, kind. “What’s goin’ on-?”

He was cut-off by the abrupt sound of growling, kicking to life like an old engine. Fiddleford stiffened, looking around.

“What in tarnation? There some kinda critter in here?”

“Well, you could say that.” 

Fiddleford stepped closer to Ford. The growling grew louder. “You got a dog or something? I never really pegged ya as the type for one.” 

“He might be a dog.” Fiddleford gave him an incredulous look. Ford smiled sheepishly. “In truth, I’m not quite sure. That’s what the DNA-analyzer is for.” 

“What, you can’t tell just by lookin’ at him?” There was no judgement in his voice, just something akin to baffled concern. He kept looking around, like he was trying to catch a glimpse of Remus. The creature remained elusive, but the growling only picked up. “Just where is this critter anyhow?”

As though on cue, two eyes drifted forward from the dark shadows underneath one of the tables Ford kept some of his work on. 

“Ah,” Ford said, relieved, “there you are.” 

Remus prodded forward, slowly pulling himself from the drapes of the shadows and into view. His eyes kept flicking rapidly between Ford and Fiddleford, growling loud and unhappy, hunched close to the ground in a defensive stance.

“Oh,” Fiddleford said faintly. 

“He’s never bitten me, but I assure that if he tries I will intervene on your behalf,” Ford told him, swallowing around the uneasiness that clogged in his throat at the thought. He didn’t want to hurt Remus, but he wanted Fiddleford to get hurt even less. 

Fiddleford slowly bent down, dropping his knees to the floor in a tentative kneel, reaching out a hand. To Ford’s relief, Remus didn’t try to bite, though he certainly growled like he was considering it - Remus shrank back a bit, before warily leaning forward, sniffing at Fiddleford’s hand. 

“Howdy there, big fella,” Fiddleford said softly. “My, what happened to ya?” 

Remus snorted, retracting so that he could pace around Fiddleford, eyeing him critically. Whatever he saw, it seemed to satisfy him - with a weary huff, he turned slunk down the hall, disappearing around the bend, leaving Fiddleford unaccosted.

“Right then!” Ford clapped his hands together. “Now you know what we’re dealing with.”

“Stanferd, I’m mighty sorry,” Fiddleford said earnestly, voice heavy with concern. Ford paused, suddenly struck with a sinking feeling of dread.

“What for?” Ford asked, twisting his hands together anxiously. 

Pushing himself back to his feet, Fiddleford patted Ford’s arm softly in condolences. “I know how much ya missed Stanley. Must be hard fer ya to see him like that.” 

Oh. 

“That’s not Stanley,” Ford snapped. “There’s- I understand that there’s… a certain resemblance between Remus here,” he gestured to where Remus had wandered off to, “and I, but that’s not- I mean, there’s no evidence.” 

Fiddleford’s hand slid off Ford’s arm. He gave Ford an incredulous, almost exasperated look. “Seriously?”

“That’s what the DNA analyzing machine will be for.”

“You don’t need a machine to look at this feller’s DNA to know he’s yer brother,” Fiddleford said, taking an edge of irritation into his voice - he crossed his arms, fixing Ford with a vexed look. “ Honestly , Stanferd. He’s yer spitting image. I’ve met yer folks, and he looks just like ‘em. You’ve shown me pictures of Stanley before!”

“A lot can change in thirty years,” Ford insisted. “Stanley could look very different from me by now. Just because Remus happens to look similar to me-”

“The same thing can apply in reverse and you know it. It doesn’t change the fact that that feller is damn near identical to ya! Just wit’ longer hair!” Fiddleford shook his head. “Where’d you even find him anyhow?”

“In the woods,” Ford said huffily. “I suspect he’s been living in there for a long time, as he’s not exactly socialized - as you can see. I initially thought he was a cryptid of some kind, but after I cleaned him up and observed him for the week it took you to arrive, its become increasingly likely that he’s simply a human who was raised outside of society, likely by wild animals.” 

“Good Lord,” Fiddleford said faintly, shaking his head. There was a haunted look in his eyes, a hand coming up over his mouth. “Fer twenty years?” 

“For most of his life. Like I said, he’s not Stanley. I understand the confusion, but analyzing Remus’ DNA should clear the issue up once and for all.” Ford folded his hands behind his back, lifting his head. “I would know if he was my brother.” 

“I reckon you do,” Fiddleford grumbled. “You just don’t want to.” 

Ford stayed firm. “I’m a man of science. Evidence is key.”

“Ya don’t need evidence to prove the sky is blue , Stanferd. Yer missing an identical twin, a fella shows up, looking identical to ya, he’s probably your brother. ‘sides, you’re going about it backwards and you know it - ya gather evidence to form a conclusion, not so that you can prove the conclusion you’ve already decided.” 

“We’re getting nowhere like this,” Ford sighed tensely. “Look, even if you don’t believe me for some reason, this DNA-Machine could be revolutionary. Think of it like an opportunity. Remus can be our first test subject - I’ve sent for some of Stanley’s baby teeth to be delivered to me, and I believe we could find some use in comparing Remus’ and Stanley’s DNA. Think of it like a trial run.” 

Fiddleford made an irritated noise. “Yer only doin’ this ‘cause you know he’s your brother, and you just don’t want to admit it. ‘cause you want to be wrong.” 

“Fiddleford.” 

A weary sigh. Fiddleford re-crossed his arms, looking away. “Fine, you got me. I want to make that machine, just to see if we can. And if it can do the world some good then all the better.” He shook his head. “But I ain’t gonna ignore this - what’d ya call him? Remus? I ain’t gonna ignore this whole thing with Remus here. Your brother or not, that fella’s a human who needs help. He thinks he’s a dog, fer God’s sake.” 

“This is true,” Ford allowed. “I admit I’ve been a bit too… preoccupied, to really do much about it. I’m not even sure how to go about rehabilitating him. I don’t have a degree in Psychology.” 

“Neither do I.” Fiddleford sighed, rubbing his head as though fighting against a burgeoning headache. “What he needs is professional help, but-”

“We will not be sending him anywhere,” Ford cut in firmly, something cold crawling up his spine at the thought of sending Remus away to some facility, for him to be prodded and poked at like some experiment, cooed at by strangers who don’t know him like Ford does. Like he’s some sort of freak. 

Ford wouldn’t wish that on anyone. 

“-but I know you don’t want to,” Fiddleford finished. “And it might be best not to go freakin’ him out, making big decisions for him like that anyhow. We’re gonna havta do… something else.” 

“It will have to be while we work on the machine,” Ford said. 

Fiddleford nodded. “I figured you’d say that. Well, we can probably do both. I mean, how hard can it be?”

There was a crash from somewhere further in the cabin, followed by an explosion of furious barking. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Fiddleford groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “I shoulda knocked on wood.” 

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The sky hung overcast and gray above the bay. Muted and dull wood piers rotted where they stood, and the ocean was tepid and slow as it lapped at the sand. 

Ford inhaled slow, the brine, sea-weed and cigarette smell filling his lungs like a haze, breathing life into every cell. He let his eyes slip closed, and the sounds of distant, muffled Jersey accents and the rocking ocean washing over him in languid waves. Somewhere, a swingset creaked. 

Letting his eyes drift open again, Ford took a moment to take it all in. The gray sand, the muted colors of the glass embedded in it. The sailboats, far away on the horizon. The dull, sluggish sea stretching out before him.

Then he stepped forward, and began to walk.

The beach seemed to yawn on forever. The buildings of Glass Shard Beach were all blurry and indistinct; even though Ford could have sworn he remembered each building and each street in exacting detail, more than he could even remember his own mother’s eye color. He’d spent every spare moment of his childhood wandering, trying to escape that house for as long as he could. 

But now all he could parse in any vividity was the sea, and the jagged edges of glass in the sand.

A fog Ford hadn’t realized was there peeled back, revealing the rickety boardwalk. The smallest of smiles drifted across Ford’s face - he walked a little faster, glass cracking underneath his steps. 

The wind sighed, rustling through his hair. The sand was oddly damp, making a wet sound as he walked, leaving the distinct marks of his boots behind him. 

Wood rotting, the boardwalk seemed to groan under its own weight. Barnacles and mussels clung to its stiff legs, algae and sea-grass growing in the wood that had been discolored from the unrelenting hand of the tide. At present, it was low tide - the sea shrank back from the beach, gathering at the last dredges of bank, seeming to watch Glass Shard Beach with glittering eyes.

Ford had one hand on the edge of the boardwalk and a foot on one of the supports under the bridge, about to hoist himself up the side, when he heard it. 

It was a faraway, distant call, but it stopped Ford dead in his tracks, every muscle seizing, frozen. It wasn’t the same as the indistinct, garbled voices he could hear from the boardwalk, from the street beyond the beach - this one was clearer. This one was trying to say something. 

“-xer!”

“Sixer!”

“Stanley?” Ford rasped, hands suddenly shaking. Gathering his voice, he shouted, “Stanley! Is that you?”

“Sixer!”

Ford threw himself off of the side of the boardwalk, hurrying down the beach. He couldn’t tell where Stanley’s voice was coming from - his eyes scoured the beach, the sea, the town, but he couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see anyone - where was everyone? The beach was never good but people still went there. Swimmers and divers, sunbathers and seashell-collectors, it was low tide, there should have been someone, but Ford was utterly alone-

“Sixer!”

“Stanley! I’m over here! Where are you?” Ford ran over the sand, whipping his head back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse, just a single glimpse, of his brother. 

He found nothing. There was no-one in the windows of the houses, no one in their cars, no one walking down the street, no one on the beach. Looking back, he could see even the boardwalk was empty. 

He was utterly, completely alone. 

“Sixer, hey Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called to him, voice light and laughing, just like Ford remembered it. Like a child calling someone over to see something. 

“Stanley! Are you hiding? This isn’t funny!” Ford planted his feet in the damp sand, looking around wildly. “Where are you?”

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called back.

“Stanley!” Ford called back, voice going thin with desperation. “Stanley, please!”

The sea rumbled. The water rose, dashing against the boardwalk, against Ford’s ankles. The tide was rising. The sharp calls of gulls rose in the air, the sky darkening, the wind rushing in Ford’s ears. 

“Sixer, Sixer!” Stanley’s voice called, except he didn’t sound happy anymore. “Sixer!”

The water was crashing against Ford’s mid-calf now, and it smelt like sharp iron and rot. He tried to run, but the water only seemed to rise, and he kept feeling something hit his legs. So he looked down.

Floating belly-up from the water, washed up from the waves, were fish. Dead fish, silvery black scales rotting off their pale bones. Glassy, empty eyes. There were more and more of them with every incoming wave, the growing smell so putrid Ford gagged with it. 

“Stanley, where are you?” Ford shouted, looking everywhere and nothing . “I can’t follow your voice- please, where-”

“ Sixer !” Stanley screamed, and it barely carried over the deafening roar of the wind and the sea, and it was all Ford could hear. 

Every higher thought stopped, and Ford’s head was just Stanley, Stanley, where is Stanley , he’s gone, I can’t find him, I can’t, I have to, he needs me-

The beach was gone. The ocean consumed it, Ford was up to his waist in water - the sea was roaring, an all-consuming sound, and there were dead fish in the water, dozens, hundreds, sloughing like sickly rot. 

“Stanley! Can you hear me? I’m here , Stanley!” Ford ran clumsily, fast as he could, but the waves smashed against him, rocking on his feet, and the water was rising . 

Up to his chest now, the stench of death choking his lungs, and he gagged with it, heaving, but he had to find Stanley.

“Sixer!” Stanley’s voice shrieked, terrified, and it was the worst sound Ford had ever heard.

“Stanley!” Ford cried. 

The sea and wind howled in his ears, bashing into him, waves frothing and foaming, and where was Stanley, he had to find Stanley -

“ Stanley! Please, where are you- Stanley !” Ford tried lunging forward, tried to run, but the sand gave underneath his feet, sending him crashing down into the red water - red? It tasted like copper, why did it taste like copper - white foam and slick, cloying crimson water swallowing him, yanking him down. 

Ford’s eyes burned from the salt. Something bumped into his side - he glanced over to see the blurry shape of rotting fish. Hundreds. Thousands. Dead fish and blood, and he was swimming in it.

Ford shot out of the water with a strangled shout, lunging towards where the shore should have been - but there was nothing, just boiling red sea of hate, growing and growing, and he was alone. 

His mouth tasted like copper and the ocean roared in his ears and waves slammed continuously against him, and he was the only person in the world.

A dead fish looked up at him, floating right in front of him, a fishhook skewered, gouged deep in its scales, wound gurgling blood. Ford’s shaking hands reached out without conscious thought, plucking the fish up, holding it gently in trembling hands. The only thing he could control.

Its body moved gently underneath his fingers, scales shifting with an unnaturally breathing body. It looked up at him, glassy eyes and bloodied scales, and it blinked. 

“Sixer?” it croaked up at him, blood and spittle frothing out of its mouth, oozing out around the gouged hook. Its eyes were glassy and unseeing, and its voice was so small, and so scared. “Is that you?”

Wakefulness came to Ford without clarity. 

The dream- nightmare still clung to the edges of his consciousness, and for a moment he almost thought it had been real, in that hazy, unlucid sense. But there was no sand and salt clinging to his hair and clothes, no fish-grime or blood on his hands. His cheek was pressed into a solid, unyielding surface. There were no waves, and no water. 

A dream, Ford realized. It was just a dream.

It had felt real. His heart still pounded with phantom adrenaline. His breath still felt short and fleeting in his lungs, like he could lose it if he wasn’t careful. 

As reality slowly came back to him, he let out a soft groan, throwing a hand over the back of his head and squeezing his eyes shut. 

That wasn’t a new nightmare. He’d been having it for a very, very long time. 

He’d almost thought he’d grown past it at this point. He’d thrown himself into his studies at a young age, dedicating himself more and more to outrun that pervasive feeling of emptiness. To fill the hollow cavern yawning inside his chest where the very foundation of his heart had been carved out. 

His studies kept him from the thoughts that doggedly haunted him. Thoughts of Stanley, thoughts of the missing persons case going cold on some desk somewhere, all of the what-ifs and if-onlys .

He balled his fist in hair, fingers tangling in the short, curly strands. He was too old to be having nightmares. 

( It was the tugging on his bedsheets that woke him up, blinking blearily awake, eyes adjusting to see his dark, blurry ceiling, shadowed shapes coming into focus. He rolled over, squinting at the guardrail on his bunk, the wrinkle in his sheets, and the small fist pulling insistently on them.

“Stanley?” Stanford spoke into the dark, voice still groggy with sleep. “...did you have a nightmare?”

“...mhmm,” came Stanley’s fear-tight reply. He stopped pulling on Stanford’s bedsheets, but his hand didn’t leave either, resting there, loosely grasping sheets in his still tense hand.

Stanford sighed softly, rubbing his eyes with a soft huff. He shimmied out of bed without another word, clambering down the ladder - it was a big bed, the same one their uncles had slept on, a long time ago. The gaps were wide, window-like for the small Stanford - he could see, in the blur and the dark, his brother's huddled form. 

Climbing down was less like actual climbing and more like calculated falling and catching himself for Stanford, but he was used to it. He awkwardly shambled down, sitting down on Stanley’s bunk and shuffling over to him. 

Stanley had huddled in the corner of his bed, back to the wall, and yanked his blankets over his head, so that he looked more like a mass of blankets than a boy. Stanford pulled on the blankets, peeling them up a few inches to look into Stanley’s eyes, still wide and fraught with tension. 

“Hi,” Stanley whispered.

“Hello,” Stanford whispered back. “Care for a gam?”

