Chapter Text
It was a disgusting day for a funeral and that was to say that made it a perfect day for a funeral. The scent that hung in the air was reminiscent of a wet cigar and due to the heavy rain, blackened mud pooled in depressions of the grass.
Though perhaps, Ford’s term for funeral was a bit generous as only he and a man his brother would never meet stood in front of his coffin and watched as mud was slung from the pit which had been forged for his brother’s final resting place. And all he could think was how sorry this scene must look to any passerby.
Suddenly, Ford’s thoughts were interrupted by an unceremonious splat as a grave marker, lacking the markings identifying the human who laid below this point, was sunk into the ground, signaling that the gravediggers had done their jobs. Fiddleford bowed his head and folded his hands as he murmured incoherent sentences under his breath.
“What are you doing?” Ford whispered, despite the fact there was no one else to hear them speak.
Fiddleford paused, not even stopping long enough to open his eyes and face his companion, “I’m praying, Stanford.”
“Oh-” He replied softly, his words faltering to give him anything to say in return. So instead he bowed his head as well, because while he may have never been a praying man, perhaps today was the time to start.
Then, as without skipping a beat, Fiddleford continued to send his praise to the corpse of Stanley Pines as it disappeared below ground, “.... Please accept this man into your loving arms because he is yours now father, amen.”
The two raised their heads, the rain pounding in their ears as they turned away from the gravesite, which Ford was fortunate for as he wasn’t sure how much more he could handle. Yet he still couldn’t help but take a final glance over his shoulder but was only left with an aching sensation of nausea which sat like a boulder in his gut. “I’m sorry, Stanley…”
When they received the call, it had been late into the night, when the house was silent and all that could be heard were the cicadas singing outside the windows and the hum of the refrigerator. Though, this tranquility was soon broken as Ford studied late into the night, hours after even Fiddleford had gone to sleep, and the landline could be heard blaring from the kitchen counter.
Stanford grumbled, pushed back his chair, and crossed the cold wooden floors to reach the source of the ringing and retrieve the receiver from its usual place. He cleared his throat and spoke as clearly as one could when they haven’t used their voice in a span of hours.
“Stanford Pines speaking?”
“Oh good, we have the correct number,” a raspy feminine voice answered. “This is Officer Neal of Piedmont PD speaking. We found the number for your landline in the pocket of a man who was found dead in a local telephone booth. We need you to come to the station and identify the corpse.”
Ford nearly choked, grasping the counter for stability like all the blood had been drained from his body. Why would anyone, let alone a dead man, have his number? “Could you describe the man to me? Perhaps we could do this over the phone-”
“Sir, we’re not accusing you of murder. Please calm down,” Officer Neal replied in a deadpan tone. “We’re required to have you do this in person, Mr. Pines. It’s only protocol.”
“I understand, Officer,” Ford breathed softly. “I’m sorry for any inconveniences I may have caused you.”
“It’s fine. It’s not every day you’re called to identify a suicide victim.” There was an audible sigh over the phone, along with the crinkling of papers. “Safe travels, Mr. Pines.”
And with that, the line went dead, leaving Ford feeling deeply shaken and questions racing through his head as he wondered what could be waiting for him in Piedmont. He put the receiver back into its proper place before returning to his room and collecting a change of clothes, his car keys, and locking away his journals in the basement. Just to be safe if the situation turned awry.
The door creaked open behind him as a slurred accent quickly followed, “Stanford, what in tarnation are you doing rattling around like this at three in the morning? You’re going to wake up the entire town.”
“Oh- Fiddleford, I apologize for interrupting your sleep. I’ll try to be quieter.”
“It’s fine- now what do you got the car keys for?” he murmured, the situation only becoming more difficult to comprehend in Fiddleford’s sleep-drugged mind.
Ford paused, trying to think of a valid excuse that didn’t involve saying ‘corpse’ or ‘police’ but came up short. So instead he answered, “I’m needed in California. It won’t be long. I’ll be back by the afternoon.”
“California? Why on Earth would you be going to California?” Fiddleford exclaimed, his sluggishness having been forgotten. “Stanford Pines, I swear if you don’t tell me-”
“The state called-” Ford answered monotonously, trying not to crack from the pressure of his own lie. “They’re only asking me to validate my ownership of this property is all. It’s just to be expected.”
“At the border? Stanford, I’m confused- if something is wrong, you know you can tell me.”
The darker haired male shook his head. “I’m sorry Fiddleford, but this isn’t a situation I can allow you to become engaged with. If it becomes a matter that will effect our work or personal lives, I’ll let you know, but you don’t need to worry about this.”
“But Ford I-” Fiddleford sighed, shaking his head, “forget it, you’re not gonna tell me diddly squat, so I might as well just go back to sleep… Just, be careful please, Stanford?”
Stanford nodded, his expression firm as he scrambled back to his feet and brushed past Fiddleford to get to the door, only giving a passing glance as he left his concerned friend behind.
Beyond the moment he left Gravity Falls, it felt as if he could remember nothing, like the world had begun moving so quickly it was in fast forward and the only memories that lingered in his mind were brief flashes of his own emotions colliding like a meteor against words.
The white sheet was unceremoniously stripped back, and suddenly, Ford felt as if he had been body-slammed and all he could do was drown in oxygen. Because beyond the white sheet was his own brother, the one he had treated as coldly as his now lifeless complexion. His hand snaked across his own beating heart, gripping it as if he let go, whatever living connection they may have had would fade.
