Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thing about the end of the world, is that it takes its time.

Stan’s known this for ages.  Getting dumped by Carla wasn’t the end of the world.  Watching her fall for some hippie loser was the end of the world.  Damaging Ford’s perpetual motion machine wasn’t the end of the world.  Him showing up the next night, furious and hating Stan, was the end of the world.  Even getting kicked out wasn’t the end of the world.  The slow spiraling realization that he wasn’t worth anything and would never get to go back was the end of the world.

And a giant triangle appearing out of nowhere to draw a smiley face across the North American continent and then taking a bite out of half the planet wasn’t the end of the world— although admittedly, it is a little more flashy than all of Stan’s previous examples.

No, the end of the world came in the days after.

The resulting natural disasters, from volcanic eruptions and horrendous earthquakes to the mantle of the earth starting to spill out onto the crust.  The ensuing panic and desperation of all of the people unlucky enough to survive the original attack.  Stan was one, because of course he was.  The universe could never be so kind as to give him an easy death.

Ma and Pa might be alive too.  He isn’t sure.  New Jersey is far enough away from the original “bite zone” that they might have made it out, if they weren’t in the area crushed by the smiley face.

God, this is a weird apocalypse.

It’s also possible, however, that both of them are gone, because if they were visiting either of Stan’s brothers, they would be.

Shermie, in California.

Ford, in Oregon.

Neither of them stood a chance.

Not that it matters either way.  Stan wouldn’t be able to get to New Jersey, for numerous reasons.

First of all, he’d starve to death before he’d get there, as all available resources vanished before most people could think about them, whether from natural causes or looting and hoarding.  Any kind of official communication died around the same time, not that Stan would have listened to it anyway.  The streets turned into a hellscape that matched up to the canyons left from whatever part of the smiley face hadn’t been bitten off.  There were even more thugs and shady figures about than Stan was used to having to deal with.

And of course, there’s the fact that Filbrick Pines is absolutely stubborn enough to not have “the end of the world” on his list of reasons to let Stan back into the house.

No, Stan is on his own for however long his life lasts.  Or, well, almost on his own.  Because the apocalypse couldn’t seem to throw Stan a bone after killing almost every person he still gave a shit about.

Nope, the thing hadn’t even managed to take Rico off his plate.  Despite the fact that most of his goons split as soon as they all watched the end of the world go down together, Stan is still running from the man himself.  What on the half-earth that’s left Rico could possibly hope to get from Stan now is anyone’s guess.  Before the apocalypse, he got it.  He wanted the money Stan owed him.  But there’s no use for money now, and there’ll be even less of one as time continues to run out.  Any sensible person would lie down and die.

Except Rico isn’t a sensible person, and when it comes down to it, Stan isn’t either.  He still ran, after all.  He’s not sure he knows how to do anything else but try to survive.  It’s all he’s known these past ten years.  He can’t shut it off just because— god, what the hell had happened?  No one had been able to explain it, and no one ever would at this rate.  Because while Stan may not be a scientist like Ford, he sure does know how to bet on long odds, and given the current ones they’ve got, he gives the world a week and a half, tops.

So, with the long life expectancy of next Thursday to look forward to, everything else he could possibly value now meaning nothing, and zero chance to get past the smile-canyons and back to whatever might have been left of his family, Stan is doing the only thing he can think of to prolong his life.  And that’s head right for the end of the earth.

Maybe if he gets close enough to the point where the planet drops off into the mantle, Rico will leave him alone.  And then he’ll… fuck if he knows.  Sit back and watch everything crumble until it takes him with it, probably.

The part of this plan that really sucks, however, is that Stan can’t drive a car all the way to the edge of the world.  He’s known for a couple hundred miles now that his time with the Stanleymobile is limited, and when the sky catches fire, he’s finally forced to leave it at the side of the road.

Well, it’s not the sky’s fault, exactly, though the smoke doesn’t help with visibility.  The main problem is the potholes.  They’d been getting worse and worse for a while, and now he’s stopped just before a stretch of road with too many large holes and broken and crumbled sections that he can’t see a way to get through.

Stan lets the car shudder to a stop just in front of the first hole he can’t force his car over, then sighs and shuts off the ignition.  He slips the keys in his pocket as a memento.

He starts to push open the car door, and immediately pauses to cough his way through the terrible quality of the air outside.  It’s about the same as the air around Pa when he could afford cigars, except about a hundred times worse.  Long-term, it’s probably not great to breathe in, but Stan isn’t too worried about lung cancer these days.

After he manages to adjust to the smoke, he pushes the car door the rest of the way open and steps out onto what’s left of the highway he’s been traveling down.  He can see the ruined remains of a city ahead of him.  Given how much of New Mexico was bitten off, and how close he’s actually able to get to the part that was, it’s probably Roswell.  There are worse places to reach the end of the line.

California, for instance.

Or Oregon.

Stan turns back to the Stanleymobile, and pats her a couple of times on the steering wheel.  “You did good,” he says, because he has to say something.  It’s too monumentous of a moment to leave to silence.  The Stanleymobile has been all he’s had for the past decade, he can’t just leave her without thanking her for all she’s done for him.

He reaches out to close the door, then hesitates for another moment.  There’s not much in the car worth taking.  He’s got his knuckle dusters in his pocket, and has had them there for long before the world ended.  He stopped and grabbed that squirrel that had fallen on the windshield a couple dozen miles back, dead from either smoke inhalation or starvation.  It’ll make for a good— well, it’ll make for a last meal.  There’s bound to be a fire somewhere in the city for him to cook it with, even if it’s just an already-lit pile of rubble.

But that’s about it.  Pretty much everything else in the car is trash that came from before the world ended, or products that are now even more useless.  Everything except…

Stan pulls the driver’s side visor down.  The photo of him and Ford boxing isn’t in very good shape.  Not that it was in great shape before, but it was in “hasn’t been through an apocalypse” shape.  If he takes it with him, it’ll probably get crushed or burnt or otherwise lost.  It definitely won’t stay in this “good” of shape.

But the other option is to leave it in the Stanleymobile, to not carry it with him.  Abandon Ford’s memory to a car on the side of the road.

Both of his brothers are dead, and he doesn’t have any photos of Shermie.  This is the best he can do.

Stan reaches out and pulls the photo gently off the visor.  He tucks the strips of tape that held it there around to the back of the photo rather than risk tearing it pulling them off.  He puts the photo in his jacket next to his knuckle dusters, takes a deep breath, pauses to cough through the smoke, and then starts picking his way through the remains of the road in front of him.