That got Stanley frowning at him, face curling up in a pout. “M’ a pirate, Sixer, not a whaler. You’re supposed to ask for permission to come aboard.”

“Sorry. Can I come aboard?” 

“ Permission to-”

“Permission to come aboard, Captain Stanley?” Stanford amended quickly. He tugged at the blankets. “Come on, you have to.” 

“You should say please more often,” Stanley admonished, but he still lifted his grip enough to allow Stanford to wiggle in next to him, and he still tucked his nose into Stanford’s shoulder when he got close enough, hiding from the world behind his brother, like a shadow.

The blankets went over both of their heads, and Stanford mused absently that it was going to get rather stuffy in here if Stanley didn’t let up soon. Hiding under blankets was only a comfort for so long, before the trapped heat and stifled air got to you. 

Worries for later. It was comforting enough now. 

Stanford wrapped his arms around his brother, hand coming up to pet Stanley’s hair in a way he’d learned from Ma. It always got Stanley calming fast, fear dropping away beneath the comfort of it. 

Whenever Stanford had bad days or nightmares of his own, Stanley would do the same for him - wrap him up, let him hide from cruel edges and stares of the world digging into his back, talking low, running a hand up and down his back, a steady lighthouse. 

Stanford’s method of easing Stanley was a little different. He was never so good with words like Stanley was - where Stanford could carefully string together detailed, exacting diatribes to spool out onto the page in written word, Stanley always seemed to know exactly what to say in the moment. He had their Ma’s showman, conman tongue, quicksilver and catlike. 

So Stanford didn’t talk to reassure. He talked to fill the silence, and to distract. 

“Want to hear a story?” Stanford asked in the quiet between them. 

“Don’t go,” Stanley answered immediately. Stanford wasn’t very good at making things up on the spot like Stanley was - an offer for a story was an offer to get up and grab a book. “Jus’ tell me about…” Stanley paused for a moment, thinking. “En-ki-doo.”

“Enkidu?” Stanley nodded against him. “See, I told you you’d like the Epic of Gilgamesh,” Stanford said smugly. “And you said it was boring-”

“Sixer…” Stanley grumbled into Stanford’s shoulder.

“Yes, yes, alright- how did it start again…” Stanford set his cheek on Stanley’s head, his brother’s hair tickling his face. Exhaling, watching Stanley’s hair rustle slightly in the artificial breeze. He squinted into nothing, trying to arrange the words in his head into the right order. “Once upon a time, there was a great king named Gilgamesh…”)

Crash!

Ford jerked up, the memory playing in his head grinding to a halt.

There was shouting from outside Ford’s office, banging and thumps. Not gnomes again, Ford thought immediately, half hysterical with the idea. The last thing he needed were gnomes. 

His eyes traced a path towards the diagrams and charts spread out on his desk, pinned up around him. He’d just woken up, but he suddenly felt so tired. His hand shook a bit, and he clenched it, trying to bite back the tremors. 

Then he stood, chair squeaking against the floor as he pushed himself off his desk and walking towards the noises. 

The door groaned softly as he pushed it open, peeking his head out and looking around. 

Remus whipped around the corner, raucous growling rumbling out of his chest. His gaze snapped to Ford, eyes widening slightly and bee-lining straight for him. 

A weight that Ford hadn’t fully realized was weighing him down eased slightly as Remus darted over to him. Ford widened the crack in the doorway without even thinking about it, letting Remus wiggle past and duck behind him, hunching flat on the ground and growling loudly. 

And then Fiddleford came thumping down the hallway, holding a baggy shirt in his hands and pinched expression on his face. He looked around the hall, before his eyes landed on Remus and he scowled. 

“There you are!” He stepped forward, causing Remus’ growling to grow louder. A flash of fear crossed Fiddleford’s face, but he visibly steeled himself. “This is ‘fer your own good. You can’t go running around buck-naked all the time, it just ain’t right.” 

“You’re trying to clothe him?” Ford asked.

“Emphasis on tryin’, ” Fiddleford grumbled, frowning at Remus. “He’s bein’ more stubborn ‘bout it than I thought he would be.” 

Ford frowned slightly. “He does seem to be reacting more strongly than I might have thought he would.” He glanced down, seeing the way Remus held himself with rope-taut tension, the unceasing sound of his growling. “Did something happen?”

“Nothin’ all that outrageous,” Fiddleford said. “All I did was crouch down next ta’ him and try to put it on him - slowly, mind you, I ain’t a dunce. Didn’t even get it over his head ‘fore he started freakin’ out.”

“Hm.” Ford reached a hand up to absent-mindedly scratch at his stubble, trying to think. “Perhaps he’s claustrophobic?”

“I thought that too, but I don’t think that’s it. I mean, he was lookin’ pretty apprehensive the minute I took the shirt out, and it wasn’t even that close to him before he tried to bolt. I think it’s got something to do with the shirt itself.” 

Ford’s eyes flicked down to Remus again. He was eyeing the shirt, face tense, pulled back to show off his teeth. But it wasn’t offense, Ford could tell - he was on the defense , shoulders squared, gaze cautiously flitting around like he was trying to assure himself of an escape plan. 

“Hand it to me,” Ford said to Fiddleford suddenly, stretching a hand out to him expectantly. “I’ll try.”

Fiddleford gave him a doubtful look, but he passed the shirt over to him regardless. “I don’t think you’ll have any more luck than me,” he warned. 

“Let me try something. I have a theory.” 

The shirt was old looking, off-white with age and stained. It certainly wasn’t one of Ford’s - likely a spare shirt of Fiddleford’s, something he brought along if all else was unwearable. It was big too, big enough to be quite baggy on Ford, and likely engulf Fiddleford entirely if he wore it. It would be a roomy fit for Remus - not too tight as to agitate him, just loose enough, but not so much so that it would fall right off of him. 

It smelt of nothing in particular either. Just the faint fragrance of laundry detergent and something that could be defined as the smell of Fiddleford, barely a ghost in the threads. Rubbing a thumb along the fabric, he found that the texture wasn’t bad either - it was a simple, loose shirt, any uncomfortable edges long worn down to nothing. 

In essence, there was nothing wrong with the shirt. Just as Ford had suspected.

He moved aside a bit to give himself enough room to crouch down in front of Remus, knees hitting the wood floor with a soft thump.

Remus eyed him suspiciously, gaze flicking between Ford and the shirt like he thought it was about to jump at him. He hunched himself even more, torso nearly touching the floor with how low he crouched, everything about him radiating wariness. 

“Now, Remus,” Ford started, “You know Fiddleford here would feel more comfortable if you conducted yourself in a more, ah, civilized manner-”

Fiddleford made a face. “I wouldn’t say it like that -”

“-and really, I think you’ll find this shirt perfectly fine. You’re a tad bit smaller than me, weight-wise, so it should be quite comfortable. In fact, I think you’d like it, if you tried,” Ford continued unfalteringly, extending the shirt to Remus, holding it out to him invitingly. “Here, is it unfamiliar to you? Is that the problem?”

Remus shrank back when the shirt came out, growling unhappily. 

Ford simply waited. 

Hesitation hanging off of every movement, Remus slowly inched forward, reaching out to sniff at the shirt. He snorted softly at the smell of it, something like recognition flashing in his eyes. 

“Smells like Fiddleford, doesn’t it? See, it’s perfectly safe. Won’t bite you or anything like that,” Ford encouraged. “We’re just trying to help you.” 

The tension slowly leached out of Remus’ frame, and he sighed, becoming visibly calmer. The growling petered off and died entirely, and he exhaled, face going smooth with calm, and he looked at Ford cooly. 

“There you go,” Ford said. “No issue at all. Now let’s get this on you.”

But as soon as lifted the shirt up, holding it in such a way so as to easily slip it over Remus’ head, the newfound calm disappeared. Remus snarled loudly, gnashing his teeth warningly and backing up until his back was to Ford’s desk, eyes never leaving Ford, nor the shirt.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “That is odd.” 

He lowered the shirt, and Remus calmed slightly. He lifted it again, and Remus growled louder, letting out a soft huff of a bark.

Ford lowered the shirt again, dropping it onto his lap so that he could drum his fingers on the floor thoughtfully. “It’s as though it’s not the shirt itself that’s the issue, but perhaps the idea of wearing it - if he even understands that that's what we’re trying to do.”

Something between worry and dread mixed on Fiddleford’s face. “Now why would that be?”

Ford shrugged. “I can’t read his mind.” He paused, then brightened up. “Unless of course I use the spell the Shady Sorceress of the Swamp gave me to enter his mindscape and go through his thoughts!”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, something admonishing clearly already on the tip of his tongue.

“If it was a robot instead of magic, would you think it was fine?” Ford interrupted him before he could even speak. 

“Well, I-” Fiddleford paused, thinking. “I… hm. Fair enough.”

“Quite,” Ford said primly, content to leave it at that. He gathered up the shirt, tucking it under an arm and standing up, free hand dusting himself off. “I don’t believe we’ll get any farther with this today. And as much as I’d truthfully love to go through Remus’s mind, I don’t want to get sidetracked. After the machine is finished, maybe.” 

Remus made a long-suffering, tired noise, slinking back until he’d ducked underneath Ford’s desk, eying the both of them warily, as though waiting for something. 

“Poor fella,” Fiddleford mumbled. “Ya gotta wonder how he turned out like this.” 

“There have been plenty of documented and undocumented cases of children being raised by wild animals. Though it certainly is odd to see in our modern day, what with technology being advanced as it is, and civilization so widespread across the globe…” Ford shook his head. “Nonetheless, Remus is far from the first. His behaviour is very reminiscent of the observed behaviour of other children in similar situations.” 

Fiddleford looked interested to hear that. “I wonder what methods folks used to help those kids then.” 

Ford shrugged. “Most of the articles I skimmed were vague on the specifics. I believe the library in town has more information, if you’d like to look into that.” 

Fiddleford shot him a frown. “I know you don’t think he’s yer brother, but even if you’re right, you outta be more interested in helpin’ the guy. It’s you he likes - pretty sure he just tolerates me for your sake.” 

“Nonsense, he likes you plenty. And, well-” Trailing off, Ford’s eyes drifted towards Remus, who he found was looking up at him, brown eyes wide under the cover of the shadows under the desk. “...I simply don’t understand your insistence, is all.” 

Fiddleford spluttered. “Stanford, he thinks he’s a dog !”

“Very few self-perceptions ever line up with reality - honestly, it’s quite common. This is just an extreme case.” Ford shook his head. “Look, he doesn’t seem unhappy as he is. What’s really the harm?”

“He ain’t living his life to the fullest,” Fiddleford said.

“How can we define that?” Ford argued. “Just because it seems strange to us?”

“Oh fer- it’s not ‘cause I think he’s weird, Stanford! It’s ‘cause this clearly ain’t good for him!” Fiddleford gestured towards Remus. “Lookit him! He looks like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in years! And humans ain’t meant to go walking around on our hands and knees - poor fella’s prolly got all sortsa’ joint pains.”

“Don’t we all?” Ford dismissed flippantly. “All I’m saying is, who are we to say what the right way to live is? What the right way to act is? Doesn’t that make us no better than the people that once harassed us for our perceived differences?” 

“That ain’t the same thing. We were… I dunno, we were weird, an’ awkward I guess, but we weren’t living some sort of life of delusion! I get where yer comin’ from and all, but Stanford, humans ain’t made to be living out in the woods without other people, eating raw meat and what have ya. He coulda’ gotten rabies, or lyme, or get eaten by fuckin’ cougar, or any number a’ things - to be frank, it’s a damn miracle he made it this long!”

Indignation flared alive in Ford’s chest. He knew Remus best - who was Fiddleford to tell him he was wrong? “Anyone can get diseases regardless of lifestyle, and Remus is an incredible individual in his own right. He can hold his own-”

“Doncha think he’s got family, Stanford?” Fiddleford suddenly burst out, throwing his arms out in exasperation. “How would you feel knowin’ your, your missing boy, boy was runnin’ around in the woods buck naked, thinkin’ he’s a dog ?”

Ford faltered. Fiddleford seemed to be growing truly agitated now, and Ford wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Does this strike more of a nerve for him than I realized? “...most cases of individuals raised by animals are actually cases of parental abandonment or orphaning, not wanted children going missing,” Ford tried, making an awkward there-there motion with his hands at Fiddleford. “The likelihood of such you’re proposing is probably, statistically, quite low-”

“And what if it was Stanley?” Fiddleford snapped. “What then?”

Ford’s mouth snapped shut on its own accord, his whole train of thought slamming to a halt.

If it was Stanley. If it was Stanley…

Despite his better judgement, he couldn’t help but consider that earnestly. If Stanley was walking around on all fours, ribs poking out of scarred skin, voice reduced to growling and barking. If Stanley thought he was a coyote…

A well of dread oozed up in Ford. “That would never happen,” Ford said weakly. 

“I said it was a hypothetical, didn’t I?” Fiddleford sighed roughly. “What good do we do Remus if we just let him go on as he is? He ain’t livin’, Stanford. He’s just surviving.”

A half-formed protest jumped up on Ford’s tongue - but then he remembered Stanley, pictured Stanley, and it died completely.

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to.

“…do as you will,” Ford said eventually, mutedly. “Just don’t stress him - and don’t let it get in the way of our work.”

Fiddleford seemed as though he wanted to protest for a moment, but the look slid off his face quickly, replaced with acquiescence so quickly Ford wondered if he’d imagined the hesitancy. “Alright. If you think that’s what’s best.”

A moment of quiet passed.

"Fer the record, I'm sorry for fightin' wit' ya," Fiddleford said, a bit abruptly. "I don't like doin' it, never have. I just want to help S- Remus. You know that." He sighed.

Ford nodded stiffly. His eyes trailed over to Remus, who was still hunkered down underneath Ford’s desk watchfully. 

Remus met his gaze and held it, eyes like he was awaiting Ford’s next move. But the way he held himself, the way he seemed almost to slump onto the ground rather than crouch, belied less than exuberant amounts of energy. 

Just looking at him made Ford feel just as tired. 

“Let’s turn in for the night. We can get an early start in the morning,” Ford said decisively. He absent-mindedly juggled the shirt up and down in his hand for a moment - until accidentally overshot on his upswing a bit, causing to swing up in the air. He caught it, looking down at it, a bit startled. Had he been holding this the whole time? “Where’d you get this shirt, anyways? I don’t recognize it.” 

“Oh, that’s just a spare nightshirt of mine. Figured it’d fit him.” Fiddleford shrugged, reaching over to pluck it out of Ford’s hands - which Ford allowed easily. “Now what’s all this ‘bout goin’ to bed? Doesn’t sound like the Stanford I know - not that I’m complaining.” 

Scoffing, Ford turned to the door, moving towards the hall. “My sleep schedule is perfectly reasonable for a man such as myself; we’ve had this discussion many times, Fiddleford - I’m a scientist! I don’t have time to waste, I need every spare moment.” 

Remus, apparently deducing that the shirt threat had passed, hefted himself out from under the desk with a weary groan of a noise, stretching a leg as he lumbered after Ford. The injury from the gnomes had been healing superbly well - Remus barely even winced as he walked on all fours as he did, not limping at all. 

That salve was showing some real potential. Ford made a mental note to gather more supplies for it some time. 

“Furthermore,” Ford continued, a bit abashed, “I simply… do not wish to deal with the measures Remus takes when he deems it time to sleep. It’s best to remain a step ahead of him, to prevent it.”

Fiddleford skittered out of Remus’s path, shoes thumping on the hardwood as he practically flinched backwards. 

Hm. Not ideal - Fiddleford still wasn’t entirely comfortable around Remus, that much was clear. It was almost ironic - Ford had initially been worried more about how Remus would take to him, not much considering the inverse problem. 