“Mr. Pines-” Officer Neal said, “please answer the question. Do you know this man?”
“Y- yes.” Ford stuttered, clearing his throat. “His name is Stanley Pines. He’s my twin brother.”
The air became thick as the sheets were shuffled and Officer Neal bowed her head to the young man. “Thank you for your cooperation- and I’m deeply sorry for your loss.”
Ford wanted nothing more than to find a reason to be angry with his brother for even turning to suicide, but he couldn’t be. Why should he be when he wasn’t even the one who was there for him at his most dire of hours? To hold him, to tell him there were other ways-- that he was so sorry for forgetting everything they once were and that he truly did love him.
“He must’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to try and find you, Mr. Pines…” Officer Neal had said as Ford filled out the papers explaining his relation to the deceased. “Especially if you’re- where did you say your current residence was located?”
“Gravity Falls, Oregon.” He had answered.
“Damn- The poor bastard almost made it.”
“Yeah, almost...”
And now, because of him, his brother was gone and his last word to his own brother was a blank stare from the upstairs window before snapping the curtains shut. Because of him, Stanley Pines was dead and all he could do was wish for time he never had.
Suddenly, lighting cracked outside the living room window and an idea came to the young scientist. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to wish for lost time for much longer…
Ford wiped away the condensation manifesting about the rim of his glasses, his effort nonetheless pointless because the droplets of cold rain only continued to slide down the frames. As if they didn’t realize he was in the middle of important business as he leaned against his shovel for support.
Six feet was a long way to dig, especially on a night like this-- or more likely due to the fact that he was doing it alone. Ford shook his head, ignoring this fact as it cropped up in the back of his mind as he continued the tedious mission only hear the splitting of thin wooden planks beneath his feet. He threw his glare towards the dirt, leaning over the body with a lantern in hand. Even in a passing glance, it was unmistakable what Stanford saw, the greying eyelid of his recently deceased brother.
Had his shovel gone any further, it would’ve damaged the skull and undoubtedly the brain. Then where would his plans be? Ford grunted, shaking that timeline as he tossed his shovel back, he’d gotten what he came for and that’s all that matters. Ford dug through his backpack, searching for a hammer of some type to remove the nails lining the perimeter of the coffin, however, the best he could find was a crowbar.
Ford slid the cool metal between the soaked planks and his entire body scrunched in on itself. If the shovel was anything to go by, the man was more than prepared to feel a shower of splinters as he began to push all the weight his body held against the metal bar. An uneasy creak could be heard even behind the pounding rain.
But no matter how much he seemed to force himself against the bar, it didn’t seem to budge due to the instrument’s slippery grip. Fine. Be that way. He would just try something else.
Ford crawled out of the hole, uprooting the hedgestone from its place in the ground before examining it briefly-- they wouldn’t need this right? He decided it wouldn’t matter in the end anyway and continued on with his plans.
Using the large stone cross as leverage, he shoved the monument towards the edge of the hole, aiming it precisely over the handle of the crowbar. He only had one shot at this. He counted down the seconds in his mind.
3, 2, 1-- go
And with that, he didn’t have a moment to hesitate, he shoved the teetering rock over the edge and watched it land directly onto the crowbar. Which shot up into the air from the unleashed kinetic energy along with a shower of splinters above his head. He honestly couldn’t believe that worked.
Ford’s fingernails began to collect dirt as he pried the corpse from the beneath the ground and up onto the muddied Earth, he tutted as glancing towards the way home. A path so dark with mud that his most recent footprints had already filled with shallow pools of polluted water and his brother’s back was already soaked in black mud. Ford could already tell this was going to be a long trip.
And it was. By the time the body reached the basement, whatever trace of peace was written across Stanley’s face had been caked and disgraced by mud and grassy reminders of the cemetery. But all that could be washed away, that was nothing but a minor setback. All that mattered to him right now was that his plans were right on track with his schedule.
Fiddleford nearly gagged, that stench-- it somehow managed to grow worse.
Over the past week, there had been a lingering scent that had been wafting from the floorboards beneath the lab and at first, it was tolerable. For all he knew, it could a small price of Ford’s mourning process and he would rather sacrifice a bit of his own comfort over his partner’s closure. But now, it had grown to become so putrid that it practically had a corporeal form.
The sickly sweetness mixed with the heavy scent of rotting eggs was disorienting and could almost throw a grown man back on his heels if he were to even take whaff of it. Fiddleford inhaled deeply (through his mouth of course)-- brother or no brother, enough was enough. He couldn’t let this carry on any longer.
Fiddleford left his project on the table, holding his head high as he attempted to collect his thoughts. How was he even supposed to put this gently? It’s not exactly an easy task to tell someone that they were causing you trouble-- at least for Fiddleford it was.
Reaching the basement door, the odor was now mephitic in its sheer awfulness. The Southerner coughed, dry-heaving as he inhaled the offending emanation. He couldn’t take this anymore, he no longer needed any excuse that he could make up, this was just downright unsanitary.
He burst through the door, the man’s fingers pinched across the bridge of his nose as he immediately began to declare, “Stanford Pines, this is where I draw the line! I understand this is a hard time for you but I will not tolerate-”
Finally, he spotted it, across the room with only the legs draped by a white sheet, lay a dead man. A dead man that he saw lowered into the ground not ten hours ago. Fiddleford felt fear strike his heart as he stood paralyzed. And all he could do stare.
That is until he threw up on his own shoes.