Now that he’s not trying to peer through both smoke and a filthy windshield, it’s slightly easier to see.  There’s a couple other cars abandoned on the crumbling road, but none of them are worth trying to hotwire.  Either the car itself is too destroyed, or the road around it is.  The city in front of him is a mess of crumbling and collapsing buildings.  It doesn’t look like there were a ton of skyscrapers in the first place, but what is still there would hardly count anymore.  The air smells strongly of smoke and fire, and the sky is bright red to match.  There looks to be some burnt-out shells of trees just inside the city limits, to contrast with the desert Stan’s been driving through.  The state of them ruins any hope of finding water here, but he had some yesterday, and this is going to be his final stop one way or another.

Stan picks his way around the cars as he tries to plan out his next move.  He doesn’t expect to find many people alive in the city, except for Rico, if he doesn’t give up and finally leave Stan to his own devices.  Stan doesn’t know how likely that is.  Rico might not be a sensible person, but he’s always had goons to do most of his work for him.  Stan’s not sure if he’s enough of a risk taker to keep following him here.

It’s probably safer to keep acting as If he is, though.  And that means the first thing Stan needs to do is get rid of this squirrel.

The building rubble doesn’t seem too bad as Stan reaches the edge of the city, though he’d wager a bet it’s worse in the center of downtown.  That’s also probably where he’s going to have to go to find a fire secluded enough that Rico won’t find it, though, so he starts to make his way around the rubble that’s there, which is easy enough for now.  There’s some pieces he has to climb over, but most of the concrete he can walk around, and the holes aren’t deep enough that he has to climb down into them, just step.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize the real problem, however, that being that very quickly once he starts into the city he has to hold his sleeve over his mouth to prevent coughing from all of the smoke.  There’s not a chance he’s going to be able to make it to the center of the city.  He’ll have to find something on fire around here or find one of the tree husks and start one.  And given that most of the smoke seems to be coming from closer to the center of the city, the second option is probably his best.

Lighting a fire might as well be lighting up a giant neon sign that says to Rico “Here I am!”, but if he does it fast enough he might be able to eat the squirrel and find a space to hide.  And he really needs to eat the squirrel.  He ran out of food in his car almost three days ago, he has to eat something soon.

Stan casts his gaze around until he finds a decently large tree sitting on the side of the road.  It’s hollowed out and looks very dry, so he’ll have to be careful enough when starting the fire to leave himself an easy escape route, but it’ll serve his purposes just fine.

Stan pulls out his knuckle dusters as he walks over towards the tree, but then pauses for a second and sets them back in his pocket.  He reaches up and yanks one of the still-intact branches down, long enough that he can cook the squirrel at a distance.  He sets it down behind him, then grabs another to use as a piece of kindling.  He pulls his knuckle dusters back out, then flicks one of them against the concrete below him a couple times until he gets sparks, aiming them for the second branch.  After a couple tries, it catches, and he picks it up and sets it inside the tree husk.  It doesn’t take long for the whole thing to catch, but it looks like it’s going to burn bright and fast, so Stan steps back just far enough to stick the squirrel onto the first branch he grabbed, then holds it out over the fire like he’s roasting a marshmallow.

He has no idea what a properly cooked squirrel looks like, but it’s not like he has to worry too much about long term effects.  It just has to be edible.

The fire is burning up fast, however, so after a minute or so, Stan decides to cook the squirrel the way Ma likes to do marshmallows— catch it on fire.

The smell of cooking meat hits his nose as soon as the squirrel catches, and Stan takes as deep a breath as he dares with all the smoke around, savouring it for just a moment.  It’s not going to take too before the squirrel will be tough and black if he doesn’t get rid of the fire.  But he doubts blowing on it like a marshmallow is going to work in this case, so instead he waves the stick back and forth harshly until the fire goes out, then blows the final remaining embers onto the ground below him.

Alright then, food acquired.  He should probably pick a new location to eat it, though.

He picks his knuckle dusters up from the ground and slips them back into his pocket, then walks past the fire, aiming for a good hiding spot that isn’t too close to the center of the city.

Finally, he finds a spot where he can lean against a building that looks stable enough to not fall down, and sits back against it.  He pulls one of the legs of the squirrel and takes a bite.  It’s small enough that his teeth hit the bone, and it certainly doesn’t taste like it was cooked at a five star restaurant, but it’s the first food he’s had in days, and the first cooked food he’s had in who knows how long.  Stan can’t quite help a pleased groan at the taste, closing his eyes to savor it.

He should really know better than to do things like that.

“There you are, Hal.”

Stan’s eyes snap open, and he’s on his feet before he even knows where Rico is.  A second later he spots him, standing at the entrance to the street, knife in hand.  Honestly, come on.  He can’t bring a knife to a knuckle dusters fight.

Stan’s not doubting his chances too much, however, because Rico has definitely looked better.  The hand gripping the knife isn’t exactly holding it steady, and his legs look like they’re about to collapse out from under him.  While the idea of seeing Rico like this would have made him laugh a couple weeks ago, Stan isn’t too surprised to see it now.  He doubts Rico has had as much experience as him dealing with hunger, being the head of a formly-very-scary drug empire.  Prison probably helped, but it’s been a while since then, and going three days without food isn’t a skill you can pick right back up.  Stan’s been working on his skillset in that regard for over a decade, thank you very much.

The thought strikes him, a little incredible— he could beat Rico.  He might be able to kill him, right here and now, and then enjoy his squirrel in peace.  And man, is the idea tempting.  Rico has put him through a lot.   If the apocalypse hadn’t happened, he’d probably still be trying to run from him, panicking about a debt he has no hope of paying back, a debt that could not matter less now.  Rico would still have hoards of goons at his disposal, most of whom Stan doesn’t know by name, all of whom would kill him without a second thought, either to impress Rico or to pay down debts of their own.  Stan has a literal knife scar in his back from Rico.  He has a set of poorly made dentures that work just as well as he needs them to and not any better.  He has a slew of bad memories and nightmares that he doubts are ever going away.  The idea of getting to pay Rico back for all of that is… well, shit.

It’s strangely disappointing.

What the hell would he get for it now?  A week and a half of struggling through hell trying to find another malnourished squirrel to cook?  Dammit, Rico.  How do you manage to take the fun out of killing you?

“Rico, come on,” Stan says anyway, because if he’s not going to kill him he really doesn’t want to fight him.  “What are you even going to get out of this?”

“How about that food you’re hoarding for yourself,” Rico growls, taking a shaky step forward.

Stan pulls off another leg and the tail and then leans the stick the rest of the squirrel is sitting on against the building next to him.