Funny, then, how Remus barely even batted an eye at Fiddleford. Meanwhile, Fiddleford seemed to be consciously untensing from his little flinch, reminding himself to be calm. 

Something for them to work on, perhaps. 

But Ford shouldn’t let himself get so distracted.

“Goodnight Fiddleford,” Ford said briskly. “Rest well. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Fiddleford jerked a little, blinking like he was resurfacing out of his thoughts. “Wh- oh, yeah, g’night Stanford.” He paused, frowning a bit. “Big day?”

“We have a lot of preparation to do,” Ford said absent-mindedly, more preoccupied with side-stepping Remus and walking out into the hall than he was to paying attention to the conversation anymore. He’d already mentally checked it off as complete. 

“Preparin’ for what? What’s the preparing?” Fiddleford called after him. 

“For the machine,” Ford said, vaguely annoyed that he still had to keep talking even though they should clearly have concluded by now. “Goodnight!”

He didn’t flee down the hall, because he was Stanford Filbrick Pines, and he never did such a thing. No, he walked at a quick, business appropriate pace, because he had excellent time management that was telling him he ought to be done talking to people now. 

He was very professional. Remus, who followed ever-loyally behind him at his heels, clearly agreed. 

Ford flopped unceremoniously onto bed, kicking off his shoes as he dragged himself to the middle of the mattress. His head thumped against the pillow, reminding him that he had forgotten to take his glasses off again. Blindly, he pulled them off his face and dropped them towards the vicinity of his nightstand without looking, then shoved his face back into his pillow. 

Had his bed always been so comfortable? It was as though every muscle in his body unspooled from their tight cords on top of it, the vertebrae in his spine, so used to being hunched over a desk, finally being allowed to realign to a proper state. He groaned, going completely boneless in bed. 

No thoughts plagued his mind like they so often did in the dead of night. His mind was completely overworked, reduced, at the end of a hard day’s mental work, to a sluggish thing muttering contentedly about how comfortable his bed was. He’d forgotten how rewarding it was to throw himself completely into his research like that, to forget everything else. 

Working himself to exhaustion was an excellent cure for insomnia. 

Insomnia. Ford sighed. He’d almost managed to forget that nightmare, the one he’d had earlier, before Fiddleford and Remus had managed to distract him, keeping his mind blessedly too occupied to mull over it. 

Maybe he would have thought of it then, let the thoughts pull him away from the steady decline into sleep he’d almost achieved - before the bed creaked under another weight, and Ford cracked an eye to peer up at the blurry figure moving across the mattress towards him. For a moment his mind drew an utter blank at what he was even looking at - but then, like an old instinct blinking back to life, it clicked perfectly.

“Stanley?” He mumbled into his pillow, watching his brother lower himself down beside Ford, curling up like a dog. Ford reached a sleepy hand over, clumsily patting his brother’s shoulder. “...didja have a nightmare?”

No response. Ford hummed.

Reaching out, he pulled his brother into his arms, dropping his cheek on top of Stanley’s curly hair. Stanley struggled for a minute, before slowly relaxing. “S’ alright,” Ford mumbled. “Even… even Enkidu had nightmares sometimes…”

A soft sigh. His brother smelt kind of bad. Ford should make him shower tomorrow - or sometime, he thought, vaguely remembering he had things to do tomorrow. That’s why they had to go to bed early - he was goin’ on an adventure with his brother…

“Goodnight, Stan.” 

Stanley just huffed at him. Ford's last, conscious thought before he slipped back into the oblivion of sleep was a quiet, I wonder where Remus is. I bet Stanley would like to meet him. 

Chapter Text

Fiddleford was just sitting at the kitchen table, minding his own business and eating his breakfast, when Ford came thudding down the stairs at a velocity that promised nothing good.

“Fiddleford! Good morning!” Ford called cheerfully, swinging around the corner and practically skipping into the kitchen. This cabin was a damn maze, Fiddleford swore it - he’d thought Ford’s bedroom was on the first floor, but at this point he hadn’t the faintest clue.

“Morning, Stanford,” Fiddleford responded in kind, though with far less exuberance. He was leaning forward in his chair, idly eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a cup of a coffee as he went over some of their blueprints. “I made us a pot of joe, it’s sitting over on the counter.”

“Ah, thank you!” Ford trotted over, pulling a mug off his drying rack and pouring himself a cup. “Big day to day.”

“So you said yesterday,” Fiddleford said cautiously.

He eyed Ford. The man was dressed… specifically. He had a lengthy trench coat on, a nice pair of cargo pants, and even those heavy duty boots Fiddleford had noticed sitting by the door awhile ago.

Hm. Fiddleford sipped his coffee.

“Yes, yesterday, what an event that was,” Ford said distractedly, too preoccupied with downing his coffee in a few short, terrifyingly quick gulps. He shook the mug a bit to get the last few drops out in his mouth, then set it down a little firmer than Fiddleford’s nerves would have liked. Somehow it didn’t break. “But we mustn’t let anything distract us! We have important work to do today!”

“You gonna tell me what that is, exactly? Or are you just gonna keep ramblin’ like a lunatic?” Fiddleford asked, the corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile.

Ford frowned at him slightly. “I am no lunatic, Fiddleford - I’m a man of science!” He shook his head. “Well, you’ll see soon enough. You’ll all see…” Ford trailed off ominously.

“I’m beggin ’ ya to stop talking like that all the time. Creeps people out.”

“Like what?” Ford asked innocently.

There was a soft noise of something approaching. Fiddleford turned his head to see Stanley peeking in from around the corner, looking at them both warily. He looked put-out, squinting at them with all the unhappiness of a man who would really rather be in bed right now.

“Good morning, Remus!” Ford chirped a greeting at him.

Stanley, of course, did not respond. He made a noise like a curmudgeonly growl, glaring at the sunlight streaming through the window like it had personally offended him.

“He’s not a morning person,” Ford told Fiddleford casually.

“I gathered.” Fiddleford pushed the cereal box towards Ford. “Have some breakfast ‘fore you go off doin’ whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Right, of course - we’ll certainly need the energy.” Ford grabbed the box and, to Fiddleford’s utter horror, forewent a bowl, instead tipping the box back and pouring a sizable amount right in his mouth.

“I- wh-” There were no words. Fiddleford just sat there, openly gaping at him. He’d forgotten Ford did that. “Sweet Jesus- why do you still-”

Once he was done with his own portion, Ford casually held the box over Stanley’s head. Apparently getting the memo, or maybe having done this before, Stanley obligingly popped his mouth open and let Ford pour the cereal right in, all with that bored, slightly irritated expression still on his shaggy face.

“Efficiency!” Ford chirped, setting the box back on the table. It made a hollow noise as it hit the table and flopped over weightlessly, totally empty. Stanley chewed loudly, with his mouth open.

“Y’all are gonna put me in an early grave…” Fiddleford said faintly, dropping his head into his hands.

“Nonsense! You can’t die yet - I still have a need for you.”

With a honest to God skip in his step, Ford walked around the table, pulling back the already open curtains and gesturing with a flourish to the towering pine forest beyond.

“For today, we are going hiking !” Ford said with that big smile and absolute glee that never promised anything good. “We must venture forth into the great wilds of Gravity Falls to gather some necessary components to construct our machine.”

Fiddleford blinked, nonplussed. “…hiking? That’s it?”

Letting go of the curtain, Ford walked over and grasped Fiddleford by both shoulders, leaning in and announcing, with a very concerning amount of excitement mixed with a startling intensity, “Fiddleford. I have so much to show you.”

XX

It really all did sound like a solid enough plan, except for one, crucial detail:

Fiddleford refused to go anywhere until they could get Stanley in some damn clothes.

Ford sighed greatly, dropping his head in a very weary manner. “It’s really a non-issue, Fiddleford. He’s covered in hair - you can’t even see anything! Why go through the trouble?”

“Them’s my terms, and I’m stickin’ to ‘em.” Fiddleford said firmly, crossing his arms with a huff.

Stanley, blissfully unaware of their conversation, had made himself comfortable on the couch, idly watching the dust in the air, illuminated by a warm patch of sunlight streaming out of the window. If it weren’t for the obvious evidence to the contrary, Fiddleford would almost be convinced the feller really was a dog in a human body - he sure did act like a weary old hound at times.

“He won’t be happy,” Ford grumbled, also looking over at Stanley as he tapped his fingers together in what Fiddleford remembered was an anxious tic of his.

“Sometimes you gotta be tough with ‘em, fer their own good,” Fiddleford said sagely. “You don’t break a horse by being nice to it.”

Ford still didn’t look convinced.

Fiddleford sighed, stiff shoulders relaxing slightly. “Look, I know he’s tough n’ all, but ‘tween the two of us I reckon we can wrangle him into somethin’. He might pout for a while afterwards, sure, but I think he’ll come to appreciate it once he actually wears ‘em for a bit. We wear clothes for a reason, after all - and it sure gets cold ‘round here.”

Stanley noticed them looking at him, rolling his head a bit so that he could squint suspiciously over in their direction.

Fiddleford continued, “Look, I ain’t goin’ till ya at least get him into some pants or somethin’. That’s that.”

Ford writhed in his seat, making a face Fiddleford could only describe as a pout. “You’re being very unreasonable right now.”

Maybe that would have worked on Fiddleford back in their college days, but fatherhood gave him more of a backbone than that. “Stanford.”

“Fine! Fine.” Ford threw up his hands in a huff, standing up from the table. “This is going to go terribly, I hope you know that.”

“Didn’t nobody ever tell ya not to expect the worse, or it might happen?”

Ford frowned. “My father always told me to expect the worse, so that you aren’t surprised when it happens.”

Given what little he knew about Ford’s ever infamous father, Fiddleford wasn’t surprised to hear that. Ford rarely had much good to say about the man in the past - even the smallest mention carried that seed of resentment within the words - the only people Ford spoke even worse of was the police and detectives that worked on his brother’s case.

After seeing the man himself at graduation, even Fiddleford could tell Ford’s father wasn’t exactly the warmest person. He was a stoic, sour old man, who barely spared a word throughout their short meeting, beyond a few grunts of acknowledgement.

The Pineses’ were all weird. It wasn’t a mystery where Stanford got it from.

Stanley, on the other hand-

-well, that was a whole ‘nother beast.

Fiddleford huffed, returning himself to the present. “No matter how it goes, it’s gettin’ done and it’s gettin’ done now. I’m putting my foot down on this whole running around buck-naked business. Now lemme go get some clothes.”

Ignoring Ford’s continued grumbling under his breath, Fiddleford made his way back to his guest room, hurrying back up the stairs and down the hall. He’d left the shirt from last night’s attempt sitting on his dresser, so he snatched that up.

It took longer to pick out a decent pair of pants. Anything too loose would be comfortable, sure, but it would also be too easily wiggled out of. Anything too tight and while it would stay on, it’d also surely be uncomfortable for Stanley (who probably wasn’t at all used to wearing clothes anymore), and a nightmare to get on him anyways.

He ended up choosing a pair of overalls, loose enough not to make him uncomfortable, but not very easy to get out of without fine motor skills. It was either wear the pants or start using his hands, and either way it would technically be progress.

Not that overalls would easy to get on him either, but Fiddleford was choosing to be optimistic here. He even snagged a pair of boxers - unworn, of course.

Clothes under his arm, Fiddleford returned to the living room, where Ford was awkwardly hanging around waiting for him.

“I considered drugging him,” Ford said as Fiddleford walked up to him, with way too much casualness for what he was saying, “But I’m running out of fairy dust, and I’d really rather not have to go through getting more again. My, ah, dealers, I suppose you’d call them, are…” He wrinkled his nose. “Unpleasant.”

“Yeah, that probably ain’t the best idea,” Fiddleford agreed, deciding to ignore anything he didn’t understand, which was most of that. “Why doncha just hold him down?”

Ford didn’t look very enthused about that either. “He won’t like that…”

“So you’ve said. We’re doin’ this for his own good, Stanford.”

“I recall. I just-” Ford struggled for words, opening and closing his mouth with a furrow pulling his brow down. “I simply don’t want him to be upset with us,” he settled on saying, words stilted and stiff, like he still wasn’t quite sure of them.

And what was there to say to that? Fiddleford paused for a minute, trying to figure out a way to say what he was thinking in a reassuring sort of way. Then had to rework the words in his head, when he realized this was Stanford he was trying to reassure.

At last, he huffed a sigh. “He might be mad for a while, sure. But he’ll come ‘round eventually, when he realizes we were doing right by him.”

“But what if he-” Ford snapped his mouth shut suddenly, stiffening, eyes going wide like he was startled that whatever he was about to say was actually going to come out of his mouth.

Ford had always been a man that kept himself locked tight about certain things. Some angles of himself he wore straightforward frankness - others, he hid, or maybe just didn’t know how to express.

Fiddleford had grown familiar with that. But even he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious, sometimes, to know what Ford kept only to himself.

“Nevermind,” Ford said with finality, “Ignore me. Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

Fiddleford frowned at him slightly. “You alright?”

“I’m quite fine,” Ford said curtly. He’d drawn himself up, tight and iron-backed as a flagpole and no more comfortable looking. “I’ll hold him down.”

He stepped forward with a mechanicalness that seemed almost too measured to be natural, stopping to loom over the couch, casting a shadow down on their unsuspecting- eh, one could call him a friend.

Stanley peeled an eye open from where he was lazily curled up on the couch, squinting up at Ford with an already suspicious look on his face, like he could somehow read Ford’s body language as uncharacteristic.

Maybe he could. Lord, what Fiddleford wouldn’t give to get a look inside that strange feller’s head, see the foreign neural pathways from himself, figured out how he saw the world in all his incomprehensibleness. (Incomprehensible to Fiddleford, anyways.)

Ford stiffly reached down, pulling Stanley up into an awkward hug, of all things. Fiddleford almost protested, till he noticed the precise way Ford’s curled around Stanley - friendly for now, but in perfect position to become constraining.

He was waiting for Stanley to struggle, Fiddleford realized. Stanley himself looked more surprised and a little annoyed, but he flopped into Ford’s arms easily enough. How the man hadn’t ever bitten Ford for his blatant lack of survival instincts in the face of something clearly not exactly reasoning was some sort of miracle.

“There,” Ford said, pulling Fiddleford from his thoughts. “Let’s be quick about this. I might be able to restrain him for a while, but truthfully, I’m not so confident in my ability to hold him down for long if he really starts fighting.”

“I gotcha,” Fiddleford said, walking up as casual and non-threatening looking as he could, the bundle of clothes hidden behind his back. Maybe he should have made Ford do the clothes and himself do the holding down - he was a farmboy, after all, he’d spent his whole childhood wrangling unruly hogs twice the size and power of ol’ Stanley - but he reckoned Stanley might put up less of a fight if it were Ford holding him.

Though still with a glint of suspicion in his eye, Stanley did look comfortable with Ford’s arms around him. He wiggled around a bit before settling with his chin hooked on Ford’s shoulder at an awkward angle, apparently content to lounge like that. The way his eyes were fluttering, it even looked like he was considering going back to his nap.

Unfortunately for them all, he didn’t consider it for long. His blinked strongly, visibly clearing away his sleepiness, and set his gaze dead on Fiddleford, eyes narrowing a noticeable margin.

Fiddleford shifted so he held the clothes behind his back in one arm, putting up the other hand placatingly. “S’alright boy, it’s just ol’ Fiddleford. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

As soon as Fiddleford put his free hand up, Stanley’s gaze immediately snapped to the one still behind his back, eyes only narrowing further. Damn. Clever bastard.

