Chapter Text
From the moment that he opened his eyes, Fiddleford could tell that something was deeply wrong. His head hurt like hell; just about every thought he had was sluggish and hard to latch on to. It almost felt like a hangover, but he hadn’t drank like that since college.
He knew he had been feeling similarly off for the last few weeks, with no specific reason he could put his finger on. A headache and some sluggish thoughts wouldn’t be offputting by themselves, but if he was honest…they had been paired with huge gaps in his memory. Large chunks of his days were missing, making it feel like every passing day was bleeding together.
Even now, concentrating, he couldn’t remember anything at all from the previous day and good Lord his head hurt.
Fiddleford was an anxious man at heart. It was rare that a day for him went by without any worries, and he had long come to terms with that. However, he had made it a habit of not voicing his concerns in the presence of his research partner, Stanford Pines, a man who had a tendency to be dismissive.
But today was different. He had solid reason to worry, and he was going to be taken seriously this time. As quickly as he could manage, he threw on the nearest set of clean clothes he could find and stumbled his way down the attic stairs.
As he made his way into the kitchen, he saw Stanford who was already completely dressed and ready for the day, drinking what was probably his second cup of coffee and reading something.
“Morning, Fiddleford” he said, not even sparing a glance up from his book.
As Fiddleford poured himself the remains at the bottom of the coffee pot before he started another, he contemplated what to say. If he outright stated all of his concerns, he’d be written off as paranoid, or making a mountain out of a mole hill. He knew that he had to choose his words carefully.
“Stanford?” he said, turning around to face his research partner, anxiously tapping his fingers on the side of his coffee mug. All he got in response was an uninterested hum of acknowledgement.
“Stanford?” he repeated, a little louder, causing Ford to finally glance up from his book, if only for a second.
“What is it, Fiddleford?” Ford asked as he marked a spot on the page with his finger before finally making eye contact with him.
“Stanford, have I…do ya know if I hit my head recently? My head’s foggier than a field at twilight.”
Stanford raised an eyebrow, as he often did at Fiddleford's southernisms.
“No, not as far as I’m aware. Why?”
“I just...” he started, still drumming his fingers on his cup. “I’ve been havin’ a horse load of trouble remembering things lately. An’ not just small things, I…I can hardly remember anything from yesterday at all.”
He continued, “An’ on top of that, my head is just killin’ me. I–I can’t even think clearly. I’m just–worried, I guess. Chalk it up to one of yer anomalies if you want, but I just can’t keep ignoring it, I–I think it’s been happenin’ for a while now, and I…think it’s gettin’ worse.”
His hands were shaking now. He tried to focus some of his nervous energy back into tapping his fingers, but it did little to stop the tremors.
When he finally looked back at Stanford, he could see that his brow was furrowed, and that for the first time in a long time he looked concerned.
The first time since…since…
Fiddleford couldn’t remember what had made Stanford concerned that last time, and that did very little to help soothe his anxiety. Lord, his head hurt.
Stanford closed his book without even marking the page.
“You’re right, that does sound…concerning. Do you have any idea what the cause could be? Have you done anything different recently? Have you maybe touched any odd looking plants in the forest?”
The rapid fire questions made his head spin.
“I…I don’t rightly know. I don’t recall doin’ anythin’ different lately. I believe I’d have told ya if I found somethin’ odd in that creepy forest.”
He kept tapping his cup, but his hands were shaking so bad that the coffee inside was about to spill.
“I–I was thinkin’ it might be some type of dementia? I’m not quite sure if it’s even possible to get it at this age, but I thought it best to consider all of my options.”
He was starting to downturn into a panic and he knew it, but once he got started, it was difficult to stop. His mind was racing with possibilities and, in his current state, that made it very difficult to focus on anything happening around him. He couldn’t even hear his own voice anymore, but he knew he was still talking.
If he tried to focus, he could vaguely hear his name being said, but the recognition left his mind as quickly as it had entered, falling through the cracks like sand. He just kept on rambling.
He tried to steady his breathing, to focus on what was happening around him. Anything at all to drown out how loud his mind was. Fiddleford slowly noticed that Stanford had stood up from his chair, a worried expression across his face. If he concentrated, he was able to focus enough to hear a voice other than the one in his head.
“Fiddleford–Fiddleford you have to calm down! Reacting like this isn’t helpful, I need to figure out what’s going on. Calm down!”
Stanford reached out a hand, a move that logically would have been meant to be comforting, but all it did was add to Fiddleford's growing unease. As he looked at his colleague’s outstretched hand coming towards him, he felt an odd sense of Deja vu. His eyes stayed locked on his research partner, his companion, his best friend…and it was as if he felt something in the back of his mind click back into place.