“Come share it with me,” he says, which feels patently insane, but he says it anyway.

Rico seems to think it’s insane too, judging by the slight hysteria that takes over his face.  Stan takes a couple steps back away from the squirrel, so Rico knows he won’t try to jump him when he gets close.  He puts his hands up, holding nothing but the parts of the squirrel he took for himself.  He even left Rico the majority of the meat, which is just unfair, but Rico would definitely try to argue for more if he didn’t.

For a long moment, the two of them just look at each other.  Rico’s always been good with evaluating people just like Stan is.  Stan can’t help but wonder what’s going through his head.  Not much is going through his, except for how tired he is and how much he just wants to sit and eat the squirrel and how little he wants to fight about it.

“Come on,” Stan says.  “You can stay over there, I’ll stay over here.  Just— just sit with me.”

Rico watches him for another long pause.  Finally, though he doesn’t lower the knife, he takes a small step towards the stick on the building.  Stan doesn’t move or lower his hands until he reaches it, and picks it up.  He peers at Stan suspiciously, then looks back at the squirrel.

“How did you guess,” Stan deadpans, because he knows what Rico is thinking.  “I poisoned just the top of it in the seconds after I sat down, with my giant supply of poison that I’ve acquired during the apocalypse.”  As if to prove his point, he takes another bite of the squirrel leg he’d been eating before.

Rico huffs, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge the good point Stan’s made.  But finally, after another second, he sits down with the stick.

Stan feels the tension in his shoulders rush out of them, more than a little amazed that worked.  He sits down right where he’s standing, and goes back to eating the squirrel leg, though he doesn’t close his eyes again this time.

It doesn’t take long before he realizes the other problem with this plan, however, that being that sitting across from Rico and trying to calmly eat a meal isn’t really something he can just do.   Rico seems to all but attack the part of the squirrel he was given, not really seeming to want to savor it like Stan is with his, and watching him do that is both bizarre and unsettling.  In the end, Stan keeps the majority of his gaze on his own meat and his peripheral view on Rico, and works his way through one squirrel leg, then the second.

Rico doesn’t say much, which is probably good, because Stan can’t think of much the two of them would have to talk about.  What is he supposed to say to the guy who’s wanted him dead for ages?  “Hey, how are you handling the apocalypse?”  The answer is written in his shaking legs and the desperation in his eyes that Stan hasn’t seen since they were escaping prison together.

Maybe this is where Rico’s at too, though, because as Stan continues eating, the tension slowly seems to drain out of the air around them.  When he casts a glance back up at Rico, he finds him eating his meat and not paying Stan much attention at all.

For a moment, the hysteria of the situation gets to him.  He’s sitting surrounded by burning rubble, eating meat from a malnourished squirrel, with Rico of all people.  A laugh bubbles up in Stan’s throat, and he just barely manages to swallow it down.

It’s after Stan finishes the second leg, however, that his luck takes another turn, one he probably should have seen coming.  Rico stands up, and Stan does too before he even really processes what’s happening, gaze flicking to him.  Rico’s got his knife back out.

“Give me the tail,” he says.

Yeah.  Figures.

Stan looks down at the tail, trying to debate how little he wants to fight versus how hungry he still is.  Apparently his second of debate is a second too long however, because Rico starts for him with the knife.

“Oh, come on, man,” Stan says, stepping backwards.  But it doesn’t matter at this point.  Rico’s either going to kill him and take the tail, or take the tail when Stan gives it to him, then go right back to killing him afterwards.

And, well.  Stan’s hungry.

So he shoves the entire tail in his mouth, trying to chew past the less pleasant texture of the tail fur, and slips his hands into his pockets for his knuckle dusters.

Rico gives a cry of desperate rage, and sprints right at him.

Stan dives to the side just in time to avoid the knife and swallows the last bit of the squirrel.  Running back the way he came isn’t going to do any good.  At this point, it’s pretty clear Rico isn’t going to be outrun.  Stan’s going to have to fight him, and see what happens.

He turns to face Rico as he runs back at him again, and ducks under the knife before bringing his left hook up against Rico’s jaw.  The knuckle dusters clang against bone, and Rico cries out and stumbles back.

Stan aims another fist for the side of his head, but Rico manages to take a couple extra steps back with his stumble, leaving Stan’s fist to hit empty air.

Rico takes another swing with his knife, and Stan takes another step to the side.  He aims again for Rico’s head, but Rico sees him coming this time.

He steps far enough away to leave Stan stumbling for a minute, which gives Rico time to make it behind him.

Stan feels a rough grab at his arm, and aims a blind elbow back behind him.  He hits something, though he hears more of a muffled grunt instead of a cry of pain, and the arm doesn’t let go.

So instead, he switches gears and spins himself around, twisting his arm but allowing him to see where Rico is at least.  Just in time, it seems, because Rico’s knife is coming straight for Stan’s head.

Stan manages to duck just far enough to avoid it, though his wrist starts to protest.

Stan aims his free hand upwards as the knife passes over his head, but Rico’s grip on it is too tight for his knuckle dusters to knock it away.

Rico’s arm now hovers unnaturally over Stan’s, which gives Stan just long enough to aim a right kick at Rico’s arm.  Unfortunately, it doesn’t hit as hard as he’d like, and Rico has too much time to tighten his grip again.

Stan spins back around before Rico can yank him closer, which gets rid of his visual but untwists his arm, and aims another elbow behind him, this one higher and towards where he remembers the face.

He hits what feels like a nose with a loud crack, and Rico cries out in pain.  But instead of letting go, he brings the knife back around from his other side, and Stan feels a large slice across the back of his elbow.

He bites down on his own cry and dodges the knife’s return blow for his face.  It whistles as it passes over his nose.

He can all but see Rico swinging the knife back around towards his neck, but his attempt to knock it out of his hand didn’t go well, and his elbows to the face haven’t lessened the grip on his arm.

Stan throws his head back against Rico’s face, a final attempt to get him to let go if he hits his nose again.  But Rico must lean his head back just far enough to avoid it, because all that happens is Stan’s neck snaps painfully.

Rico’s other hand grabs his hair and he’s yanked back into Rico’s chest, where he does not want to be, he’s not going to make it out of here like this.

He leans forward, preparing to try and snap his head back again, but the knife is coming too fast towards his throat, and Stan has just enough time to process that this might be it, he might be ducking out of the apocalypse a week and a half early, but instead something far more strange happens.

Out of nowhere, a muscular man in ugly black and gray armor with bright green gloves appears in front of both him and Rico.