Ford started running a hand up and down Stanley’s back, sighing wearily. He tilted his head slightly, so he could casually rest his cheek on Stanley’s. “He’s quite tense, Fiddleford. Are you sure we can’t do this another day?”

“Nope,” Fiddleford said, knowing procrastination when he saw it. He continued forward, one hand still raised. “I ain’t leaving this cabin till we get some clothes on him.”

He met Stanley’s eyes, steeling himself.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” he said, and then lunged.

What followed was utter chaos.

As soon as the clothes came out Stanley was immediately trying to wiggle out of his Ford-shaped binds and towards freedom, but luckily Ford acted quickly- he clamped his arms down and squeezed, effectively immobilizing Stanley.

Arms pinned to his sides, the most Stanley could do was whip his head around and snarl viciously at it all, snapping his teeth in the air. Fiddleford swallowed a little as he heard the clack-clack of Stanley’s discolored, yellowing teeth, but he steeled himself.

Just get it over with! he hissed at himself internally.

Gritting his own jaw, he yanked the shirt over Stanley’s head and quickly started pulling it down. Ford awkwardly shifted so that one of Stanley’s arms was partially freed enough for Fiddleford to pull it into a sleeve.

Stanley was quicker on the uptake though. As soon as his arm was freed he started trying to claw at Ford’s hold, the force of his snarling rattling his frame as he fought like an animal fought for its life.

Fiddleford snapped forward, grabbing Stanley’s wrist in a vice grip and forcing it through the sleeve of his shirt. Stanley fought the whole way, but Fiddleford was stronger than he looked, and with Stanley restrained he had the upper hand.

Ford, not so much. The spot on his arm that Stanley had been clawing at had been torn in the scuffle - fabric hung limply off Ford’s arm, and Fiddleford could see some nasty looking scratches quickly turning into an angry red color.

“Are you-”

“Fine! Fine, just do his next arm-” Ford hissed, having to adjust his hold as Stanley started trying to thrash his way out. He quickly shifted so that the arms were switched, one pinned and the other free.

“Right, right,” Fiddleford said hurriedly, hastily repeating the same actions as before.

Once both Stanley’s arms were through the sleeves, Fiddleford was free to pull the shirt down the rest of the way. Ford caught both of Stanley’s arms again, pinning him completely once more. Stanley growled over his shoulder at that, but Ford only looked away guiltily, and did not let go.

Right then. Now on to the overalls.

…Sweet Lord. Now they had to try and put overalls on him.

Well nothing ever did get done but sitting around and thinking ‘bout it. Fiddleford readied the overalls, positioning the boxers so that the pair would go on in one fell swoop.

He reached to pull one of Stanley’s legs into the overalls. It was a bit of a fight - Stanley kept twisting around, barking madly and throwing his leg around to evade capture. Still, immobilized as he was, Fiddleford was able to get the job done.

Snapping the straps into their place, he leaned back, taking several precautionary steps away. He hesitated for a moment, before ducking behind one of the lamps. “Alright. You can let him go.”

The moment Ford even slightly loosened his arms, Stanley was volleying himself out of his hold, slamming down to the ground and scrambling back up again, a storm of growling and snarling going off in his chest.

“Remus,” Ford tried, a pleading look on his face that Fiddleford couldn’t quite decipher, “It’s alright. We didn’t hurt you! We just wanted to help-”

Stanley barked once, loud and sharp, and Ford fell silent.

They stared at each other for a moment, Stanley growling low and Ford just standing there, a dead-locked standoff where neither of them wanted to make the first move.

Then Stanley let out a huff of a noise and whipped around, breaking the spell as he lurched forward, racing down the hall on all fours. He stumbled a little, like a cat with boots on, like he wasn’t sure how to move when clothed, but even with that hindrance he was still shockingly fast, quickly disappearing around a corner.

“Remus!” Ford shouted, some desperation bursting into his voice. He hastily stumbled up from the couch, running after Stanley.

“Stanford!” Fiddleford called after him, not even sure what he was calling him for. Ford didn’t even listen - Fiddleford tentatively hurried after him, heart thudding like a rabbit’s in his chest.

He found them both at a standstill yet again, this time with Stanley backed into the front door, clawing at it without much success. Ford kept trying to inch closer to him, only to jump back a little when Stanley whipped his head around and snarled loudly at him, the noise deep and rattling.

The way Stanley’s shoulders were hiked, his tense posture, the way desperately clawed at the door - it all screamed defensive, not offensive. Stanley was behaving like a cornered animal trying to get away from a threat.

Fiddleford couldn’t wrap his head around it. And seemingly neither could Ford.

“Remus,” Ford repeated desperately, hands up in a pleading gesture. He tried inching forward again, one foot tentatively sliding forward. “Please, you know we were only acting with your best interests at heart! I don’t understand why you’re reacting so-”

Stanley’s snarls racketed up in volume, snapping his teeth in the air threateningly towards Ford. Ford flinched - not so much out of fear, Fiddleford could see in his eyes, but hurt.

“Stanford, maybe we outta give him a minute-” Fiddleford tried, reaching for his friend.

Stanley’s eyes flicked over to Fiddleford, freezing him dead in his tracks. A soft whine cut through Stanley’s snarling, a low, almost fearful noise. His eyes were wide, panting slightly, and looking at him, Fiddleford started getting the feeling that whatever was going on in Stanley’s head, he was only half lucid to reality.

Hunching low, Stanley bared his teeth, growling fiercely. He looked between them, eyes flicking this way and that. He glanced behind him, at the shut door, and then at Fiddleford and Ford. Then, like a fire lighting in Stanley, courage seemed to spark in his eyes, jaw gritting in defiant determination. And he charged at them.

Fiddleford yelped, scrambling out of the way. But Stanley didn’t go for him - or Ford.

He barreled past them, scrambling into the kitchen and clawing his way up the dinner table, knocking the empty cereal box to the ground as he did so. Ford ran after him and Fiddleford, blinded by panic and adrenaline, followed without thinking.

Both of them stood in the door, effectively blocking Stanley’s only escape. He was cornered-

Or so Fiddleford thought.

Stanley barely spared them a glance before hurling himself at- oh. Oh shit.

Fiddleford had open the kitchen window that morning, wanting to enjoy a nice breeze. And that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Stanley.

He landed, with shocking agility, on the windowsill, nails digging into the edges like claws, body coiled, feet planted firmly on the wall just below the window. His head whipped back towards Ford and Fiddleford, hair running down his back and falling halfway across his face. Despite the clothes still on his body, Fiddleford thought Stanley had never looked more animal in the moment, with wild eyes and teeth bared, perched on the ‘sill.

“Remus?!” Ford cried, jumping forward, hand outstretched-

“ Ford-!” Fiddleford yelped, immediately knowing how that would end.

And sure as the sun, Stanley visibly tensed as that hand got close to him, his muscles bunching and his eyes going wide. As soon as Ford’s hand got too close to his face, Stanley- panicked.

His teeth snapped shut around Ford’s fingers. Fiddleford gasped as Stanley’s teeth dug into Ford’s pale flesh, and visibly drew blood.

Ford cried out, wrenching his hand out of Stanley’s mouth. Stanley let him, jaw loosening to let him go ( because he’s not trying to hurt, Fiddleford realized, just defend himself. Oh, sweet Jesus.)

Blood ran down Ford’s fingers, dripping down onto the floor below, but Ford didn’t seem to notice that. He just stared at his hand, an unreadable expression on his face.

Stanley breathed heavily. A soft, confused whine cut through him, suddenly looking very small and very scared. He licked his teeth, smearing the blood with his tongue. There was a flicker of something across his face, a regret overshadowed by the blind, animalistic panic still coiled tight around him.

“You- you…” Ford didn’t seem able to look away from his shaking hand, now slickened with his own blood, shiny in the kitchen light.

If he expected any response, he would have been sourly disappointed. Stanley didn’t even look at Ford’s hand - his eyes were locked onto his face, Stanley’s own, wide-eyed and unreadable expression staring into Ford’s face.

Stanley looked between Ford and Fiddleford. When neither of them moved towards him, or made any sound at all, Stanley suddenly lurched out of the window, landing in the grass with a soft thud .

Fiddleford watched, shell-shocked, as Stanley scrambled to his feet and hands; and with barely a glance over his shoulder in their direction, darted into the woods. He slipped into the trees, and with the rustle of the underbrush, he was gone.

And now Fiddleford stood there, as Ford bled onto the tiles and Stanley vanished into the forest, with absolutely no idea how to move forward. He’d expected Stanley to give a little push back, sure. He recalled how Stanley had acted when Fiddleford tried it before. But…

“He bit me,” Ford said faintly, like he couldn’t believe it.

Not like this. He didn’t expect it to end like this.

“That he did,” Fiddleford said, mind already starting to piece itself back together.

Right. He needed to- to focus on Ford. Ford was the one right in front of him, and Ford was hurt. He was the one whose white shirt cuffs were slowly turning red, the one who another drop of blood just rolled down his hand and dripped down on the floor.

Gently taking Ford’s hand, he pulled it close, re-straightening his glasses on his nose to get a good look.

It was hard to see with the amount of blood sluggishly pouring out. By now his whole hand was bloodied, red and slick.

“We outta wash this,” Fiddleford muttered. To his surprise, Ford straightened slightly at that, pulling his hand back.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Allow me.”

He shakily pulled away from Fiddleford, walking with uncharacteristic muteness to the sink. With his left hand he turned the knob, letting out a slow, tepid stream of water. Fiddleford watched as he run his hand under the water, till the whole sink was practically dyed a washed out red.

As soon as he pulled his hand back, the wound started bleeding again. Fiddleford could see now that while Stanley had only caught a few of his fingers, and only past the first knuckle. Somehow, he’d managed to miss Ford’s extra finger - Ford must have curled it away at the last second.

Still, the wounds he did manage to inflict looked deep. Not nearly worthy of stitches, but painful and messy nonetheless.

Without a word, Ford bent down a hooked a (left-handed) finger around the sink cabinet’s handle. He pulled the door open, awkwardly grabbing for the first aid kit. His knees seemed to give up on his - he slowly slid to the ground, med kit in hand.

After a second of watching Ford fumble to open the kit one-handed, Fiddleford tentatively stepped forward, crouching down next to him. “’ere, let me.”

He easily popped it open, pulling out some bandages, and reaching for the antiseptic-

Ford shook his head suddenly, reaching up with his left hand to point at that little glass jar filled with teal goo. “Use that one.”

“Forgot ‘bout that stuff.” Fiddleford laughed, soft and awkward, trying to defuse the crackling static of tension he could feel buzzing in the air. “Sure is lucky you made that stuff.”

“Mm.” Ford only hummed at that. Well then.

Fiddleford carefully smeared the salve over Ford’s injuries, watching as blood and goo mixed together slightly, his mind hundreds of miles away. He wondered what Ford would want to do next, he wondered about the schematics of robots that could hunt down wayward wild men who thought they were coyotes. Something heat-seeking, probably, seeing as he wasn’t certain he had genetic material on hand that Ford wouldn’t pitch a fit about him using (the last thing they needed was another argument about whether or not ‘Remus’ was Stanley).

The device would need someway to capture and return its target as well. Perhaps a gaseous sedative? That way Stanley wouldn’t be able to put up a fight and potentially destroy Fiddleford’s bot.

Ford wouldn’t even be able to complain about it, Fiddleford mused as a he carefully bandaged each of the man’s injured fingers. Fiddleford knew that of course Stanley was indeed Remus, but Ford still stubbornly clung onto notions of the opposite. So he could always justify making the bot as a device to track down ‘the real Stanley’ - technically, it wouldn’t even be a lie!

Fiddleford couldn’t just let the man run around in the woods. It was against any sense of good morals - Stanley needed someone to strong arm him into his reintegration into society, dragging him back, kicking and screaming or not.

Ford gave his now freshly bandaged fingers a flex. His face twitched slightly in pain, and he sighed.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” Fiddleford started carefully, “I reckon if I really put my nose to the grindstone here, I could have a robit to track down our runaway an’ bring him back done in just a couple days-”

“No.”

Fiddleford blinked, mind stumbling to a grinding halt. “…no?”

Ford shook his head, his face stone-set. “No. I… I had plans, and I’m sticking to them. We need parts for our machine, and I intend to procure them. …Remus or no Remus.”

“…Stanford, if we don’t got him, then what’s the point of making the machine in the first place?” Fiddleford asked, completely gobsmacked at what Ford was saying.

“I still have Stanley’s baby teeth. And a sample of Remus’ DNA,” Ford said. “We can still settle this matter once and for all.”

“Right, but-”

“He bit me! Hard! And I was trying to help him!” Ford burst out, startling Fiddleford but just how upset he sounded.

“He was actin’ like a wild animal. You know he only bit’cha ‘cause he was scared.”

Ford shook his head, frowning at his hand. “Remus is smarter than that-”

“Stanford, he panicked,” Fiddleford stressed. “Seriously, he looked like he was havin’ some sort’a episode back there.”

“I’m not changing my stance on this, Fiddleford,” Ford hissed stubbornly. “Either you’re with me, or you’re against me.”

“I…” Fiddleford hesitated, chewing his lip. He knew what he believed to be right- but the cowardice prickling under his skin and making his insides squirm under Ford’s intense gaze was stronger. “…alright. Whatever you say, Stanford.”

Ford nodded, satisfied. One hand reaching up to brace himself on the countertop, Ford pulled himself to his feet, determination sharp in his eyes. Fiddleford marveled at how the expression almost near perfectly mirrored the one Stanley had made earlier.

“Good. Then we will set off as soon as your bags are packed for our expedition.”

Ford turned his back, and with a flourish of trench-coat, started marching towards the door.

“Stanford…” Fiddleford started hesitantly, the indecision of knowing he might be making the wrong decision still simmering in the back of his mind, making his nerves fitz and buffer like a defective robot about to blow a fuse.

Ford glanced back at him. Fiddleford felt his words die in his throat.

“…Never mind. What should I pack?”

Ford was strong-willed and stubborn, Fiddleford told himself. He would’ve only made things more difficult by disagreeing.

Still, he couldn’t help the way his mind kept wandering back to Stanley.

I hope he’s alright, Fiddleford thought as Ford walked him through all the things he would need to bring. I hope he comes back. 

Hope was the best he could do.

Chapter Text

Filbrick huffed, patting out the last fading ember scraps of his cigarette on his ash tray. With a groan of effort and a popping sound from his joints that truly was showing his age, he pushed himself up from the counter and lumbered over to the front of his shop.

He flipped the Open sign to the Closed side with an air of finality. From beyond his glass windows he could see red sky of a setting sun, draping dark shadows along the grimy streets of Glass Shard Beach.

He went to lock the door - but like every time he’d done so for the past two or so decades, his hand stalled in the air, hovering over the latch. With a deep sigh, his hand fell to the knob instead, and he carefully pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street.

Shoes squelching in a puddle of a strangely colored liquid he cared not to identify, he took a few steps to the side and let his back hit the brick wall, casting his gaze up and down the street.

Ambient chatter of New Jersey accents crackled along the walls of crumbling buildings. Somewhere an old truck was loudly coughing to life. Waves were crashing against the shore. The shopkeep four doors down from Filbrick dragged his sign back inside, metal frame scraping loudly against the pavement.

Filbrick just stood for a moment, waiting. And when nothing happened, he heaved a deep sigh, and started walking down the sidewalk.

Caryn’s nails danced over the wine bottle, making the softest clinking noises. Her warped reflection glided across the glass surface, distorted by the shape, blurred into senseless blotches of color. “Care for a drink, baby?”

