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Ford sat down at the kitchen table, where Stan was busy sewing together some taxidermy monstrosity for the Mystery Shack – really, if they were going to keep that tourist trap open, which was probably the prudent choice at the moment, since Ford did not presently have a source of income and they had themselves and two children to support, then they were going to have to discuss putting in some actually factual exhibits about real anomalies – crossed his arms, and stared at his brother.
“Alright, alright, geez,” Stan said after a few minutes. “Whatever point you’re trying to make, you’ve made it. Just, stop being creepy.”
“I know you know what happened to Fiddleford,” Ford said.
“Who said anything about me knowing anything about what happened to your friend?” Stan asked defensively.
“No one, but if you truly didn’t know, you would have said as much by now, rather than dodging the question every time I bring the subject up,” Ford pointed out. He hadn’t felt entirely comfortable pushing the situation on the earlier occasions when he had asked, while his and Stan’s relationship had still been… tenuous might be a delicate way to put it. He hadn’t felt comfortable trying to talk to Stan about anything at all, to be honest, and had been willing to allow Stan to put him off, just to get out of the conversation that much quicker. But it had been ten days since their big talk, when the family had convinced Ford to stay with them, and things between Ford and Stan were not completely better, exactly, but much better than they had been. So now Ford was pushing. Fiddleford was his friend, and Ford had messed up terribly with him; Ford owed it to Fiddleford to make sure he’d come out of it all okay.
“I don’t know what happened-“
“Stanley!”
“Okay. It’s just… look, I’m not even completely sure it’s the same guy,” Stan said.
“How many Fiddleford Hadron McGuckets do you think there are in the world?”
“Well, it’s not like I’m on a full name basis with the guy. I know his last name is McGucket, but I’m not sure about his first name. Did your friend have a kid? He’s in his, what, early thirties now, so he’d probably been pretty little back then,” said Stan.
“Yes, that’s be Tate. He was three when Fiddleford moved up to Gravity Falls as I recall. Or maybe he was seven,” Ford said uncertainly. Well, it was somewhere in that range anyway.
“Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say that.”
“What do you mean by that?” Ford demanded. “You’re being incredibly cryptic.”
“I think it’s probably better if you see for yourself,” Stan said, standing up.
“You mean he still lives here in town?” Ford asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Stan agreed.
“In a… is he-“
“No, not dead, sorry,” Stan said, and Ford let out a sigh of relief. “But he is really… different from how you remember him.”
“How could you possibly know that; a minute ago you weren’t even sure we were talking about the same person,” Ford objected.
“Trust me, I know,” Stan said, still being cryptic.
Stan swiped his keys off the counter, and Ford stood up as well, resigning himself to going along with whatever Stan was up to if he wanted to get any answers. “Hey kids!” Stan called, and a moment later Mabel trotted in from the TV room. “Where’s your brother?”
“I think he’s upstairs reading his new book,” Mabel said.
“Okay, well Ford and I are going out for a bit.”
“And I’m in charge until you get back?” Mabel said hopefully.
“You and your brother are both in charge. Unless Soos or Wendy swings by, in which case they’re in charge,” Stan told her.
“Rats,” Mabel said, snapping her fingers. “Hey, where are you guys going anyway?”
“I’m taking Ford out to see McGucket,” Stan said.
“Oh,” said Mabel. Her eyes went wide and solemn, and then she ran over to Ford and hugged him around the middle. “Don’t worry Grunkle Ford, I’m sure everything will work out okay. And I’m going to have hot chocolate waiting for you when you guys get back.”
That did not bode well.
“It’s over eighty degrees out right now,” Stan said.
“Hot chocolate, Grunkle Stan.”
“Well, can’t argue with that,” said Stan and Ford found himself smiling in spite of the situation. These people, his family, were ridiculous, and it was strangely endearing. “But make it in the microwave; no using the stove without adult supervision.”
“Or the oven, and Soos doesn’t count as adult supervision. I know,” Mabel said, exasperated. “You set the kitchen on fire one time… And it wasn’t even a very big fire.”
“Yeah, yeah. And no glitter in mine,” Stan added as Mabel started rummaging through the cupboards.
“I make zero promises!”