Clearly neither of them were expecting it, because they both give twin noises of surprise, and Rico changes the direction of his knife.  The man, however, does not seem at all interested in Rico, and instead reaches out and grabs Stan by his free arm.

Before Stan can even attempt to figure out how the hell to fight two guys when he was barely handling one, the man grabs something attached to his belt.  It looks sort of like a gun, but far more futuristic looking than Stan’s ever seen.

He aims it at Rico’s arm and fires, and to Stan’s horror, the entire arm disintegrates and the knife clatters to the ground.

Rico shrieks, animalistic and pained, and doesn’t stop.

The man, however, doesn’t react except to grab Stan and yank him forward, away from Rico.  All of Stan’s instincts start screaming run, despite how little that will likely matter in a couple seconds, but before he can even try, the man grabs something else from his belt.  Is that a tape measure?

The man lets go of Stan momentarily, pulls the tape measure out almost as far as it seems to go, and then reaches forward to grab Stan’s arm again.

He hits something on top of the tape measure, and everything around them vanishes all at once.

…

Stan immediately tries to wrench his arm away, and is surprised to find no resistance as he does so.  In fact, the man from before, still there, just lets him pull free and take a couple steps back, not seeming to object in the slightest.

“What— what the hell,” Stan snaps, hands going up in front of his face, as if they’re going to do anything against the futuristic laser gun whatever thing that just disintegrated Rico’s arm.  “Who are you?  Where am I?  What’s—”

“Stanley, please, calm down,” comes a new voice.  “We can explain everything.”

Stanley.

“No one’s supposed to know that name,” Stan snaps, though he doesn’t take his gaze off the first guy with the laser gun.  “Rico doesn’t know that name.  Who are you?”

“I’m happy to explain everything,” says the new voice.  “Just please, lower your hands and talk with us for a bit.”

“Not until that gun gets put away,” Stan snaps, keeping his gaze firmly on the first guy.  Now that he’s not running from a knife, he notices he’s wearing what looks like a name tag that says “Lolph,” which, what kind of name is that?

Either way, Lolph sighs, lowers his gun, and straps it back to his belt.  Stan narrows his eyes slightly.  He wasn’t expecting him to actually do that.

“Alright, there,” the new voice says, a note of attempted soothing in his voice that Stan isn’t particularly a fan of.  “Guns are away.  Can we talk now?”

Stan glares at Lolph for another couple seconds before finally casting his gaze around at the rest of where he’s ended up.

There’s not a ton of fun aspects to the room.  It looks more like a holding cell, which, to be fair, could very well be where he is.  The room is featureless and dark, with the only things there being three chairs to his right, himself and the two men in ugly armor, and a square table in between the chairs.  Lolph stands opposing Stan, with his gun and tape measure both clipped to his belt, and some weird green eye piece that looks like suspiciously like a gun scope.  He doesn’t look particularly happy to be there.  On the other side of the chairs stands the other agent.  His name tag reads “Dundgren.”  He’s got dark skin, as opposed to Lolph’s pale variety.  He’s got a green eye piece too, and a scar on his other eye.  He’s got the same gun, tape measure, and muscles as Lolph, but he’s done all the talking so far, and he’s holding a third of those tape measure things, so Stan’s willing to bet he’s the one in charge.

Stan levels his gaze back at him, trying to gauge what his intentions are.  “Where are we, and why did you bring me here?” he asks.

“Well, I would hope that latter answer would be fairly obvious,” Dundgren says, raising an eyebrow.  “You were about to die.”

Stan scoffs and crosses his arms.  “No I wasn’t,” he says, aiming for an “overconfident idiot” tone.

A lot of people have been about to die lately.  Stan hasn’t heard of a sudden rise in guardian angels with teleporting tape measures.

Dundgren gives Stan an unamused look.  “The man was aiming a knife at your neck.  An injury like that in your time period is a death sentence.”

“Please, I almost had him.”  In his time period?

Dundgren rolls his eyes, and a little bit of the tension in his shoulders vanishes.  Good.  Let your guard down.

“As for the first question,” Dundgren continues.  “That’s a little more complicated.”

“Great,” Stan says, walking over towards one of the chairs— the one alone on its side of the square table, clearly meant for him.  He plops down in it, then kicks his feet up on the table and folds his hands behind his head.  “You don’t mind if I sit then, do you?  I haven’t gotten a chance to relax in a while.”

“No, please,” Dundgren says, though Stan can hear the subtle disgust in his voice.  Likely at the dirt Stan is now getting all over the table.  On the other side of the room, Lolph makes less of an effort to hide his disapproval, and lets out an exasperated sigh.

After a second, however, both of them walk forward and take the two chairs on the opposite side of the table.

“Alright,” Dundgren says.  “There isn’t really a way to ease into this.  You’re not in your own time anymore.”

Stan raises an eyebrow.  “You’re telling me Lolphy here came and grabbed me and we time traveled, yeah?”

Both of them seem surprised.

“Well, yes,” Dundgren  says.  “Usually people are more shocked.”

“Don’t call me Lolphy,” Lolph mutters.

“Buddy, not too long ago a giant nacho chip took a bite out of the planet,” Stan says, ignoring Lolph’s comment.  “At this point I’m leaving everything on the table.”

Both of them at least have the decency to look a little sheepish.

“Well, yes,” Dundgren says again.  “You’re in what we call a time pocket, it’s a place time agents can go outside of the normal time stream if the period they’re trying to reach is unavailable for some reason.  But to get back to the Bill Cipher incident—”

“Who?”

Dundgren grimaces.  “The giant nacho chip,” he says, with some difficulty.

Stan snorts.  “Yeah, I figured, I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Dundgren gives him an unamused look.

“Come on, man, go easy on me,” Stan says.  “I’ve been dealing with an apocalypse.  What about the nacho chip?”

“None of that was supposed to happen,” Lolph says, sounding frustrated.  “Can we get on with this explanation?”

Dundgren shoots him a look, and Stan pulls his hands out from behind his head, attention officially piqued.

“What do you mean ‘none of that was supposed to happen?’” he asks.

Dundgren sighs.  “Well, suffice to say Lolph and I are from more than nine days into the future, which is how long your current timeline has left.”

Stan tries very hard not to show anything on his face.  “Huh,” he says, “neat.”

Lolph does not seem particularly fond of that response.  Stan does not particularly care.  He doesn’t want to know how long he has left.  He’d wanted to live in blissful ignorance while he tried to gather up the courage to take care of himself first.  Thanks a lot, asshole future guys.

“How does that not bother you?” Lolph snaps.  “Do you have any idea how much is riding on you?”