“I’m fine, Ma,” Shermie said from his awkward perch on the couch, knees bent and elbow propped up, chin in his hand and his tired, new-parent eyes on her. “I gotta get goin’ soon anyways. Don’t wanna be driving drunk.”

Caryn tsked, but she retracted her hands from the bottle nonetheless. “The Carter administration and their new-fangled laws. This one will be phased out soon, I’m tellin’ ya.”

Shermie raised an eyebrow. “Drinking and driving’s been illegal since before you could do either of ‘em,” he pointed out.

“Laws are for sissies.”

“Mm,” Shermie hummed, looking away.

Caryn walked over, sitting her down on the couch beside him. Shermie gave her a brief, small smile - as was custom for him. He didn’t have what one might call an energetic personality, and the exhaustion of young fatherhood had whittled him down even more.

The old couch creaked loudly as Caryn sat. They both ignored it.

“You sure I can’t get you nothin’? I think I got some leftover borscht in the fridge…”

“I’m fine, Ma. Just came to check in on ya before we leave town,” Shermie said wearily. “It’ll be a quiet house, just you and Pa.”

“Bah! We talk plenty.” Caryn huffed, waving the thought away.

Shermie shot her a look. “Ma.”

Caryn sighed, looking away. Her fingers itched to reach for a cigarette - now where she’d leave that blasted pack?

Shermie was still looking at her, eyes searching her face for something he couldn’t seem to find. Finally, he looked away, eyes tracing the smoke-stained, peeling wallpaper of their apartment instead.

He shook his head at himself, turning back to Caryn. “I’ll try to come back to visit at least once a year, call sometimes,” he promised.

“You’d be doin’ more than yer brother if you called even once a year,” Caryn said sourly. Shaking her head, she reached over and patted Shermie’s hand affectionately. “Yer a good boy, Sherman. You take after your Ma, you do.”

He really didn’t. “Cut him some slack, Ma. You know it’s hard for him after- you know.”

A muscle in Caryn’s jaw tensed.

“I really don’t! Seriously, what’s it take to get that boy to call every once in a while? I’m his Ma, for goodness sakes, and I like to think I did a good enough job of it to warrant my babies talking to me once in awhile!” Caryn crossed her arms, huffing. “Stanford acts like we’re some sorta burden. I mean, he had a good childhood, didn’t he?”

Shermie sighed. This again. “Ma, please, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I think it would-”

Caryn stood abruptly, the couch squeaking loudly from the suddenness of it. “I need a smoke. Did you see where I sat my pack, bub?”

“ Ma -” Shermie tried.

“Oh nevermind it, I’ll just go snag one of yer father’s.” She reached over, patting Shermie’s hair absentmindedly. “Be back in a sec, hun.”

She left in a flourish, heels clacking loudly as she hurried down the hall. Shermie stared after her, then sighed wearily and dropped his head into his hands.

Rubbing at his eyes, Shermie felt so much older than he was. A heavy weight pressed down on him, and he remembered how even when he was younger, at home and surrounded by family, he’d felt so stiflingly alone.

He didn’t blame Stanford. Not at all. Moses knows he’d do the same thing, if he had twice the spine he had now, and half the bleeding heart.

He let out a hollow chuckle, lifting his eyes, carrying his own gaze to find it pointing, without his order nor request, at the door to Stanford’s room. Even from this distance, he could see the dust accumulating on the knob.

“What a wreck we’ve all become,” he murmured to himself, hollow and yet humored.

Looking away, he turned his head slightly, looking towards the window instead. Eyes falling on the dour and miserable outline of Glass Shard Beach in the setting sun.

He comforted himself, not for the first time by a long shot, with the idea that his brother was in a better place.

“Pray for me, Stanley,” he mumbled to himself and to the specter he imagined hovering in the heavenly wherever dead children went when they died as he heard his mother’s footsteps returning. His own hand absentmindedly toyed with his pendant, fingers pressing into the edges of the six-pointed star. “We’ve all just about lost our minds without you.”

With the setting sun the bustle of Glass Shard Beach seemed to die down a little, thinning crowds with the thinning rays of light slipping under the horizon.

Make no mistake, Glass Shard Beach was not a popular town, but it was cramped, especially at times of the day where the sun was bright and high in the sky. Not so many tourists, but plenty of locals and just-passing-through’s.

Filbrick had grown up in this town, and he could barely remember his life before it - not that he’d want to. All of his memories of Europe, before and after his family’s immigration, were tinged with the smell of blood and smoke, warped and distorted images like glass.

As a child he’d grown up under the flourishing fantasy of the American Dream. A land of the free in which you could do anything if you set your mind to it. Filbrick had spent his whole life trying to claw his way out of the lot he’d been given, but he only ever seemed to slide right back down to the bottom eventually. Back to Glass Shard Beach.

He was beginning to think he might die here. What a horribly bleak thought.

Even if he couldn’t make it, he had once comforted himself with the idea that his children would be better off, would be a higher step up in life than he’d once been. Everything he had, he’d had to lie, cheat and steal for - he’d wanted to think that for all his efforts, at least his children, his sons, would have better prospects.

Two of them did.

It was only at this time of the day that Filbrick allowed himself to think about his third son. Only when the sun fled the sky and night descended onto the dirty streets, did he not stop his mind from wandering to the boy.

And so he walked, not calling but looking nonetheless, for a child he’d long stopped hoping might come home, who he hadn’t even so much as said the name of out loud in a long, long time.

He was beginning to think he would never be able to stop himself from looking whenever the warm, distracting light of the sun retreated from the sky.

Some men lied awake in bed at night, haunted by thoughts of the past that swirled overhead like vultures. And instead Filbrick thought all the same thoughts, and walked in a vain attempt to outpace them.

He was beginning to think he might not stop until he died. What a horribly bleak thought, in so many more ways.

Caryn nursed her cigarette like she’d die with out it, like without smoke in her lungs she’d surely pass. At this point, she just might - withdrawals were shit like that. Not like she’d ever know - here’s a spoiler for you, friends. The ending of this woman’s story rhymes with rung lancer.

Shermie, not blessed with omniscience but nonetheless able to make very educated guesses, winced at the smell and sight, but said nothing.

This house seemed to get smaller every time he stepped foot inside it. As though he was outgrowing his own past - or as though the past itself was slowly closing in on the rest of his family that remained. Shermie was neither a poet nor a prophet - he didn’t have the answer.

He wished he did. He wished he had the answers to the questions that hung over their family’s heads like the blade of a guillotine. But he didn’t, maybe no one did. The case had gone cold long before it was ever even opened.

Shermie didn’t always think about Stanley this often, as long ago as it had been, but being back in this house brought back the memories. Not even so much memories of Stanley himself, few and scattered as they were, but the memories of his presence - the ghost that had hung over the Pines family for years, unnamed and unmentionable.

And now, when Stanford left he took the last bits of Stanley with him, it seemed. Where before trying to get Caryn or Filbrick to talk about their third son was like pulling teeth, now it seemed like a pipe dream to get them to say his name at all.

It wasn’t the same for Shermie. He lit a candle, he put up a photo, and he did the closest thing he knew to moving on. But for his parents, the wound had festered in neglect, and had grown infected in them. Shermie had the scar, but for the rest of his family, it never even healed.

So Stanley went unspoken of. It wasn’t what the kid deserved - he deserved to be remembered. To be talked about. But they were the Pines family, and so Stanley would have to take what he could get.

Caryn sighed suddenly, the sound drawing Shermie out of his thoughts. She patted out what remained of her cigarette in the ash tray on the end table - she’d finished it that fast? - and turned to him.

“Well, what have you been up to?” She folded her hands across her lap, slender fingers lacing together.

Shermie shot her a small smile. “Nothing much. Work, you know? At least my boss set me and the wife up with a nice place in Piedmont.” He shot Caryn a look. “You could come up with us too, if you want. It’s a nice neighborhood - I’m sure we could get you and Pa a good apartment somewhere nearby…”

Caryn scoffed lightly, shaking her head. “Filbrick will be dead before he give up his pawnshop, you know that. Besides, we’re established here. There’s good business in this town, and neither of us are at retiring age yet.”

So she always said, whenever Shermie tried to get her into moving elsewhere. Even offering to pay her move never worked. 

“Sure, Ma. With the house getting as empty as it is, I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to work,” Shermie said, trying to see the up-side in a way he knew Caryn would agree with.

“Oh, now don’t you go reminding me,” Caryn sighed dramatically. “All my babies are leavin’ me. Work is good, but it ain’t nothin’ compared to havin’ a full house, all my boys around - that’s a mother’s dream. But you two just had to grow up so fast, didn’t you?”

Shermie smiled slightly. Two. Ah, sorry, Stanley. Shermie shouldn’t be so negative. “Sorry, Ma.”

“Hmpfh! Maybe when you become a father, you’ll understand what its like.”

To that, Shermie only shrugged loosely. “Yeah, maybe.” Privately, he thought he might end up a very different parent than either of his parents, but he had no plans to voice that.

He found his gaze wandering down, hand coming up to fiddle with his small pendant again. The warmed metal edges dug into his finger pads as he idly slid the charm up and down its chain, listening to the soft clinking sound as it went this way and that.

“I wonder what Stanley’d be doin’ right now,” Shermie found himself wondering aloud before he could think better of it. A small laugh rumbled out of him, picturing his late brother graduating or getting married on day, in another life. “Probably raising some real hell somewhere. Do you remember-?”

“I’d say it’s about time to crack out the wine- what do you say, hun?” Caryn blurted out abruptly, practically jumping up from her seat and scurrying over to wine cabinet. “How about some reds?”

“Ma, I told you I don’t want to drink,” Shermie said, words tightening in steadily growing agitation. “Do you have to do this every time? We can’t just-”

“Just one glass! You need to loosen up a little, hun,” Caryn said too quickly, too stiff to be natural.

An old wound in Shermie’s chest flared, pain and anger rocketing up his veins and making his teeth grind together. He drew a tense breath in through his nose, trying to reign in the reaction. He grit out, patience wearing thin, “Ma. Please .”

But Caryn had her back to him still. “I’ll even break out the good spirits, just for you. What do you think?”

Shermie thought it was a wonder he hadn’t torn his own hair out by now.

Filbrick paused in front of the door to the police station.

White light from inside bathed the sidewalk in a fluorescent glow, practically obnoxiously blinding. Solid, well-kept brickwork stacked up to make the looming shadow of the station. A lot of Filbrick’s tax money ended up in this building, he knew - for all the good it did him.

With a deep sigh, he pushed the door open, shoes clicking against the floor as he strode through the lobby with well-practicedness of a man who’d been here quite often, going straight for the receptionist.

Perched at the front desk was that young woman Filbrick recognized - she worked this shift often. Her eyes flicked up from the paper she was reading as she heard him near.

As soon as she saw him, her shoulders dropped slightly in a silent sigh, paper falling from her hand and gliding down to the desktop. She set her elbow down on it, propping up her head with her hand. “Mr. Pines.”

“Ma’am,” he rumbled, tipping his hat slightly in greeting. He didn’t bother with any formalities - they both knew why he was here. “Any news?”

She sighed wearily, dropping her cheek into her hand, looking up at him with a vaguely exasperated expression. “No, sir. I’ve told you, they closed your son’s case years ago. The trail went cold.”

Filbrick ground his teeth together, huffing angrily. He’d heard this spiel before - and really, what did this girl know? Who did she think she was? ( That look in her eyes - the clear disrespect frothed at him, like acid boiling his heels.)

His hands twitched at his sides, curling fingers into fists. “My son is still missing, in case you haven’t noticed . How can you stop searching while he’s still out there somewhere? I don’t pay my taxes for you lot to sit on your asses!”

“We. Found. Nothing.” She emphasized each word, beginning to sound quite annoyed now. (You watch your tone, young lady.) “I’m sorry, but your family isn’t the only one with a case. It’s been twenty years. If it weren’t for your persistent insistence towards the opposite, he would have been officially declared dead ten years ago!”

“I- I refuse to spend a single penny on a funeral for a man who isn’t dead! There is no body-”

“Twenty years!” The receptionist cut in agitatedly. (Who does she think she is, interrupting him?!) “I understand it’s hard to come to terms with, but sir, your son went missing twenty years ago. He was five! ”

“So?” Filbrick spat, baffled by the absurdity of the implication. Moses, did this girl even think? “I don’t see how his age has anything to do with this. How inept do you all have to be-”

“For the love of- he’s gone, Filbrick Pines!” The receptionist snapped, slamming her hands down on her desk. “You left a five year old boy alone at a gas station twenty years ago, and there’s been no trace of him since! He’s dead !”

You could have heard a pin drop in that lobby. Filbrick completely froze, a torrent of emotions he didn’t understand rushing through him with all the force of tsunami. His chest seized and convulsed, spasming so intensely he almost thought he was having a heart attack.

On the outside, he suddenly went stiff. His face twitched, mouth still open slightly. Visibly buffering.

The receptionist was breathing heavily. Some of the haze of anger cleared from her eyes, blinking like she’d shocked herself.

“I’m… sorry,” she said slowly, rigidly. “That was… unprofessional of me.” She looked like she wanted to go on, but she cut herself short, clamping her mouth shut like she was trying to keep her thoughts from escaping out from her tongue.

“…yes,” Filbrick grunted stiffly, far softer than he meant to. He couldn’t help the way the shock buzzed through him, making his nerves electrified and somehow numb at the same time. “Well,” he said, and then didn’t go on.

The words he was searching for jammed in his throat. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say.

What the hell do you know? he thought but didn’t say.

I’m his father, I have a right to know, he thought but didn’t say.

It’s a man’s duty to fix his mistakes, he thought but didn’t say.

His mistakes. His mistakes-

He could see two round brown eyes staring up at him. A big smile beaming up at him, a bloody tooth in his hand. Sixer said we should tie my wiggly tooth to the door knob and yank it out that way. And look, it came out! Can I keep it, Pa?

He could see little hands, lifting himself up far as his short legs would let him go, squirming to peer up at the bank teller, wide eyes darting between her and the jar of candy on her desk. Can me and my bubba have a candy? Can I have the carmel and he gets the bubblegum flavored one? Pretty-pretty please? My Pa said I can.

He could see a boy even younger than five, shaky legs toddling over to his side, toothless gums gnawing on his own fingers. His slobber-wet hand popped out his mouth and latched onto Filbrick’s pants leg - Filbrick grimaced and scowled, but the boy spoke first. Pa, pa, dinner time? Dinner time now, p’ease?

He could see Caryn eagerly showing him how she’d dressed both boys up - one in particular dressed up in yellow plaid, and sunglasses too big for his chubby, serious little face. No ru-funds!

Please, please. He was so small. He can’t be gone, he thought but didn’t say.

Stanley couldn’t be gone.

(It would be all Filbrick’s fault.

All his fault.

All his fault-)

“Sir?” There was one hand in front of his face, snapping repeatedly. “Sir? Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” Filbrick snapped, voice coming out far hoarser than he intended.

The woman opened her mouth, then closed it again, frowning at him.

Filbrick had respected authority, once. They were people who worked hard to get what they got. People who really knew how to yank themselves up by the skin of their teeth and the fibers of their bootstraps.

Then he lost his son, and they did nothing.

Like St- like the boy had been the flimsy barrier between Filbrick and his entire reality crashing down around his ears. Bastard cops, who sat on their lazy fucking asses and did nothing while Stanley was still- still…

(When was the last time Filbrick had said his name aloud? It had hurt too much at first. Now he wasn’t sure. He was a man, and yet he couldn’t say his own son’s name without fearing it might come out too jagged and raw- twenty years and he still couldn’t say it without fearing his once iron will would betray him.)