Stan glared at Ford and grumbled under his breath, “What possessed you to get her edible glitter for her birthday...” The short answer to that was, of course, that it made Mabel happy, ecstatic even. The longer answer was it made Mabel happy, which was great for Ford because despite the fact that the kids appeared to have completely forgiven him for the incident after he first arrived back in this dimension, he still felt the need to court their good opinion somewhat, and it was better than eating regular glitter, which seemed like the only other option at times.
Stan turned around and grabbed the door handle. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
“Uh, Stan? You may want to put on some pants first,” Ford said.
Stan looked down at himself, still dressed in only his boxers and an undershirt. “Oh for the love of. Alright, we leave in five minutes,” he said storming back off into the house in the direction of his room.
The car ride out to see Fiddleford was mostly accomplished in silence. Despite the seemingly endless string of questions that wanted to burst out of him, Ford kept his peace, well aware that Stan was unlikely to answer any of them at the moment. Though “in silence” wasn’t entirely accurate, more like with a lack of verbal discourse. Stan was full of nervous energy, turning the radio on and flipping lightning quick through a handful of stations before turning it off again, drumming his fingers on the wheel and the clutch, tapping his left foot against the floor, and just constantly showing a basic inability to sit still. Ford was about to demand that Stan tell him what was going on before the tension killed them both, when the car finally pulled to a stop.
“We’re here,” Stan announced, getting out of the car.
“Stanley, this is the junkyard.”
“Yeah, I know,” Stan said. He walked over to the fence surrounding the place, easily lifting it up and creating a gaping hole for them to duck through. “Not much farther to go now.”
“To get to where?” Ford asked, feeling even more confused and apprehensive than he had before, if that was possible.
Stan didn’t answer, just led Ford around the nearest towering pile of garbage to reveal, tucked away on the other side… building would be an overly generous term for it. Really, for all that Stan had taken to calling Ford’s cabin “the shack,” here was a structure truly deserving of that title. “McGucket, you home?”
Someone might be forgiven for assuming that because Ford was the “smart” twin, that Stan must be the “strong” twin, especially if that someone had grown up on a diet of sitcoms. It was even true to a certain degree, since Stan had more muscle mass and natural athleticism than Ford, though those differences had mostly evened out by now, what with Ford keeping up a strict exercise regime for the past thirty-five years while Stan hadn’t. It would be understandable as well if the concept of smart vs. strong twin were then extended to the conclusion that Ford must be the wimpy one, and Stan the brave. But while Ford had more than his fair share of the intellect between the two of them, and Stan the charm, they had both been gifted with equal measures of bravery and, if Ford was being completely honest, reckless stupidity. When they had been kids getting into adventure, or trouble as the case more often was, it had always been both of them rushing in headlong, side-by-side.
Which made Ford’s sudden desire to hide behind Stan, to grab onto his brother and beg him to make this all stop and go away, Ford didn’t want it, all the more inexplicable.
The man who emerged from the hovel had to be Fiddleford, all logic surrounding the situation dictated it, and what’s more, Ford recognized him. Of course he did, Fiddleford was his best friend, one of the few friends he had – very few, if one didn’t count family. But look at Fiddleford now. He looked impossibly old, in his seventies or eighties at least, for all that Ford knew them both to be the same age. Fiddleford was hunched and wizened and gaunt and wearing old dirty torn clothing and bandages and his gaze was wall-eyed and unfocused, though the last might be due to his missing glasses.
Is this what Fiddleford’s glimpse into the Nightmare Realm had done to him? Is this what Stanford, in his arrogance and ignorance, had done to his friend?
“Visitors!” Fiddleford cried, and even his voice was different now: the more cultured strains of his accent gone and the whole thing was much more… Appalachian. “Well, come on in.”
Ford was frozen to the spot, but then he felt Stan’s hand on his shoulder, gently leading him inside Fiddleford’s dwelling, and then guiding him to sit down on some scraps of rusty metal, the whole thing happening through a hazy veil of numb horror. “Fiddleford,” he said after a few minutes had lapsed, heedless of the small talk that Stan had been making with Fiddleford, which Ford was now interrupting. “Don’t you recognize me?”