Fiddleford saw flashes; Stanford grinning at him with a crazed look in his eye that almost made them look like they glowed. Stanford, standing over him with that same manic expression, holding…. what looked like a gun. Stanford, speaking to him in an odd cadence, saying things he would never normally say.
His heart refused to slow down.
He remembered bits, a small chunk of the conversation he’d had.
“I’ll give you some credit hillbilly, you somehow managed to craft yourself a nifty little tool here! But I can’t exactly have you just scrambling your brains up, at least not while you’re still somewhat useful to me! You’ve already done the heavy lifting getting rid of the fun stuff, I’ll just go ahead and get rid of this while we’re at it!”
Stanford had gestured to the gun in his hand, typed something into it, and before Fiddleford could do anything about it, he aimed the gun at him.
And then, his best friend looked him in the eye and pulled the t r i g g e r.
Fiddleford found himself shaken back into the present moment, his head absolutely throbbing. He glanced up at Stanford, who was still standing in front of him, a hollow pit in his stomach.
He had to get away.
Fiddleford didn’t even register dropping the coffee cup until he heard it shatter against the hardwood floor. Stanford yelped at the sudden noise and stepped back.
“Fiddleford! What on earth has gotten into you?!”
“Y-you–“
Fiddleford’s mind was racing, a mess of panic now flooded with memories of his best friend with that gun–how many times had this happened?
“It was–y-you did–“
He couldn’t speak, he had to get away. He had backed himself into the corner of the kitchen, he should’ve gone out the door when he had a chance. Was that gun the reason his mind was such a mess?
“Fiddleford what’s wrong? You need to talk to me, I can’t–“
“G-Get away from me, you! Just–go on an’ get AWAY!”
He spat the words out with as much bite as he could muster, praying to God that it’d work.
“Alright–I…I can see that I’m not…I’m going to go find something to help, alright? Don’t move. I will be right back.”
He quickly left the room, leaving Fiddleford cowering in the corner–that was the only word for it. Cowering.
Fiddleford didn’t know what to do. He could barely think, his shaking had grown so bad that he couldn’t even get himself to stand back up. Fiddleford tucked his legs closer to his chest, breathed deeply in and out and wrapped his head in his hands in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing pain inside of his skull.
-~△~-~▽~-~△~-
Stanford was never…good with people. Throughout his life he had always had someone by his side to help him understand things socially. Navigating the varied levels society had to offer was simply not something that came naturally to him, no matter how hard he tried. Life was simply better when he had someone to counterbalance him and his apparently “eccentric” ways.
Now, however, one of those very people was currently hyperventilating on his kitchen floor, and he had no clue what to do or how to help.
It had all happened so fast; one moment Fiddleford had been rambling on about some headache, and memory loss. The next moment Stanford watched as he panicked and fell to the floor, shaking and hyperventilating worse than he had ever experienced.
Stanford knew his friend was a touch more sensitive and liable to overreact, but this didn’t feel like that. He found that the worst part of it all was that it almost looked like Fiddleford was scared of him. All of this was so very bizarre, and not the kind of bizarre he was used to. Cryptids he could handle, anomalous fungi were a breeze–but this?
Stanford remembered reading about something called “panic attacks” and “panic disorders” in a newly released medical manual within the last few years, and that sounded exactly like what Fiddleford was experiencing, so now he was frantically scanning his bookshelf for that same book. He may not inherently know much about people, but he couldn’t argue with hard facts. Surely it would have some information on how to help his friend.
He was glad that he had decided to alphabetize his personal library, as it barely took any time at all to find the book. Categorized under D, “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders”. Stanford quickly grabbed the book and made his way back to the kitchen, flipping through it until he found the section on panic attacks. Unfortunately, the information on the topic was slim beyond a short list of symptoms with little to no treatment methods.
Frustrated, he scanned the list of causes and decided his best course of action would be to avoid anything that might make it worse. Pausing in the hallway, he gave the list a once over as he read that one of the main causes was anxiety. Fiddleford had always had anxious tendencies, and his newfound spotty memory was clearly an added distressor.
If Stanford told his friend that he’d help with his sudden memory loss then logically it should help calm him down enough to discuss it further. That would give them a chance to actually figure out a solution, or at least the root cause.
Satisfied, he closed the book and made his way back to the kitchen, moving cautiously as to not startle an already stressed Fiddleford.
What he did not expect was to find Fiddleford exiting the kitchen, looking relatively normal versus the outright panicked person he had just left. His friend smiled his familiar anxious, tired smile. He was seemingly glad to have found him in direct opposition from their last interaction no more than five minutes prior.