“…forget it,” Filbrick growled darkly, turning sharply on his heel and marching out, hands clenched in fists at his sides.

“Sir-” the receptionist tried, but Filbrick stomped right out the door, and didn’t look back.

The world outside was darker than when he’d went into the station. Door slamming shut behind him, Filbrick stormed into the night without thinking, mind whirring and thundering like a brewing storm.

How dare she! How dare all of them- his taxpayer money, wasted on a bunch of fraud hacks, lazy pieces of shit, and- and-

Anger was easy. It was easy to reach for that boiling rage burning internally, but in reaching for it he brushed pasted a pain far deeper than the anger could completely cover.

A very small part of him, the part of him that was still a very small boy with a lazy eye all of his schoolmates made fun of him for and a thick Russian accent still curling around his words, the part that Filbrick had thought his own father had stomped out a long time ago, didn’t feel angry.

That was the part of him that, despite his father’s best efforts and years of self-discipline, still wanted to curl up into a ball and weep like a girl.

Filbrick was supposed to be better than this. A better man, one who stood stoic in the face of adversity, and didn’t falter. A better father, one who’d steer his sons right.

Had it ever been enough?

He stopped walking. Darkness surrounded him, only the dim lights from windows and decades upon decades worth of memories of this town let him know where he was.

The dilapidated swing-set creaked as the wind brushed by. Some common hoodlum (as Filbrick considered them) had stolen one of the swings, leaving only one lone seat, rocking back and forth in a chill breeze, on a lonely beach.

The rusted metal let out an almost mournful sigh as it swang in the wind. The waves hummed softly where the rocked back and forth on the sand. Filbrick stood, and he stared.

“…Stanley?” he called softly. That name, so ill-used in the past decades, sounded almost like a stranger’s in his mouth. He hadn’t said it in so long.

The sea gave no response.

Red wine sloshed around the glass as Caryn poured two generous cups. She set the bottle aside and took up her glass, taking a long drink. Shermie just watched, not even touching his own cup.

His fingers tangled themselves in the chain of his necklace, worrying at the metal ends.

He still remembered hearing how they’d lost him. Stanley, his young brother, only five years old. The cops had half-heartedly searched for him for a while, before giving up the act, because why care about some Jewish kid from a poor, second-generation immigrant family? They dropped the case as quickly as plausible deniability allowed.

Shermie had always been proud to be slow to anger. He was the opposite of his father in that way, whose anger exploded like a fire bomb and burning searingly bright, destroying everything in his path. Filbrick would burn everyone and everything he loved, and he would always have too much pride to admit regret.

He’d been the one to put his foot down on any and all talk of Stanley, good or bad. They were to go on as normal, as if everything hadn’t changed permanently. As if Stanford had gone from a bright-eyed and smart little kid to a withdrawn, near-silent little ghost of a child in just a day.

He’d spent days just in bed, not doing anything but staring up at the ceiling with an eerily vacant expression. Nothing had seemed to make him happy anymore, nothing seemed to break the spell. In those days, Shermie had been genuinely worried his brother would actually die of heartbreak. In a way, he sort of had - the Stanford they once knew was gone, replaced by a kid just off-center, not quite right. Words a little too quiet, smile a little too small. He’d push his favorite food around the plate without eating it. The things that normally interested him seemed to almost bore him.

He’d gotten better slowly, but there was always something malformed about him after that. Like a broken bone that never quite healed right, Stanford was never quite the same after he lost Stanley. They’d been so close.

(Shermie tried so hard to help. He tried so hard. He was so tired, and it hadn’t even worked.)

Caryn had walled herself off in her own ways. She had been the one to take down photos of Stanley when the search slowed, to pack away his clothes and toys and drawings, any remaining piece of him stripped away and shoved into a box somewhere, to gather dust. Stanford had been inconsolable - it must have been like losing his twin all over again, to wake up one morning and see every possible reminder of him gone, like he’d never existed in the first place.

But Caryn had been unswayable in her decision, even when Stanford cried and Shermie tried to reason with her, she hadn’t budged an inch. She hadn’t even explained why she’d done it - just brushed it all off.

If Filbrick was trying to move past it, then Caryn was trying to forget altogether.

“Have a drink, hun. Loosen up! You’re so stiff all the time,” Caryn urged Shermie, pushing his wine glass towards him.

“I’m fine, Ma.” Shermie waved her off. The wine would only make him more melancholy - besides, he’d never liked the taste anyways.

He breathed in through his nose, sighed it out again, shoulders sagging.

Caryn nudged his shoulder gently. “What’s on your mind, huh?”

A soft, tired sort of smile flitted across Shermie’s face. He felt like he looked like that a lot around his family. “Just… everything. The past, I suppose.”

“Mm.” Caryn took a sip of her already near-empty wine glass. “Ain’t that one just a bitch to deal with.”

“Yeah,” Shermie laughed softly, looking away. “Yeah, I guess it is, huh?”

He thought of his own son, his little Davey. What he’d do if something like ever happened to the little squirt - he couldn’t imagine it. The very thought filled him with a feeling equivalent to sludge. A stomach-plunging, dread-inducing feeling that stuck to his thoughts like dark matter. It was always in the back there, a little black dot in the corner of his mind.

He tried to do better with Davey. He’d never let it happen, he told himself. He wasn’t even sure if he believed it possible, that what happened to Stanley could be prevented, but he needed to tell himself that. To keep sane.

Shermie’s eyes flicked up to the clock on the wall. The dark hands ticked - numbers that showed Shermie was due home about fifteen minutes ago. Hm.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Shermie said mildly, already standing up. “Thanks for having me, Ma.”

“Oh, you’re going already?” Caryn frowned, setting her glass down. “Well, I s’pose it is getting late.”

“Mhmm.” Shermie pulled his coat off the back of the couch, shrugging it on. One arm in, then the next. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the far wall, Stanford’s face staring down at him from the photos. Stanley, absent as a ghost.

Not that Stanford was really there either. Even in the photos, there was an emptiness lingering in the corners of his eyes.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” Caryn pressed, back popping as she stood up to follow him. Neither commented on the sound.

“Sure, Ma. I’ll call try to call when I can.”

“I know you will,” Caryn said. “C’mere, baby.”

Slender arms pulled Shermie into a hug that was stronger than his mother’s bony frame suggested she was capable of.

“Don’t you go giving me the cold shoulder, like Stanford does,” Caryn said sternly, pecking Shermie’s cheek affectionately. She smelt sharply of cigarette smoke and wine, and not much else.

Shermie knew it bothered her more than she let on, that Stanford was so- hm, what was a good word for it? Cold, Shermie supposed. Distant.

It wasn’t hard to figure that his mother had been worried for his younger brother. Honestly, it was a reasonable thing - Stanford had gone years with little to no contact, it only made sense that Caryn would fret.

But then again, it made sense that Stanford wouldn’t want to call either.

“Yeah,” Shermie said, suddenly feeling so tired.

Damn it, he was too old for this. Stanley was little more than bones somewhere, and yet his family’s attempts to bury him only seemed to drag him out again. In trying to let him go they only grafted him permanent residency in their thoughts.

And Shermie was tired of this. He was tired of dancing around this.

Shermie had never been brave, nor bold like his parents. He still didn’t think really was. But what they don’t tell you about cowardice is that it, too, can be just as tiring to hold onto.

And Shermie was ready to let go.

“Ma,” he said suddenly, a feeling of something flooding him. That feeling you get when you’re standing on the edge, and you’re just itching to jump. To pull the trigger on the building tension and feel its release.

Caryn blinked at him. “Yes?”

Shermie stared into her eyes, frowning seriously for a moment. Twenty years worth of everything he’d ever wanted to say clamored in his mind, but none of it seemed to fit.

I miss him. I wish you didn’t try and make us all forget. I wish you tried harder. I hate you. I wish I hated you. I wish I could forgive you. I wish this didn’t hurt so much. I wish I could just cut you off forever and be done with it. I don’t know what you were thinking. Why, ma? Why? Didn’t you miss him?

“I…” he paused, trying to think of a way to say it best. “I’m… sorry. I’m sorry about your son.”

As a child, he hadn’t been able to understand her. Stanley was his brother. But he was a father now, and while he couldn’t quite relate he could… fathom it.

He’d lost a brother, but she’d lost her son.

Caryn’s expression visibly spasmed, her face going tight and drawn, like she was so holding so damn tight to keep the dam from cracking open. “W-what do you mean? You’re… you’re right here!” She laughed tightly, too forced. “Don’t tell me something happened to Stanford?”

“I’m talking about Stanley, Ma,” Shermie said softly. “You know that.”

The clock ticked the pass into the next hour. Shermie wondered if his mother was looking at him, or her reflection in his glasses. She didn’t seem to be seeing him.

“Ma,” he whispered hoarsely, something almost pleading leaking into his voice. A kid again.

“I…” Caryn’s eyes were glassy, staring past Shermie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s just us, Shermie.”

“You gave his teeth to Stanford,” Shermie reminded her gently.

“I sent Stanford his baby teeth,” Caryn said vaguely, faintly.

Shermie blinked at her. That really didn’t mean much to him. “Ma, look, I- I know you’re… doing what you have to. Look, I just…”

Shermie sighed, shaking his head. He couldn’t fix this. He was getting tired of trying, of lying low and trying to pick up the pieces of a family that seemed to break underneath its own weight.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for your loss. I know we never really talked about it.” Chewing the inside of his cheek, Shermie looked away, sighed. “I’m sorry, Ma. I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m just…”

He’d made peace with Stanley’s death, but his family’s silence? Their tight-lipped, hidden grief, the cold walls they all put up to keep the hurt (and each other) out?

That had never stopped hurting.

“I’m just trying to make peace with it all, I guess. We’re only getting old, and the past isn’t changing.”

Caryn still wasn’t saying anything, wasn’t really reacting at all, standing there still and slack, staring at nothing. Shermie just leaned down, gently returning the peck on the cheek she’d given him.

“Bye, Ma,” he said softly, voice scarcely louder than a whisper. “I love you, okay? Just… please don’t drink too much. I’ll call you later.”

Hiking his coat up, with one last glance over his shoulder, Shermie walked out the door without further word.

Down the stairs, then he was standing in the street, under the dark sky, glittering with stars.

For the first time in a long time, he felt free.

“Thanks, Stanley,” Shermie whispered to the heavens. “Sorry that took me so long to do. Shrimpy Shermie, huh?” He chuckled softly, melancholy.

So he stepped into the dark, feeling lighter than he ever had before.

In the silent of her now empty apartment, Caryn stumbled over to her wine cabinet. Shaking hands pulled out a full bottle, nails scrapping against the glass as she struggled to pull the cork.

Finally it popped loose, wine sloshing and splashing on her front. She paid it no heed, desperate, scrabbling hands lifting the bottle to her mouth, slipping against her mouth as she drank with a frenzy. Gulp after gulp in one long swig, a bead of red wine bubbling out of the corner of her mouth.

The pungent smell, the buzz, it flooded her nerves - she let the faint burn in her throat chase away the ghost of the freckled, sunburnt corpse burned into the grooves of her mind.

It wasn’t her son, she told herself. She’d only had two sons. Two living adult sons, she’d done a good job hadn’t she, even if one of them was rather ungrateful, but that was fine. Boys will be boys.

The room blurred as her mind began to slow from a racing uncontrollability to sluggish and lethargic. She felt the frozen fingers digging into her mind lax and disappear, if only for a while. If only for a moment.

It was totally normal for a woman to be drinking alone on a… a… what day of the week was it? Oh, it didn’t matter. She’d done a hard day of work, she’d… she’d…

“ Mama ,” the tiny voice whispered from the wind-ruffled curtains, the creak in the floorboards. “Mama.”

“Go away,” she hissed out, face flush and warm. “You’re s’posed to go away now…”

“ Mama, ” the soft echo in the walls just cried softly at her.

Ghostly white drifted across the rug - her head whipped around, world spinning with the motion, and, and…

…and it was only the cat. Whiskers twitched at her, white fur with gray fur emerging around an aged muzzle. It was only the cat. It was only the cat.

A sound wrenched its way out of Caryn, a horrible cross between a laugh and sob. Of course, of course.

She’d only ever had two sons. Two.

That was a nice thought.

(She wished she believed it.)

Ma and Pa were arguing again.

Stanley was pretty sure his parents argued like no others. It was Ma who did most of the talking - her animated hands gesturing to this and that in grand flourishes, complaining about things that both had and hadn’t happened, as Pa gave her small grunts and clipped words in response. All in all, a pretty normal interaction for the two of them.

“It’s just like you to not even bring a map,” Ma ranted. “Now we don’t know where the hell we are, and you won’t let me ask for directions-!”

“I don’t need a map, I know where we are,” Pa grunted angrily, glaring at the road, at the pimply gas station attendant awkwardly pumping their gas.

“Oh do you? Then where, oh wise one, are we?” Ma hissed.

Pa said nothing.

Ma kept ranting, but Stanley tuned them out. He turned instead towards Sixer, who was faintly snoring, with his cheek pressed against the door and a small line of drool rolling down the side of his mouth. Stanley snickered at the sight. How gross!

“Sixer,” he whispered, nudging him. No response. “Sixxxxerrrrr-”

Sixer made the small snorting, grumbling noise of someone who was still mostly asleep and would quite like to stay that way. He flapped his hand in Stanley’s direction. “Go ‘way, Stanley,” he mumbled, pulling his hand back and tucking it under his chin. He was back asleep in seconds.

Stanley giggled softly to himself. Deciding mercy upon his sleeping brother, he sneakily slid himself across the seats (thankfully their parents didn’t believe in booster seats, leaving Stanley freely mobile) and to the other side of the car. Small hand hovering over the door handle, he paused.

“Ma? I’m gonna go inside. I need a pee.” And some snacks, but he wasn’t gonna tell her that. ‘cause he was little liar, just like his mama!

“What? Stanley-baby, don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to your father. Anyways, Filbrick, you-”

Stanley tuned that out too. Whatever, his Ma had heard him. Now that someone knew where he was going, he was good to go!

Popping the car door open and shimmying out, Stanley softly shut it behind him and darted into the gas station.

First he went into the bathroom to do his business. Some of their classmates at school still couldn’t go to the bathroom on their own, but Stanley was a big boy. Him and Sixer were so good at going potty, they never needed anyone to help them. Just like they didn’t need anyone to help them take bathes, or make dinner when Ma drank too much juice again.

After washing his hands (Sixer said it was super important to be clean, or else you might get syphilis like Al Capone and bleed out of your privates. Stanley thought that sounded kinda cool, but Sixer made him promise not to try to get syphilis on purpose, and unfortunately Stanley was honor-bound to keep his promises. All the ones with his brother, anyways), he went back into the gas station, ready to make like a Pines and get himself a five-fingered discount.

He crept all sneaky-like around the aisles, keeping a watchful eye out for any onlookers. As soon as he decided he was in the clear, he quickly shoved a bag of jellybeans down his shirt. It didn’t even crinkle that much! Stanley was getting so good at this.

He even got himself a bag of toffee peanuts, as an after thought. There! Now both him and Sixer had candies for the road. Was Stanley the best twin brother or what?

Successfully escaping the store unnoticed, Stanley walked back to the car with a skip in his step, already imagining the look on Sixer’s face when he woke up and saw that Stanley had gotten him his very favoritest candy in the world, and-

-and.

And.

And the car wasn’t there.

Stanley standing in the parking lot, two bags of candy stuffed down his shirt, completely and utterly alone.

“Sixer?” he called out, fear making his voice sound shaky and small.