“Can’t be sayin’ as I do, feller,” Fiddleford said, scratching the back of his head. “I’d say my memory ain’t what it used t’be, ‘cept fer I can’t rememberate what it used t’be.” Fiddlerford laughed at his own joke, but there was something pained in the sound.
Memory, of course. Ford had known that Fiddleford had had trouble dealing with the more frightening aspects of their work, and he had always suspected that Fiddleford might not have destroyed the memory gun like he had claimed. And if he had had that experimental memory gun on him after being exposed to Bill’s Nightmare Realm…
This was all Ford’s fault. He should have tried harder to impress on Fiddleford the potential dangers of the memory gun. He should have insisted on destroying the thing himself. Should have said something when he began to suspect that Fiddleford might still have it. Should have listened to Fiddleford’s warnings about the portal. Should have followed Fiddleford out on the day of the disastrous portal test. Should have gone to find Fiddleford after he had learned the truth about Bill. Should have-
No. “Should haves” didn’t change anything, and there was no point in dwelling on them. Especially not when there was something that he could do now.
“Fiddleford, would you mind if my brother and I stepped out to speak privately for a moment?” Ford asked.
“No, that don’t bother me none,” Fiddleford said, but he sounded somewhat uncertain about it.
“Thank you. We’ll be just a minute,” Ford said. He attempted to give Fiddleford a reassuring smile, though given his current state of mind, heaven knew how his expression actually came off.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Stan said as soon of the two of them were outside. “Who am I kidding, it’s worse than it looks; the guy once built a giant robot that blew up the entire downtown because some guy no one had heard of didn’t come to a retirement party that McGucket didn’t have. Sorry, I knew I should have warned you before we came –“
“I think we should have Fiddleford come live with us.”
“– but I just wasn’t sure how to… what did you just say?”
“I think we should bring Fiddleford home with us,” Ford reiterated.
“We can’t just bring him home with us,” Stan objected. “He’s a person, not a puppy.”
“He’s a person who needs help. I mean, look at where he’s living. You were right, he’s not the same as when I knew him; he’s sick and he needs someone to help him get better. I’m fairly certain I know what caused it and I think I might be able to fix it… somehow. I have to try at least.” A small part of Ford wanted to point out it was his house and he could let anyone he wanted to stay there. But he pushed that thought away as quickly as it came; even if it was technically his house, it was all of their home, and Ford wasn’t going to go down that path, not again. So instead he concluded with, “He’s my friend.”
Stan groaned. “Don’t look at me with those puppy dog eyes. You’re a grown man; it’s embarrassing. And I want you to make sure that first thing you do when we get back is to make sure he gets a real shower, with hot water and a whole lotta soap.”
A grin bloomed across Ford’s face. “I’m pretty sure Mabel is going to insist on hot chocolate first thing.”
“Fine, hot chocolate first, and then a shower. I’m serious, Stanford; the guy smells worse than you did when you came out of the portal, and you smelled like a dumpster full of rotten shrimp,” Stan said.
Ford thought about reminding his brother that he couldn’t have possibly smelled like shrimp, snice there were none in the dimension he had most recently come from, but he let it go as a fight he was never going to win, and didn’t really matter all that much anyway. “Thank you, Stanley.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t seem like he’s dangerous, killer robots aside, and I figure what’s one more broken old man in that house anyway.”
Struck by a sudden urge, Ford reached over and hugged his brother. Stan seemed surprised by the gesture, but barely missed a beat before hugging Ford back. “What was that for?” Stan asked afterward.
Ford opened his mouth to say he didn’t know, but what came out instead was, “You’re a good brother.”
“Geez Sixer. You’re getting sappy on me in your old age,” Stan grumbled, but he looked pleased.
The two of them walked back inside Fiddleford’s shack, and Fiddleford instantly brightened at seeing them. “Y’came back,” he said, and it occurred to Ford that he must not get very many visitors.
Of course he didn’t, Ford berated himself a moment later. Fiddleford lived in a junkyard; if there were anyone who cared about him enough to visit him on a regular basis, then he wouldn’t even still be here in the first place. “I told you we would be,” Ford reminded him.