Stan plans to shoot back some kind of comment that he stopped being bothered after he’d finished hyperventilating the first time, the day after the apocalypse started.  Instead, his attention is immediately drawn to Dundgren, who’s giving Lolph an extremely frustrated look.

So something important is riding on him, then.

Well, he could think of a couple better options they should have picked first.

“Why would I?” he says, putting his hands carelessly behind his head again.  “Neither of you have actually bothered to explain anything.”

“We’re getting there,” Dundgren says, sounding significantly more tense.  “The point is no, the apocalypse that you’ve been living through was not supposed to have happened.  We were in a time pocket like this when the anomaly occurred, so we have a chance to fix it, even though the future we came from is technically gone.  We are reaching out to you in an attempt to stop the apocalypse from occurring.”

Stan coughs out a surprised laugh.  “Me?” he asks.  “Interesting choice.”

“Are you saying you won’t do it?” Lolph snaps.

“Yeesh, calm down, Lolphy.  Didn’t say anything of the sort.”  Stan glances over at Dundgren and rolls his eyes, as if to say, “This guy, right?”

Dundgren does not seem amused.

“Look, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be willing to help, necessarily,” Stan says.  “I get it.  End of the world and all that.  Generally bad.  But what makes you think I can do anything?  That Bill guy was so huge that I doubt he could even, you know, see me trying to stop him.”

“The apocalypse was not caused by Bill Cipher,” Dundgren says.

Stan blinks at him.  “Uh.  Did you guys, like, read the timeline screwup wrong?  ‘Cause he’s the one who ate everything.”

Dundgren sighs, and looks back at Stan.  The calculating he’s doing is obvious on his face.

“If left to his own devices,” he says slowly.  “Bill would not have been able to invade this dimension at all.”

This dimension?   Implying other dimensions?  Stan would ask for a second to wrap his head around that one, but Dundgren is already continuing to talk.  So, other dimensions.  Sure, why not.

“The fact that he was able to was due entirely to the help of one man, who he tricked into building a gateway into this dimension.”

“That— wait,” Stan says.  “Let me see if I’ve got this right.  You’re telling me the entire apocalypse was caused by one idiot who let himself get conned?”

“Yes,” Dundgren says plainly.

Stan opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.  And this time, at least, Dundgren seems willing to let him process, which is good, because Stan needs to.

One person.  A single individual ended the entire world.  That’s… well, that’s just unfair on a number of levels.

It’s not like Stan doesn’t know how cons work.  You can convince people to do some pretty stupid things.  Hell, he’s convinced people to do some pretty stupid things before.  But there’s usually a point, a line you have to be careful not to cross, or you give it all away.  You have to learn how to walk that line of not coming off to a victim as too good to be true, or too obviously trying to screw them over.  You have to make sure you sound believable.

And hey, call Stan crazy, but he would have thought most people’s lines stopped before “the end of the fucking world.”

Or at least, he would have thought that before now.

Stan pulls his feet off the table, and drops them onto the floor in front of him.  He lowers his hands to his lap, and runs them along his legs.

“Well,” he says.  “I guess a conveniently timed bus would have saved everyone a lot of grief, huh.”

“Funny you bring that up,” Lolph says, only to earn another ‘shut up’ look from Dundgren.

Stan narrows his eyes slightly.  “What do you mean?”

Dundgren looks back at him, clearly searching for very specific words.

“We were hoping,” he says finally.  “That you could help us create a conveniently timed bus situation.”

“You want me to kill the guy?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“In a manner of speaking.”

Stan narrows his eyes again.  “What other manner of speaking is there?  You want me to kill the guy.”

Dundgren sighs.  “Yes.  It is the easiest and most reliable way to prevent all of this.”

Stan looks from Dundgren to Lolph and back, but doesn’t find any more answers on either of their faces.  “Why me?” he asks.

“Our options are… limited,” Dundgren says.  Stan looks at him for a minute, but he doesn’t say anything else.  He could easily be talking about the “end of the world” thing, but if that was the case, why not just say that?  On that matter, why not grab Rico instead of him?  He’d be much more willing to kill someone, especially if it benefitted him.

“You won’t even vanish from existence, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lolph says, drawing Stan’s gaze.  “Not with the individualized merger in the time tape.”

“The who what now?”

“We’ve built an individualized timeline merger into the time tape,” Dundgren says, tone very clipped and irritable at this point.

Stan raises an eyebrow.  “Okay…?”

Lolph sighs, as if Stan’s a particularly slow child.  “When you go back, there would be two versions of you.  But with the merger, you’ll both combine into one form as soon as you land in the set time.  So that way you’ll be able to continue living after you’ve saved the world, even though your timeline technically doesn’t exist.  It’ll even bring your car to you, just for ease of travel.  So if you—”

All of the alarm bells that Stan’s been counting up quietly in his head start shrieking, and he holds up a hand.  “Wait.  Stop.”

Lolph stops.

“Why would you do that?” Stan asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stan says, talking like they’re particularly slow children, “that I am going to be dead in a week, when the rest of the world finishes going up in flames.  What do I care if I go back to save everything and then someone else lives on in my place?  I won’t be around to see it either way.  At this point, saving the world is just practical.”

Dundgren and Lolph exchange a glance.  Dundgren’s face has an air of “I told you so” to it.

Stan raises himself as tall as he can, and crosses his arms.  “Okay, that’s it.  Why do you need me to do this so bad, what are you asking me to do, and why are you trying so hard to sweeten the deal?”

Both of them look back at Stan, and Dundgren sighs.  “The person who caused the apocalypse,” he says.

“What about ‘em.”

The agent takes a breath, and Stan recognizes the look of a man who’s really not going to like what he has to say next.

“It’s your brother.”

Chapter Text

Stan has never known himself to have a weak stomach, but right now, he feels like he’s going to be sick.

He wants to call Dundgren a liar.  Instinctively, he wants to punch him right in the face for insulting his family like that, but he knows liars, on account of being one himself.  The way both of them have been dancing around details, and especially the look on Dundgren’s face as he told him, doesn’t allow it to be anything other than the ugly truth.

He knows a crooked cop when he meets one too, that being most of them.  He can’t justify a reason these two would be playing dirty in regards to this.  Not when they so obviously tried to keep it from him for as long as possible, when they tried to soften it any way they could, when they tried to sweeten a deal they should have had no reason to believe he wouldn’t jump at.

No, they definitely believe they’re telling the truth, and based on the fact that the apocalypse has actually happened, Stan would say that they do in fact know what they’re talking about.

One of his brothers caused the apocalypse.