Only the blare of car horns and ambient talking of the people around him could be heard. The pump where Pa’s beat up old truck had sat was empty now, save for the dark drops of spilt gas on the tar. Where-

…oh.

They’d left him behind, hadn’t they?

Chapter Text

Ford’s hand throbbed, red skin over-warm and sending jolts of pain every time his fingers so much as slightly twitched. The bandages were cinched tight - he could see the faintness of blood staining the bottom-most layers of wrapping. The bleeding had slowed in the last couple of hours.

As the thundering pulse of his own heartbeat faded from his ears and the rush of adrenaline faded from its roar in his ears, his mind felt both clearer, and even more jumbled than before.

Remus had bit him, and that moment kept flashing in his head - it throbbed like the wound on his hand, red and angry. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

But it was fine. Remus was grown. If he wanted to throw a tantrum then- fine! Ford was still going to put to rest the blasted notion that Remus was Stanley (which he wasn’t, Ford would know, he would know, he would-).

Eventually Remus was going to come crawling back, and Ford would have all the opportunity in the world to grump and cold-shoulder him until eventually time would prove Remus’s sorriness, and everything would go back to being exactly the way it was.

Sure, Remus had run out, and Ford didn’t know where he was, but that was. Not important. Remus would be back. Remus had to come back. Ford knew he would. He was not looking between every tree trying to catch sight of him or anything, his thoughts certainly did not keep circling back to Remus, and he did not wonder where he was, or if he was okay, or if he would come back, because he had to come back, he had to come back, Remus wasn’t Stanley, he would come back-

Ford let out a small, agitated noise at himself, hands grasping the straps of pack and pulling it up from where it was starting to sag (and stalwartly ignoring the burst of pain that skittered up his injured fingers at the motion).

He needed to focus on the current mission. He was on the cusp of grand, scientific discovery - he had never imagined himself much of a biologist, but clearly none that had come before had ever thought to set their minds to things of a useful nature. Like machines that told you if the wild man you found in the woods was your long-lost twin brother or not. Modern problems required modern solutions, and Ford was nothing if not a modern man (of science!).

So Ford would just have to do it himself. It would be but one note in the long list of accomplishments Ford knew awaited his future.

Breathe in, breathe out. The summer air was warm, golden sunlight peeking down at him and Fiddleford through the pine needles. There was few things in this world, Ford thought, more beautiful and wondrous than the coniferous forests of Gravity Falls. Just walking through the lush greenery was enough to soothe a man’s ills.

So long as you weren’t Fiddleford, evidently.

“Are we almost there?” Fiddleford wheezed from behind him - Ford glanced back to see him mopping sweat from his brow, shoulders slumped under the weight of exertion.

Only one morning and he was already winded! He’d grumbled his way into Ford acquiescing to a midday break (despite them being more than capable of eating as they walked), but other than that he was tensely quiet. Not a complete cold shoulder, just… unenthusiastic.

Well, Ford didn’t need him overly emotive or anything anyways. If anything, it would distract from the expedition! All they needed to do was just to get this done. No need to drag it out.

“Soon, I believe,” Ford said. “We’ve made good time thus far. We should arrive shortly.”

Ford's eyes flicked backwards, behind Fiddleford, down the curving mountain. They were further up and then down now. Almost there. It was a view both beautiful and nauseating, the pine trees growing up the mountain at steep angles, like they were following Ford and Fiddleford up. Climbing at their backs.

Crisp, clear air whistled through the nettles, and Ford's short hair. Yes, it was a very nice view, and a steeper fall.

Ford turned back to the path. "If all goes perfectly, we may yet make it to the crash site without needing to stop to make camp first."

"'course you don't wanna make camp," Fiddleford grumbled. "Tell me we're almost at the pass…"

"We are," Ford said. "Not much longer now."

So they climbed on - one foot in front of the other, trekking through forest and steep mountain sides. Loose rock crumbled underneath Ford's shoe as he pulled himself further, inexorably and determinedly forward.

Without much to talk about (and littler desire to talk), Ford's own thoughts were inescapable, walled into his own head as he was.

He thought of the burn of pain in his hand. He thought of Remus's wild eyes, the way his long, overgrown nails and bit into the windowsill. He thought of St-

Ford bit the inside of his cheek, drawing tiny pin pricks of blood.

Stanley and Remus were not the same. Ford was going to prove that fact once and for all, banish any doubt, and he was going to do it by revolutionizing science just like he was meant to, and then he'd find the real Stanley, and they'd- they'd-

They'd figure it out!

Because Stanley was not Remus and Remus was not Stanley, Ford would know, and they couldn't be the same because that meant that Ford's brother, his five year old brother, who could talk and walk, that meant something happened to him, to Ford's tiny brother, while Ford wasted days unable to move from bed, while Ford did nothing-

Remus was not Stanley, Stanley was not Remus. Ford would prove it.

The machine was nearly complete. Soon, very soon, they would be able to begin testing. Because Remus was coming back, and if he wasn't they still had samples to use, but that didn't matter because he was coming back! Of course he was coming back. He was just throwing a bit of a fit. He'd come back.

Ford shook his head at himself, wishing he could banish these thoughts. Normally he was able to chase them out - first with schoolwork, then with his research. He'd spent twenty years mastering the art of keeping his mind occupied, and yet he still couldn't get it right.

One would think that with a mind as advanced as his, he'd be able to control his thought processes with a tight leash. Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be the case.

Trying to distract himself, he cast his eyes about the landscape, taking in the wondrous views that were Gravity Falls. Then, his eyes fell upon them.

Large white stone loomed before them, the pass like a dagger gouging a trail through those impossibly towering cliff faces. The wind howled softly through the enormous rock walls, almost melodic.

Oh, Ford thought, we're there already?

He'd been lost in his own mind for longer than he'd realized, it seemed. No matter. Ford shook himself out, trying to scatter the thoughts like water droplets caught in his hair.

This expedition was going at a very good pace so far. If they could keep this momentum, the machine would be done in less than a week, if even.

He felt himself smile.

"What did I tell you?" Ford said over his shoulder, "Not much of a climb at all."

"I shouldn'ta ever let you get that gym membership in college," Fiddleford groaned, hefting himself over the last bit of climb, onto the relatively level ground feeding into the pass. "Normal people don't climb mountains just on a whim, ya know."

"This is hardly a whim. C'mon, keep up! This shortcut should take us right there." Ford jogged ahead, sparking with eagerness to get to the crash site as quickly as possible. "Try not to make too much noise, will you?"

Ford could practically feel Fiddleford narrow his eyes at the back of his head. "…why not?"

"You don't want to wake up any of the entities here, do you?" Ford glanced back at Fiddleford. "They can be quite vicious, so watch your step! I once witnessed one of them take down a grown man!"

That had been a very insight full day towards his research. Who knew the cowl had such a taste for meat? Ah, the creatures here always had something new up their sleeves! Never a boring day.

Fiddleford didn't quite seem to share his enthusiasm. In fact, he seemed to grow rather pale. "There are monsters here?!" his voice cracked a little, southern accent teetering into panic.

Oh Fiddleford. Ford really ought to get to introducing the man to some of Ford's intense meditation regimen. It did wonders to keep out any… unwanted thoughts.

"Oh, I'd hardly call them monsters. They're just large, incredibly dangerous anomalies!" Ford hiked his sagging backpack up, squaring his shoulders gallantly. His hand throbbed softly. He ignored it. "No shortcut comes without its costs, of course! So just do as I do, and we should be fine. I'm really quite an expert when it comes to these creatures, so I know what I'm doing."

"You're gonna be the death of us," Fiddleford said weakly, almost dazed.

"Hardly," Ford dismissed flippantly. "Try and keep up, hm?"

Ford walked forward, then paused. There was a prickling at the back of his neck, hairs standing on end. He glanced backwards, eyes immediately going to the trees.

There was… almost something, a faint presence from within the trees, a rustle of leaves, quick and quiet steps through the underbrush. But it was gone within seconds of Ford noticing, slipping away like it had never been there before. And then, nothing.

Hm. Possibly a hide-behind, if such things really did exist out of the lumberjacks' stories. No matter. Ford would not allow himself to slowed down or delayed.

He turned back to the pass, forcing himself to march forward.

"Time waits for no man, Fiddleford!" he called back to his companion. Immediately there was the scrambling noise of Fiddleford hurrying after him.

"Didn't you just say not to make noise?!" Fiddleford squawked, trying to yell and be quiet at the same time, and achieving neither.

"Shh," Ford hushed him. "Don't wake anomalies."

"I oughta wring yer neck, Stanford Pines," Fiddleford grumbled, lacking enough heat to really make Ford heed that threat.

After so much lagging behind, Fiddleford had finally caught up to him. They walked nearly side by side now, Fiddleford only a step back, letting Ford lead the way through the narrow pass.

Together they strode forward, further into the mountains. Ford's internal map drew him nearer and nearer to the crash site, a small point moving along the marked path.

There was not much father to go. The view was not so poor either - steep cliff faces climbed up around them as they followed the narrow, snake-like path cutting through the landscape. There was something beautiful about it, about the almost unnaturalness of it. How the cliffs were split down the middle, cleaved in a too-perfect two. A remnant of the crash, perhaps…

Mind ticking and whirring away, Ford didn't notice the shadow slipping from treeline to cliff, deftly maneuvering up the rocks, keeping out of sight, never too close, and yet never straying too far either.

Fiddleford did glance over his shoulder anxiously for what must have been the hundredth time, chewing the inside of his cheek - but just like every nerve-driven look before it, he saw nothing, and chalked it up again to lingering unease putting him on the edge.

Neither of them saw the brown eyes, identical to Ford's, watching them the whole time.

As their destination got ever closer, the jittering feeling in Ford's chest seemed to only get stronger, knocking against its ribs as it vibrated away.

It was sort of aimless - like it didn't know quite what it was. There was some excitement there, Ford knew. Eagerness to show his lab partner his findings, eagerness to further their scientific research together. Underlying it was the melancholy, but such a thing was so inlaid into Ford's very soul that he hardly thought it was even notable.

(Melancholy was not the right word, Ford knew. Melancholy implied an unknown cause, and Ford knew exactly what it was. But he liked to imagine himself as a perfectly content individual who had moved on from any mourning he needed to do, and so liked to pretend that it was indeed an aimless, causeless melancholy that settled like a stone to the sea floor of him. He liked to imagine he was simply a helplessly melancholic individual. That maybe it was just a… chemical misfire. A hormone imbalance. No cause, no blame.)

Yet amidst it all was… a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, hairs standing on end. Something darting in out of his periphery. An anxious dread in the bottom of his stomach.

He couldn't quite place it. It had to be foolish instinct. Hindbrain simplicity picking up on frayed signals, trying to urge him to scurry under a rock shelter and eat fruits off a bush. Primitive! Ford Pines was better than this. He refused to be cowed by mere chemical reaction in his brain!

Stomping staunchly forward, Ford kept his chin high and his eyes alert. They were approaching the end of the passage soon - just around the next few ends and the exit would be there, he was certain of that. Already the cliff-faces were starting to drop off, bowing down to the ground. One side far less steep than the other, grass sloping gradually down to the beaten path.

There was little for wildlife here - at least, not to the untrained eye. Insects buzzed in the air - a rabbit hopped across their path several paces ahead, from one burrow to the next.

At the tops of the decling cliffs pine trees peered down at them, trunks bowing towards them as though to look below, pine needled branches swaying in the breeze with a light curiosity to them. A pebble skirted and bounced down the cliff-face as a shadowed shape suddenly darted out of view.

Ford blinked, squinting through the sunlight up at where the shape had just been, hand inching towards his journal. Was that a sighting of the mythed 'hide-behind'-?

"Stanford," Fiddleford spoke up, voice a little too loud, a little too urgent.

Ford's eyes returned to earth, away from the sun-washed the cliffs above, gaze dropping down onto the path.

"Oh," he said softly, a smile spreading slow as molasses across his face. His breath caught in his chest.

There, not far up the trail from them, was a large form slumped down on the ground, body shifting up and down with a steadiness, a pattern characteristic of sleep, its back to them.

"What is that?" Fiddleford's voice was tense and hushed, eyes wide, eyebrows drawn and looking warily towards the monster ahead.

"That, my friend," Ford whispered back, hushed with pure delight, "is a gremloblin."

"Gremloblin?" Fiddleford echoed the word like he didn't like the way it sounded from his own mouth, looking for all the world like a man whose reservations were not at all appeased.

"I've never been so close to one before," Ford said, already reaching into his trench coat for his journal, a grin spreading across his face, "They're elusive creatures, and quite dangerous as well. But this one appears to be asleep."

Its back rose and fell rhythmically, its nasally and deep snores rumbled off the stone walls loudly. A midday nap, perhaps - or was it nocturnal? Possibly even crepuscular!

"We should be able to scooch around it," Fiddleford said, looking at the gremloblin with a nervous tilt to his mouth, jaw set. Fearful and determined. His gaze shifted to Ford, and his eyes went wide, hissing out a startled, "Stanford-?"

"Shh!" Ford shushed him, one finger coming up to tap over his own beaming mouth at Fiddleford, "I just want to get a good sketch of it! I've heard so many local legends, but I've never had the opportunity to actually observe one of these creatures in person."

Flipping rapidly through his journal to find a fresh page, Ford clicked his pen eagerly as he quietly snuck up on the creature. Eyes flipping rapidly from carefully watching his step, to scanning through his already written entries-

'I set up a trap devised specifically to catch what is known to the locals as the wild 'Coyote-Man' - a hairy, human-like creature that has been reportedly sighted numerous times in the woods. Before today, I'd been ready to chalk it up to a folk tale, a myth, and nothing more. Not so now.'

'Apparently, it travels with the resident coyote population, and has been spending much of its time terrorizing area livestock and forest-wandering hippies alike. I hope not to get on its bad side.'

He stopped dead in his tracks, freezing in place.

Remus's eyes stared up at him from one of the entries, shaggy-faced and strangely intense. His jaw was set, his expression that focused look of his - he'd never smiled nor frowned, exactly, simply looked intently.

You had to peer into his eyes to see where the real emotion lie. Whether he was calm and contented, alert and ready, bored or tired- it was all there, if you knew to look. A wealth of emotion in a deceptively simple-minded looking creature.

The sketch Ford had done of him in the journal was loose and, as Ford noticed, not entirely accurate. Some details were omitted - others, exaggerated. He hadn't thought to update it.

'Humanoid. Not capable of speech or comprehending language - could it be taught?' Ford's own quick, intelligent cursive mused to itself. 'Further research may be needed to understand more - if I get the opportunity.'

It couldn't have been so long ago that he'd written that. A matter of weeks, if even. And yet everything had gotten so very complicated in just that short span of time.

An uneasy feeling settled in Ford's gut, one he couldn't quite parse but felt so keenly nonetheless. Disquiet worming under his skin, he rocked back on his feet, slinking back a step, and-

For a second, a fraction of time, it all happened rather slowly.

Ford did not step on a twig. There were no twigs to step on, not really - the nearest trees were not close enough, not angled to right, to drop them here.

No, instead it was the rubber bottom of his boot that planted dead center on a particularly large pebble, causing his foot to roll, sending him stumbling.

He did not fall completely, but for moment he lost his balance - a split second lacking control where he tipped backwards and pivoted to the side, and with a curse jumping from his mouth, his back hit the cliff-face.

His hiking pack was not just fabric. He'd invested in a more high-quality model, wanting it to last long and last in the very most extreme of conditions - after all, anything was possible in Gravity Falls - and so it had features that were of a more dignified design than, say, a simple schoolboy's pack.

Such as metal buckles.

When the metal pieces of his pack struck the stone wall, they made a sharp, loud twang of a sound that split through the otherwise near silent air with all the subtlety of a bullet.