“I reckon you did,” Fiddleford agreed, and he looked so happy that it made it a little easier for Ford to say what he wanted to next.
“Actually, Stan and I discussed it, and we think that it would be best if you came and stayed with us for a while,” Ford said.
At first when Fiddleford didn’t respond right away, Ford thought it was due to surprise. But then Ford noticed that Fiddleford was shaking, and mumbling a litany under his breath, growing louder with each repetition. “No, no, no, no,” he said, over and over again until he was shouting the words. “No! I ain’t going back to that demon house and you can’t make me!”
Ford found himself frozen again, though this time it only took a slight nudge from Stan to send him across the room, where he grabbed Fiddleford’s shoulders and looked the man in the eye. “Fiddleford listen to me: the portal is gone. I promise you, it’s gone. Stan blew it up and I scrapped it for parts. It can’t hurt you anymore. I wouldn’t let it hurt you anymore; I want to help you,” Ford pleaded, though he didn’t know if Fiddleford could hear him over the constant repetition of the word “no,” if he was even listening. “You don’t even have to come back to the cabin if you don’t want, just please, Fidds.” Ford’s voice broke with emotion, and he could feel the tears starting to run down his cheeks at the sight of his friend in this state. “Let me help.”
For just a moment, Fiddleford’s gaze seem to clear as he focused on Ford. “Stanford…?”
“Yes!” Ford agreed, a small smile making its way across his features, as he reached up to wipe under his eyes. “Yes, my name is Stanford Pines. Do you remember me at all?”
Fiddleford shook his head, though whether out of negation or just to clear it, Ford couldn’t tell. “I don’t… I used t’know you. Before 1982. And you want t’help me get my memories back?”
“Yes. We were friends in college and you originally came up to Gravity Falls to assist me with my work. And… it’s my fault you ended up this way,” Ford admitted. “So whatever it takes, if you want to come home with us, or if you’d rather go somewhere else, or even stay here, I’ll help you.”
“We’ll help you,” Stan said, placing a hand on Ford’s shoulder. “I mean, Ford here is definitely going to be your go-to guy, but I guess we can all pitch in a little bit. That’s what families do for each other.”
Ford brought one of his own hands up to cover Stan’s, squeezing it in the hopes that it might convey the depth of his gratitude. “So what do you say, Fiddleford? Will you let me, let us help?”
Fiddleford glanced at Stan, and then looked back at Ford. He stared at him for a long time before finally giving one slow nod of his head. “Okay.”
Fiddleford sat in the backseat of the car, with the bindle all full of his stuff in his lap. His raccoon girlfriend was goin’ t’be upset that he’d up and left without tellin’ her, but they hadn’t been seein’ each other that long; she’d get over him. He also got all his doodles piled up on the seat next t’him. Fiddleford was just goin’ t’leave ‘em at his house, but that feller up in the passenger seat had tooken a look at ‘em and got real exciticified, said they had to bring ‘em. Stanford Pines, Fiddleford told himself. That feller’s name is Stanford Pines.
Fiddleford didn’t remember much of anything, and nothin’ before 1982, but there were things he knew. Like his name: Fiddleford H. McGucket. He knew it on account of people used to tell him it over and over until it stuck. Then when nobody stopped tellin’ him nothin’, he told himself. Your name is Fiddleford H. McGucket. The H used t’stand fer somethin’, but now it was just an H. Tate prob’ly knew what it stood fer, but Tate didn’t talk to him no more.
But Fiddleford remembered Stanford Pines, or at least he had fer just a second. Even now that he didn’t remember him, Fiddleford could remember remembering him. The one imperfection in the big ol’ white haze inside his noggin, and Fiddleford clung to it. That feller’s name is Stanford Pines, and he is goin’ t’help y’figure out who y’used to be.
“Hey feller, Stanford,” – Stanford Pines, Stanford Pines, Stanford Pines – “Do y’know what the H in my name is what fer?”
“Hadron,” Stanford said. He turned ‘round in his seat t’look at Fiddleford and he was smilin’ and cryin’ a little at the same time. Crazy feller. But then, Fiddleford had always thought that Ford must be just a bit touched in the head. “Your middle name is Hadron.”
Huh. Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Well. Alrighty then.