“Stanford, there ya are! I–I need to talk to you about somethin’, it’s important.”
Fiddleford fidgeted with his hands as he spoke, his anxiety growing by every passing moment at whatever words he was trying to get out. Before Stanford could say anything, Fiddleford said something that made his blood run cold.
“Have I…do ya know if I hit my head recently? My head’s foggier than a field at twilight.”
It was one thing to hear about suspected memory loss, but having the clear evidence of it on display and presented so quickly was a completely different story. Stanford's face must have betrayed his shock because he watched as Fiddleford's eyebrows furrowed with familiar worry.
“What’s the matter? Is somethin’ wrong?”
“I…I’m not quite sure yet. Fiddleford tell me, how long ago did you wake up?”
He watched as his friend got a slightly glazed over expression, his eyes not entirely focusing on anything before he shook himself a little and replied “I suppose only a couple of minutes ago, must’ve been half asleep when I wandered into the kitchen just now. Why d’ya ask?”
Stanford cleared his throat, his mouth incredibly dry.
“I…have reason to suspect that your current memory loss issues may be…. a tad more severe than you think.”
Fiddleford's face fell, and he quickly turned a sickly shade of white.
“Oh…oh dear…”
-~△~-~▽~-~△~-
Fiddleford stood in the doorway of the kitchen, a puzzled look on his face.
“Now, what exactly are we doin’ here?”
Stanford gestured to the table.
“Have a seat. Considering the… events from this morning, I thought it important to write down any discrepancies in your memory so that we can log any further…deterioration.”
Fiddleford's face flashed with fear and he quickly sat at the kitchen table, on the opposite side of Stanford. Realizing the seriousness of the situation after his friend’s reveal, Stanford had quickly gone into research mode. He sped around the house to grab a note pad, pens, as well as a few odds and ends before ushering Fiddleford back into the kitchen for their session.
“I’m sorry if my language is worrying Fiddleford, however, it is essential that we do this as soon as possible. If your memory loss is truly getting worse, we need to monitor how fast it is progressing so that I know what we are up against as I look for a solution.”
Fiddleford nodded, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm himself down.
“Alright…”
“Good. Now, for the sake of data, I will try not to react or respond too much so as not to incite panic or sway anything that you say. Do you understand?”
Fiddleford nodded again, still looking worried but also determined.
“Excellent. First off, could you please tell me today’s date?”
“Well that's an easy one! It's January 14th, 1982- er, 83’. Sorry, I always get thrown off around new years. Ya don't have to write that answer down.”
Fiddleford stared down at his hands, looking a little embarrassed. Despite his argument against it, misremembering the year could be important information, so Ford wrote it down regardless of his friend’s protests.
“Now, can you recount the events from this morning exactly as you remember them?”
“Well, let's see… I woke up with just an awful headache. I realized I couldn't remember much of anythin’, so I came downstairs to talk with ya. I went into the kitchen, ‘cause yer normally in there this time of the mornin’...but it was empty. That’s when I went to look for ya. Then…”
Fiddleford’s expression shifted as he talked, worry lining his face as he got a faraway look in his eyes. He cleared his throat quickly before continuing.
“An’ then ya told me that I'd already talked to ya this mornin’. Then ya went ’round like a chicken with its head cut off before ya brought me in here.”
He vaguely gestured to the room, barely lifting his arm from the table.
“An’, here we are. That's about all, I reckon.”
Stanford had been writing down everything that his companion said on his notepad, adding in notes as he went. Finishing off the bottom of the list, he wrote, “Short term memory greatly affected. Seems to not remember our earlier conversation whatsoever, perhaps his panicked response has something to do with it?”
“Alright. Now, you have a family, could you please tell me their names?”
Stanford grabbed the framed photograph from the table beside him, and handed it to his friend. Fiddleford's eyes lit up at the sight. He perked his head up and his expression shifted at the mention of his family.
“Of course I know their names, how on earth could I ever forget my precious Tater Tot!”
Fiddleford beamed with pride as he looked at the face of his son, sitting and staring for a moment. He deflated slightly as his gaze shifted to the image of the other person in the picture.
“An’ then of course, my… my wife, Emma-May.”
As he stared down at the picture, Stanford quickly wrote down, “Remembers his family, and interestingly enough seems to remember the…‘events’ that happened with his bride over the holidays.”
When he glanced back up, Stanford saw Fiddleford was still staring down at the photograph. When he cleared his throat, his friend jumped a little in his seat before hastily setting the photo frame down.