The deep, rumbling snores that had echoed off the cliff walls were suddenly cut off. Ford watched, frozen, as the huge beast grunted, shifting where it had curled on its side.

For the briefest moment, Ford thought it wouldn't wake up. He thought it would rouse for a moment, before lazily slipping back asleep, unbothered.

It didn't.

With a lumbering start, it got its hands - paws? - underneath it, pushing itself up. Ford could see its quills rise, a hideous and warped body, dark green with moss and mushrooms growing out of its hide, rise to its feet.

It rumbled softly, low and unhappy, and opened its eyes, illuminating its hideous face with a wash of red light, glowing from its eyes.

Somewhere from behind Ford, Fiddleford cried out in alarm, the sound of feet rushing along the path. The gremloblin turned its head toward the sound, but didn't move.

Panic seized Ford. He'd heard the stories - he knew what those eyes, red and glowing, casting a ghastly hue across the murky greenish hide of the beast, were fabled to do. Though he wanted to know just how much of the legends were true, he certainly didn't want to use himself as the test subject!

Blindly scrambling back, a yelp escaped him as his feet kept stumbling and sliding over stones and fear-struck limbs, feet fumbling uselessly around, and he was making too much noise-

The gremloblin turned its head and looked

right

at

him-

.

.

.

.

The sky was gray, deary. Dark clouds sluggishly bumping past each other in the sky, arcing around the tops of buildings. According to a news broadcast coming from one of the T.V.s in a shop window, there would be a fog rolling in soon.

Rain pattered down in a slow drizzle, dew in Ford's hair and droplets running down the pane of his glasses. He grumbled a little to himself, pulling them off his nose and wiping them clean with his shirt sleeve.

His boots splished in a various small puddles gathering in the uneven crevices of the sidewalk as he power-walked through down the street. Clicking his tongue impatiently, the only thought that existed in his head was that he was running late for something important.

Lifting up his wristwatch to his eyes, he read the the small ticking hands as he ducked under the canopy of bus shelter, safe from the rain.

12:58 P.M.

Very good. He'd made it to the bus stop with two minutes to spare. His hands went down to his pocket, reaching for his wallet, when a rough, throat-clearing noise from beside him caught his attention.

There was a man standing at his side, unruly brown hair and small frown etched onto his squarish face, eyes intent on Ford, like he thought he recognized him from somewhere. He must have been waiting for the bus before Ford, gone unnoticed in Ford's tunnel-vision.

"Yes?" Ford said, impatience making his tone a bit sharp. He really didn't have time (nor interest) in small-talk.

"Do you know me?" the stranger asked, squinting at him.

Ford looked up, narrowing his own eyes at him.

Square-jawed and stubbly face, large nose, bushy eyebrows and short, curly brown hair. He wore a simple t-shirt, white with red sleeves, and tan, khaki-looking shorts. Ford supposed he might look a bit familiar, but barely so. Probably seen him on the street before or something.

"Doubtful," Ford responded, looking back at the street, scanning the road, hoping to catch sight of the bus, his savior from this already awkward social interaction with a man that made him inexplicably uncomfortable.

"Are you sure?" the stranger pressed, strangely intense, frowning at Ford him like he was the odd one in this conversation. Like Ford was failing an easy test.

Ford grit his teeth, desperately wishing to escape this social interaction. I don't know you, so stop talking to me! "Yes, I think I would know if I were familiar with someone like you, thank you very much!"

The stranger put his hands up, appeasingly. "Woah, woah, alright! Message received, damn."

Finally, finally, the bus rolled up to their stop. The engine let out a screechy whine as it stopped in front of them, doors popping open. Ford eagerly climbed in, quickly handling his change to the elderly bus driver.

The bus driver grunted, carefully counting out the coins as Ford waited impatiently for his go ahead. Against his better instincts, he looked back.

The stranger was still standing there, having made no move to get on the bus. He was staring at Ford, a melancholy look on his face.

He raised his hand, a sardonic smile spreading across his face, one that for some reason sent shivers skittering down Ford's spine like ice. He wiggled his five fingers at Ford, grinning. There was gap between his front teeth.

The bus doors started pulling shut, engine rumbling back to life, but somehow Ford could still hear the stranger's voice as he spoke, clear as if he was still standing beside him.

"Bye-bye, Sixer."

And Ford-

.

.

.

.

-cracked his head on the hard ground, a shout of pain jumping out of his throat as his hands flew up, trying to clutch the back of head, before he froze.

His arms barely moved a few inches before they were tensing, muscles tightening and clenching without his control, writhing in pain. Head pounding, vision swimming, he pried his eyes open and blinked at the in-and-out blur muddling his vision, focus drifting in and out, trying to see down.

All along his arms were long, thin needles - quills, he realized, slender ones stabbed into his sleeves deep enough to graze flesh. His trench coat had blocked them somewhat, not letting them get in as far as they could have, but quite a few had managed to get far enough to break skin anyways.

A low groan rattled out of his chest. His head throbbed, the back of his skull pulsating with a mind-consuming type of pain. His arms and hands twitched, muscles squeezing. Breathing in sharply through his nose, he tried to get his bearings, looking around through blurry eyes.

He was… back on the path. White stone cliff faces rolling into sloping hills. Lush green grass and towering pines. Gravity Falls. He'd been in the city just a moment ago - but no, how had he gotten there? Hadn't he been hiking?

He had, he was certain of it. He'd heading towards… towards the crash site. But something had stopped him, or he stopped it, what was-

A bellowing roar shook the air around him, and Ford gasped.

The gremloblin.

Ford sprung up into a sitting position, ignoring the shooting pain in his head at the sudden motion, the spasming of the muscles in his arms.

He'd looked into the gremloblin's eyes- or it had looked into his, really the specifics didn't matter, only that contact had been made. And just as the stories told, Ford had been paralyzed by a vision of his…

Ford swallowed.

He forced himself to look up, at- at the gremloblin. It was- thrashing in place?

Angry howls and snarls spewed out of its toothy, hideous mouth, shaking itself like it was trying to dislodge something. In its movements, it made a sharp, aborted twisting motion, and Ford finally saw just what it was that had it acting this way.

It was-

"Remus?!" Ford shrieked despite himself.

It was Remus, howling and snarling, biting furiously at the gremloblin from where he clung to its back, rearing back only to plunge his way back down, and Ford could see the way his teeth lodged themselves into the back of the gremloblin's neck, clamped down and digging in.

And when he saw Remus, he saw- he saw-

-the stranger at the bus stop was gap-toothed and grinning-faced- the sun beat down like a hateful god, baking him and- brown-eyed, brown-haired- two hands, five fingers, knuckles speckled with constellations of freckles congregating on sun-warmed skin- pink nose crinkling around a laugh and-

Ford shut his eyes, hands twitching up to cover his face. His mind felt like slurry, a flash flood slamming against the confines of his skull. He couldn't keep his thoughts in order, part of him trying to grasp the present and another trying to hold onto that- that vision.

What was that? The gremloblin was supposed to induce the victim's greatest fear but that- Ford couldn't make sense of it. There'd been a bus, and the stranger- was that it? The fear of strangers? Had it been the fact that the stranger had made a comment on Ford's hands?

Ford didn't feel very much like a man who had just witnessed his greatest fear played out in front of him. He felt mostly confused, disorientated - his wits jumbled about him, his mind a tangled mess he couldn't quite get a good grasp of.

And then there was- Remus!

Forcing his eyes to yank back open, Ford tried to focus on what was going on around him. Vision muddling, he could see- dogs? Their sleek, tan-furred forms darted out from the white cliffs, so many of them, more than Ford thought had to be normal, and was he seeing double?

Howls, yips and shrieks pierced the air, Ford could hear their teeth clack and snap, their panting heavy as their claws scraped and scrabbled against the rocky ground.

They swarmed the gremloblin, biting at it, barking and snarling in a cacophony of raucous noise. In Ford's jumbled mind he thought they might be moving in some sort of formation, following some sort of order, though he couldn't make sense of it. He watched as they bit at the gremloblin's legs and ankles with a precision, a visible goal, but he just couldn't parse it.

His head pounded and vision rolled, his arms wouldn't stop twitching, he swore he could feel his muscles writhing along his bones-

Suddenly, something grasped him from behind, grabbing and pulling him back. Ford flailed, letting out a garbled sound somewhere between a growl and a yelp-

A hand clapped down over his mouth. "It's just me, Stanford!"

"F-Fiddleford? What-?"

"Shh!" Fiddleford pulled him, sweaty hands snared in Ford's coat, dragging him behind an out-cropping of rock. It was hardly large enough to cower behind, but Fiddleford certainly did his best, spine bowing and bending, holding himself low and close to the ground.

He pushed Ford down as well, keeping them both awkwardly slid behind the rock. Cut off from the view, Ford could only listen as the dogs howled and squealed like mad things, the gremloblin roaring and bellowing, sounds bouncing and scraping off the cliff-face, shrieking up to the pines.

"Was- was that Remus?" Ford asked raspily, as Fiddleford held his arm and twisted it that way and that, examining the needles digging into Ford's coat and arms.

"He came outta nowhere," Fiddleford said by way of an answer, "Brought the whole forest down with him…"

That didn't seem right, Ford thought loopily. The trees were still right where he'd last seen them, thick and ancient roots burrowing deep into the earth below.

"Just what are these things?" Fiddleford muttered, pulling out one of the quills from Ford's arm. Ford hissed softly, his vision swimming from pain and light-headedness alike, symptoms swirling into one great blend he couldn't make any sense of at all.

"They're- mm, gremloblin needles, they, ah, I suppose they're a paralytic of some kind…" Ford blinked strongly, swallowing around a suddenly dry throat. "Ahm, excuse me, Fiddleford, I think I may be… about to pass out now…"

"What?!" Fiddleford yelped.

Right on cue, Ford's vision tunneled into descending darkness. Head swimming nauseously, arms aching and twitching, skull throbbing, he welcomed the reprieve.

He passed out.

Ford came to with the thought of death by a thousand paper cuts surfacing, like buoyant object bobbing out of the inky depths of water of his mind. Unconsciousness. That was the word he was looking for.

Prick.

Tiny, minute little sparks of pain were going off in the periphery of his awareness, making it impossible for him to sink back into the painless dark he'd been lying in before.

Prick.

With a low groan, he pried open his eyes.

Bright light assaulted his retinas, making him hiss, face screwing up and eyes narrowing, dark spots already forming in his vision, dancing around in his view like specks of stars.

"Stanford?" Fiddleford's voice floated in, breaking the sea salt crust over Ford's hearing. "You up?"

"Mrghm… unfortunately…"

Prick.

Ford twisted head, seeking the source of the pain. And there was Remus.

Remus carefully set his teeth around one of the quills still embedded in Ford's arms, gently biting down. With the slightest withdraw, he pulled the needle out, then spat it onto the ground, where Ford could see a small pile of them had accumulated.

Most of them were out by now, it seemed. Between Fiddleford and Remus, there was only two left. Fiddleford grabbed one and yanked it out.

Ford let out a small hiss. "Well. That was- hardly the ideal conduction of research."

Fiddleford fixed him with an amazingly flat look. "Oh, ya think so?" He shook his head. "Lord in heaven, Stanford, I thought that thing was gonna eat'cha!"

"It very well could have," Ford agreed conversationally.

His eyes skipped around the landscape and he realized, with a jolt, that the gremloblin was completely gone, only smashed rock and claw marks left in its wake.

"How…?"

"St- Remus here showed up," Fiddleford nodded towards the man in question, his jaw twitching slightly.

Remus looked up, seeing both of them watching him. With a small growl, he yanked out the last remaining quill in Ford's arm, spitting it to the ground.

Before either Ford or Fiddleford could even move towards him, Remus turned, crouching down, and jumped, scrabbling up onto the rock Fiddleford had ducked them behind before.

Knees bent, crouching on all fours, Remus still seemed to loom over them, down-turned face shadowed, hair falling around his face. He looked down at them, dark brown eyes glittering with apprehension, face twitching into a snarl.

He hadn't gotten out of the shirt and overalls, but seemingly not for a lack of trying on his part. They were torn and stained badly, dirt smeared all over the fabric, leaves and twigs sticking out in places. It looked like he'd tried to get them off by throwing himself at the ground over and over again, and clearly that hadn't worked. The buckles hadn't even come undone.

Remus shook himself, letting out a grumble of a sound, head twisting to look up, over the shoulders of Ford and Fiddleford.

Ford turned his head, looking behind himself, and froze.

There, standing mere inches away from him, was a coyote. As in, the canid - the wild dog. An actual, live coyote.

To his side, Ford could hear Fiddleford swear and scramble backwards, away, his back hitting the rock Remus was crouched atop of it. Then he glanced up, saw Remus there, and with a look of trepidation, quickly scooted away from him too.

Remus just huffed, looking into the coyote's eyes. A moment passed - Ford thought he could see confliction in Remus's eyes, as the coyote looked between him and the treeline, and then- Remus let out the smallest little whining sound, slinking down the back of the rock, the opposite side of them.

The coyote tilted its head, glancing at Ford. It made a snorting sound, muzzle wrinkling slightly, and moved to stand between Ford and the rock, effectively standing Remus's guard.

"Oh for the love- a bodyguard? Really?" Ford spluttered as the coyote did, indeed, stand protectively between him and Remus.

Remus wrinkled his nose at Ford, slinking to huddle behind the coyote, shoulders hunching defensively.

"This is absurd," Ford huffed. "You weren't even hurt! I was!"

Saying this, he lifted his bandaged hand for emphasis- then froze, every muscle tensing at the cramping pain that ripped through his arms at the sudden motion. Face screwing up, taking shallow breaths, Ford carefully lowered his hand back to his side, twitching at every jolt of pain.

"Stanford-"

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Ford hissed through gritted teeth, carefully adjusting himself. "The effects of the paralytic have yet to have fully left my system, it seems."

"Look," Fiddleford started carefully, "I know you wanted to get to that crash site today, but I reckon we might wanna re-group back at the lab-"

"Nonsense!" Ford said quickly, huffing. "I am fine. We need to get those parts. Regardless of my- temporary!- predicament or little…" he wrinkled his nose at the coyote, "…hanger-ons."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Fiddleford pressed. "When that monster grabbed ya- Lord, it looked like you were being possessed!" His hand fluttered in a quick, half-aborted sign of the cross, mumbling under his breath.

"I'm fine," Ford hissed. "While the gremloblin is supposed to show you your greatest fear when you look in its eyes, its clearly just a myth as I saw… I saw nothing of interest."

Ford took a steadying breath. Nothing. It was nothing. And Ford wasn't going to think about it! Because it didn't! Matter!

"So it's only a temporary setback," Ford continued stiffly, "And I will not allow it to put a halt to our work. We will get to the crash site, and we will get the parts for our machine, and we'll put this whole thing to rest post haste."

Fiddleford still looked conflicted. "…can you stand?"

Bracing himself with two hands on the ground, Ford carefully pushed himself to his feet, moving slow with small but already fading flecks of pain sparking and fading in his arms.

He rocked a little on his feet, backpack he forgot he was wearing weighing him down, and his head swam a tad, but he was upright. Straightening, he squared his shoulders and sent Fiddleford a firm look.

"So. Onwards?"

Fiddleford grimaced, then sighed. "…onwards."

He offered his arm to Ford, but Ford ignored it, forcing himself to march forward without assistance.

With a little prompting from Remus, the coyote followed them, and Remus followed behind it. Ford stalwartly ignored the both of them.

He was going to finish that machine. And he wasn't going to let anyone, or anything, stand between him and his goal.