As for who they mean… he has a hunch, and that really turns his stomach.  But it’s absolutely his very important responsibility to weigh the possibilities regardless.  It has nothing to do with denial and wanting it to be one of them over the other.

Yeah, it could totally be either Shermie or Ford.

Stan hasn’t heard from either of them recently, but he knows a bit from Ma’s updates on them.  Shermie is in Piedmont, California with his wife Rachel and his son Ethan.  He works full time at an office, making just enough money to earn Pa’s favor, since he doesn’t have a “make millions or stay far away” mandate.  As far as Stan knows, he was doing fine before the end of the world.

Ford, on the other hand, lives alone in rural Oregon with a research grant, at least according to Ma.  He’s also definitely the type to get more easily swindled by an other-worldly triangle, if only because he’d be starstruck enough upon discovering one, and he’s much more likely to miss the fact that the end goal of said triangle was “end of everything.”

Shit.  Even his denial betrays him.

But heaven help him, it’s so, so possible.  Ford has never been good at reading people.  Stan always had to be the one to point out that the teacher was annoyed “all of a sudden” because Ford answered every single question and took the chance away from other students.  He had to explain that a date isn’t really something you bring your brother to, and that when Carla suggested a movie that night she wasn’t really inviting Ford.  He had to painfully explain that no, buddy, I’m sorry, that guy in third period wasn’t actually interested in the science fiction story you were telling him about, he was mocking you.

Find a guy good enough at conning, get Ford to trust him enough, and Ford absolutely would be the type to miss the obvious ill intent.  For himself, and for anyone else.

Stan leans forward, folds his hands together, and rests his elbows on his knees.  “Ford,” he says, looking up at Dundgren, “right?”

Obvious shock enters Dundgren’s eyes.  “Yes,” he says.

“Oh, how would you know that?” Lolph snaps.  Stan ignores him.

“Yeah,” he says, keeping his gaze on Dundgren.  “Sorry.  No thanks.”

It’s probably a dumb thing to say.  He probably has more wiggle room here if he hears them out, negotiates, tries to make this work some other way.  But he can’t do it.  He can’t open his mouth and say the words Yes, I’ll kill Ford.

The world’s dead anyway.  What does he care.

“No thanks?” Lolph snaps.  “You can’t just say no thanks.”

“Looks like I just did,” Stan says, leaning his hands behind his head again just to piss Lolph off.

“You understand you’re dooming the entire world,” Lolph says, standing up and clenching his fists at his sides.  “Everyone.  Everything.  All that’s happened will be your fault.”

“Lolph,” Dundgren snaps, drawing Lolph’s surprised gaze.  After a second of Dundgren glaring at him, Lolph sits back down, though he looks very unhappy about it.

“Please understand,” Dundgren says, turning back to Stan.  “Your brother has been under Bill Cipher’s thumb for several years now.  He has not been… receptive… to intervention.  If we thought there was an alternative way to stop him, we would try it.”

Stan raises an eyebrow and keeps his face stoic to hide another turn of his stomach.

He’s both seen and experienced what it is to be sucked too deep into something bad, and it’s not striking him as too surprising that the con Ford has gotten himself pulled into is of the long variety.  He’s also not sure how much background these guys did on him before allegedly saving his life, but all ‘under his thumb for several years now’ does is make him start thinking of everything he’s seen that finally broke someone out of it.

And, well, it’s Ford, isn’t it?  Sure, Stan’s a decade rough around the edges, which isn’t great, but he has plenty of experience steering Ford away from bad decisions.  Heck, it was practically his full time job when they were younger.  Maybe you’d look at the two of them and automatically think Stan would be the one getting them into situations, and yeah, he’d done that… a lot.  But Ford never exactly had a clean slate either.  He was always the one wanting to crawl a little further back into the cave they were exploring because “shut up, Stanley, I’ll definitely fit!”  He was the one who wanted to mix together those chemicals that the teacher said not to touch because he “had to see what would happen.”  He was the one certain that this time, someone definitely actually needed his help tutoring and they weren’t just trying to pull a practical joke that Stan would have to show up and beat people up for.

The point being, Stan knows how to help Ford see the common sense of a situation.  Sure, maybe “don’t end the world” is a bit of a step up from “don’t mix those chemicals,” but same principle.  Stan is nothing if not adaptable.  He can figure out how to get through his brother’s thick skull again.  He’s used to being needed for that.

He just won’t think about the implication of Ford being left alone to make terrible decisions, get taken advantage of, and mocked.  All by himself.  Without anyone to stand up for him or tell him otherwise.  Or cheer him up afterwards.  It’s fine.  Stan can slide back into that role again for as long as he’s needed there, until the world is safe.  Then Ford can inevitably get rid of him again afterwards.

Stan won’t think about those implications either.

“I understand,” Stan says aloud to Dundgren instead of any of this.  “Do you even understand what you’re asking me to do?  Have either of you ever had a brother?”

Something about the look the two of them exchange makes Stan wonder if the answer would be “Not only have neither of us ever had a brother, but ‘brothers’ as a concept doesn’t even really exist at our point in the future.”

Sure, okay.  But they understood enough that they didn’t tell him it was Ford right away, meaning either they think that Stan can be convinced to do something that horrible if he knows it’s in his own self interests, or they really are that out of options.

And, well, he’s more than a little insulted if it’s the first one.  But if they have more faith in him than that, why would they come to him if they aren’t completely out of options?

Wait.  Shit.

Stupid.

They wouldn’t.

Of course they tried to kill Ford themselves.  And considering the fact that Stan isn’t struggling to keep his composure at a funeral with a fully intact world around him right now, that means it didn’t work.   And something is keeping them from asking any of the other insanely desperate dying people in the falling apart world right now.  They really are that out of options, and Stan has just been ignoring how many cards he has in this interaction.

“We understand this may be distressing for you,” Dundgren says.

“That’s an understatement,” Stan snaps, because he can’t just switch on a dime.

“But please, consider the bigger picture here,” Dundgren says like Stan hasn’t spoken.  “Your brother died moments after the apocalypse began.  He’s going to be dead no matter what.  At least this way, everyone else gets to live.”

“And that includes you, for the record,” Lolph grumbles.

Stan pauses, trying to pretend like that’s actually getting through to him.  “I don’t— that’s not the point,” he says, adding a decent amount of hesitation to his tone.

“How is that not the point?” Lolph asks.  “Sure, you have to do one really awful thing, but you also get to save your other brother, and your sister-in-law and nephew, and, oh yeah, the entire rest of the world.”

“Hey,” Stan snaps, “watch yourself.”