“Sorry…was just thinkin’.”
“Please stay focused, Fiddleford. This is important. Now, you mentioned not being able to remember what happened yesterday, could you elaborate further on that?”
Fiddleford furrowed his brow.
“Well, that’s the thing, there ain’t much to elaborate on. I remember the day before, an’ I remember wakin’ up this mornin’, but I don't remember anythin’ in between. I know the time passed, but other than that… nothin’.”
Stanford quickly scribbled the information on his notepad. Fiddleford couldn’t remember the previous day at all, which was only a little shocking considering that nothing of note had happened. They had worked on something, but mostly the day had just flown by.
“Now, when would you say you first noticed these memory issues?”
Fiddleford got that same unfocused look in his eyes as he thought, a look that Stanford was starting to recognize and didn't like one bit.
“Well, I'd say a couple’a months ago? I realized more time was passin’ than I recognized, an’ even if I thought hard, I couldn't remember what had happened in those gaps of time. Also started gettin’ headaches around then too.”
Stanford jotted down the information as quickly as he heard it. If this had been happening for months, why hasn't Fiddleford said anything? Stanford didn't like this one bit, the entire situation made him feel uneasy.
“What is the first ‘gap of time’ that you can think of?”
Stanford felt more uneasy by every passing second that Fiddleford considered his question. In total, it couldn't have been more than ten seconds of silence, but Moses was that silence agonizing.
Suddenly, Fiddleford looked focused again, and on top of that he looked very anxious. He fidgeted with his hands as he spoke.
“I think…I mean I know that… It woulda’ been just before we went to the carnival. At least I reckon? I sure remember my first few days in town, and I remember goin’ to the carnival what had to be a few weeks later at the least, but…I can't quite recall what happened durin’ those weeks.“
Stanford furrowed his brow as he wrote. “Memory loss seemingly started upon his arrival in Gravity Falls. Possibly the fault of an anomaly. F shockingly cannot remember any events that transpired in the weeks before we went to the carnival, perhaps he encountered something on our expe-”
Stanford stopped dead in his tracks, the ink from his fountain pen pooling slightly on the page.
He remembered Fiddleford arriving in town, and he remembered preparing for an expedition to take Fiddleford to Crash Site Omega, and…then he remembered the carnival.
He could not remember their expedition at all.
He knew they had to have gone on that expedition, after all, they wouldn't have been able to make any progress on the portal without the supplies they would have gathered. It was a very important trip.
So why couldn't Stanford remember it?
His mind raced with any possible explanation he could think of. This didn't make any sense! Stanford had always had a great memory, this was obviously just some coincidence.
Suddenly, Stanford was jolted away from his thoughts by a hand on his wrist.
“Stanford! Yer ruinin’ all of yer notes!”
As he looked down at the page, he could see that the ink from his fountain pen had puddled up enough to block out almost half of his sentence. Frantically, he lifted his pen off the page and reached for a napkin to dab away the excess ink, so he could at least stop it from spreading.
“What's the matter? Ya looked white as a sheet just now! Did ya figure somethin’ out?”
Fiddleford was obviously growing more anxious each moment he was left unanswered. He had started tapping his fingers against the table now, his knee joining in time with his hand as if they were both about to fly off his body. Stanford knew that if he told him anything now, it would surely send him down into another spiral. He had to be cautious.
“...no. My apologies, Fiddleford, I just got…distracted. Those are all of the questions I have for now, thank you. I will discuss this all further with you later today after I conduct further research and think about what could be causing all of this. Perhaps it's for the best that we both take the day off from any further construction, hmm?”
At that, Fiddleford let out a relieved sigh.
“That sounds nice if I do say so myself. I know I could use time to try and clear my head.”
Normally, Stanford wouldn’t allow any time off as they were so close to their goal, but now… he had a terrible feeling about all of this. Something was wrong.
“I am glad we’re in agreement. Maybe it's best you stay inside though, so that we can… monitor your condition.”
“Sounds quite alright with me. I surely don't wanna go out into them creepy ol’ woods.”
Before Fiddleford could even stand up, Stanford quickly gathered his notes and briskly walked to his study. There wasn't even a possibility that he had the same memory loss as his colleague…right? He had always had a brilliant mind, a single lapse in memory didn't mean he had any long lasting issues.
He turned into the doorway of his study, a room that normally brought him a profound amount of peace, but still his mind raced. The expedition was important, maybe he had hit his head at some point, causing him to temporarily forget their trip. Regardless of the scenario, Stanford knew he would have written about it in his Journal. He would simply look at what he had written about their expedition and surely that would jog his memory…
Right?