“But he’s right,” Dundgren says, giving Stan a look part confused, part exasperated.  “If you know he’ll end up dead either way, and one of those ways results in exponentially more good, it’s the obvious choice.”

“I—” Stan pauses, as if he’s trying to consider that.  He shakes his head.  “Look, none of that matters, because I wouldn’t even know what I’m walking into.  This Bill guy could show up at any second to get the jump on me, or I could not have enough time to kill him, or I could end up too far away.  And I wouldn’t know how to fix it, I can’t even work those stupid things.”  He gestures at the third tape measure that Dundgren is holding.

“We’ve thought of all of that,” Dundgren says.  “This tape,” he holds it up, “will take you to just outside Gravity Falls, nine days before the apocalypse.  That gives you plenty of time even if you fail at first.  Given all that we’re asking of the time tape that it doesn’t normally have to do, this tape is a one-time use, but we’ll be right there if you run out of time and need to go back to where you started again.  You really shouldn’t need to, though.”  As he finishes, he clips the tape to an open spot on his belt.

“Nice to know you have so much faith in my capabilities as a murderer,” Stan deadpans, crossing his arms.  “What about Bill?”

“He only shows up when your brother falls asleep,” Dundgren says.  “We’re sending you back in the middle of the day.”

Stan looks down again.  He doesn’t have to pretend to feel nauseated at the idea of considering this.

“I— I don’t know if I can do this,” he says.  He pushes himself to his feet, and starts pacing back and forth between the chair and the table.

“We understand this must be difficult for you,” Dundgren says in an obviously fake attempt at sympathy.  “But you’ll be saving the world.  You’d be a hero.”

Stan almost breaks with a snort of laughter.  He’s never heard the word “hero” used to describe him before, and the fact that it’s being used in this circumstance is hysterical.

A different emotion will work better than hysteria, however, so instead Stan pastes on a glare, spins to face Dundgren, and marches over to jab his finger into his chest.

“Do not call me that,” he snaps.  “Maybe I’ll do your dirty work, maybe I won’t, but either way it doesn’t make me a hero.”

“It does,” Dundgren insists, even as he grabs Stan’s arms and pushes them down away from his chest.  “You’d be saving the world.  We’d never forget it.”

Stan looks down, trying to hide his face.  He doesn’t bother asking who ‘we’ is.

“Just,” he says.  “Give me a little time to think about it?”

“Of course,” Dundgren says, letting go of Stan’s arms.  “We have all the time in the world.”

Stan nods, and Dundgren steps away.  Stan’s stuffs his hands in his pockets, his stomach lurching in fear.

Dundgren and Lolph both step away, and Dundgren walks over and presses a hand to an unassuming part of the wall.  Something lights up, however, and a part of the wall slides back.  Dundgren and Lolph both walk through, leaving Stan in what’s now obviously a prison cell, with nothing more than his knuckle dusters, the photo from his car, and the time tape he just stole off Dundgren’s belt.

…

A quick examination of the thing reveals a preset destination glowing on the side, a separate screen with some text Stan can’t read that looks like it was attached (maybe that merger thing they were talking about), and a button on top.  Based on the way he saw Lolph use it to get them here, Stan would wager a guess that he pulls the tape out, lets the preset destination do its thing, and just hits the button on top.

The “one time use” thing isn’t ideal, but he doesn’t feel confident enough in his abilities to use these things he’s never seen before to know how to get to Ford with a regular one.

Welp, any second now they’ll realize the time tape is missing and come back for it, and jumping in with both feet has always been his strategy with this kind of thing, so…

Stan pulls the tape out, takes a deep breath, and hits the button.

The world around him vanishes with a jolt, and his stomach swoops as he looks around.  There’s a brief moment where it looks like he’s floating through a black void, and then he lands hard on something rough in what feels like the worst belly flop of his life.

He pauses and tries to take a couple deep breaths before he opens his eyes, and then he’s hit with the immediate strangeness of two sets of consciousness in his head.

Hey, says one internal voice, the one two weeks younger than the other who was probably in New Mexico a second ago.  What the fuck—

Calm down, the other one says back.  Just— calm down.

What?  No!  What the fuck is happening right now?  Are— are you a cop or something?

Hey, you don’t have to go slinging insults like that around!

Then, he feels the moment that everything that’s going on processes in the younger self’s head, all of the experiences shifting and merging until both internal voices are more or less on the same page.

Uh, excuse you, no, snaps the younger internal voice.  Did anyone consider asking me whether I felt comfortable with all this?  Why would I want to be stuck in here with a schmuck like me?  I hate that guy!

Hey, I didn’t really get a choice in the matter, did I? older voice replies.  Besides, nothing we can do about it now.

Nothing we can— are you kidding me?

It’s for Ford, idiot.  I’m trying to save his life.

There’s a stretch of silence from the younger voice, that lasts just long enough for the older voice to process the younger one’s acceptance.

Oh, he says.  Okay.

Something in Stan’s stomach churns for a second, and the nausea gets bad, and then, finally, both consciousnesses settle, and he leans back in his seat with a mind in agreement with itself.  In fact, when he focuses, the younger voice feels like it’s gone, which he definitely doesn’t have time to think about the implications of.

“Fuck,” he mutters.  “I definitely don’t want to do that again.”

His stomach doesn’t really stop churning, so he sits there for a minute and breathes.  After a moment, he stops feeling quite so much like he’s going to puke, and then he looks around.

He’s in his car.

“Oh, Stanley mobile, sweetheart,” he breathes, leaning forward and running a hand over the wheel.  “I’ll never leave you again.”

Out of curiosity more than anything else, he pulls down the visor.  A much cleaner, neater picture of him and Ford than the one he’s been carrying around in his pocket for the past day sits taped to it.

Actually, speaking of—

Stan reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the much more beat up, apocalypse-familiar version of that same picture.

Huh.  And the copy didn’t even cost anything.  Steal.

Stan looks down at the time tape, clutched in his right hand.  It’s smoking and sparking, and definitely looks like it’s used up its one use.  The destination listed on the built-on box (Gravity Falls, Oregon), glitches out and disappears.  Then the time tape vanishes in his hands.

Well.  One use, then.

Stan takes a deep breath and decides not to think about it.

He glances in the backseat, and sees three bags of potato chips that he hasn’t eaten yet, along with a fair amount of garbage that he threw out a couple days into the apocalypse.  Okay, so everything seems to be pointing towards the time tape working how it’s supposed to.  Which is good, because if it didn’t, he’d be pretty screwed—

Stan freezes, having turned to look out the front windshield.

Immediately in front of him is a dense woods the likes of which he hasn’t been able to see, much less appreciate, for ages.  But there they are, thick and vibrant pines that are a shade of green Stan had forgotten actually existed in nature.  He can’t see the end of them from where he’s looking.  He hadn’t grown up surrounded by woods, but his family had gone camping a couple of times in his childhood, and if the trees were a little bit thinner, he could have been in one of those woods now.

Stan pulls open his car door and steps out into the woods, aiming to walk over to a tree and touch one.  Before he can, however, he’s hit by cold.   The kind of cold you don’t get in a New Mexico winter.  He pauses for a moment, not having expected it.

One of the first things he learned after leaving New Jersey was that he should head south for the winter.  When all you’ve got is your car, winters up north can be deadly, and when you have a car, you get out of dodge.  The south may be hot and sweaty and miserable, but it’s less likely to kill you.  Call Stan a regular bird.

He can’t remember the last time he was actually somewhere cold, and this place feels like it’s itching for a snowstorm.

Stan bundles his jacket up closer around him and shuts the car door.  He makes his way over towards the closest tree, and runs his hands over the bark.  He feels more than a little stupid, but he does it anyway.

A bird whistles nearby, and Stan’s gaze snaps to the left to find a robin perched on a tree branch.  He watches as it tucks its head into its wing, shuffles its feet, and then all at once looks to the sky and flies off.  Stan keeps staring at the branch it was perched on for another couple seconds before he drags his gaze away again.

A couple hundred feet in front of him is a sign that reads: “Welcome to Gravity Falls: Nothing to See Here Folks.”

“Wow,” Stan mutters, “subtle.”

Though apparently this place is the location of the coming apocalypse, so maybe that sign isn’t so accurate these days.

Okay, focus.  He has no idea how time travel works, or how long he has before Dundgren discovers his time tape is missing.  He needs to head into town, figure out where Ford lives, go there, and… stop him from doing whatever the hell he does that causes the apocalypse.

Piece of cake.

Stan pulls open his car door again, climbing back into the significantly warmer air— probably leftover from New Mexico, because his heater hasn’t worked in ages.  He checks his pocket, and upon finding the keys, starts up the car.  Then, after a second of thought, he looks up at the fraying seatbelt.  He sighs, takes a moment to feel like a chump, and then drags it over against his instincts and clicks it into its buckle.  It would be the universe’s idea of a cosmic joke to kill him in a wreck on the way over to Ford’s.

The Stanley mobile hasn’t run well for a long time now, but compared to how she sounded during the apocalypse, she might as well be brand new.  Nothing shakes or groans when he pulls away from the side of the road.  He doesn’t have to start patting the dashboard in reassurance as he moves towards whatever’s on the other side of that sign.

Man, he also saved a ton on car repair.  Time travel.  Who knew?

Stan sees a couple birds flying across the road as he makes his way towards the town, and he pauses to look at every single one.  He never thought he’d be so captivated by birds.  God, it’s like he’s turning into an old lady.  When he’s almost reached the town, he sees a deer running through the woods on the side of the road, and he slams on his breaks so fast he scares it away.

(It’s not just that he hasn’t seen a deer in forever, either.  He could have sworn for a second the thing had two heads, but it’s gone too fast for him to say for sure.)

After that, Stan tries to force his gaze on the road, which to be fair, isn’t uninteresting.   There’s no huge potholes, crumbling shoulders, or rusting corpses of cars.  It’s a simple two-lane road like the ones he used to drive when he was trying to find a place to pull off into the woods to hide from someone.  He keeps expecting to turn a corner and find fiery pits of hell, which keeps not happening.

Finally, he turns one last corner and slams on his breaks so hard the car all but rolls over on itself.

He’s made it to Gravity Falls.

This seems to be some kind of Main Street, with a couple of things of note.  There’s a grocery store and a gas station to the right, a separate convenience store called Dusk 2 Dawn to the left, a town hall and a police station after that, and a place called “Greasy’s Diner” to the right that looks like it opened recently.  Stan’s eyes are drawn immediately, however, to the people.

There’s a couple walking down a sidewalk with a stroller, the dad peering inside at a baby and making cooing noises that Stan’s father would die before he copied.  A couple of teenagers are practicing a dance in an alleyway next to the convenience store, and doing a very bad job at getting in sync.  Two police officers are leaning against a cruiser in front of the police station, chatting in a way that clearly means it’s been a slow day for them.  Someone’s walking out of the diner, waving to a person inside with a delighted tone.  A man is walking a dog across the street, trying to pull it away from smelling a fire hydrant on the sidewalk.  And all of it is happening with such careless ease, like none of them are particularly worried about what’s happening or where they’re going next.  The normalcy of it all takes Stan’s breath away.

He’d forgotten what people looked like, when they thought they had more than a week to live.

Even before the apocalypse, he’d been surrounded by scared and desperate people, on the run from someone or trying to claw their way to a better life or just trying to survive.  None of the people here look worried about where their next meal is coming from, or where they’re sleeping tonight.  It makes Stan feel a little sick.

Stop.

He shakes himself.  Focus.  Ford.  You have a job to do.

Stan takes his foot off the break and pulls the car into the Dusk 2 Dawn parking lot, the first place on the left.  If no one here knows where Ford lives, he’ll try the diner or the grocery store.  He’ll probably drive around for a while himself before he asks the cops, though.

All of the heads in the store turn to face him as he walks in, and then all of them do a double take.  Stan glances down at himself, and finds he still looks like he’s been through an apocalypse.  His jacket is in tatters, his hands have several large scars, he’s pretty sure he’s got a couple on his face that he’s stopped thinking about, and he definitely hasn’t showered in far too long.

The merger tape thing couldn’t have healed all his apocalypse wounds and sent his stench back in time?  Thanks a lot.

Stan wraps his jacket around himself as best he could and starts towards the counter.  Story, story, come up with something that makes sense.  Something that won’t also send him to the cops or the hospital.

“Goodness, sir,” the woman at the counter says as soon as he gets close enough.  Her name tag just says ‘Ma.’  “Are you alright?”

“Oh yeah, I’m fine.  Sorry about the uh, jacket,” Stan says with a sheepish smile, as if the jacket’s his biggest problem.  “I’ve been driving for a… couple days straight.”

“Good heavens, I imagine you’ll be wanting some food, then?”

“No no, I stopped for food,” Stan thinks back to the squirrel, “a couple hours ago, I just need directions?  I’m here to visit my brother, he’s… in a bit of a mess.  Do you by any chance know where he lives?  His name is Stanford Pines.”

“Oh!” the woman lights up.  “You must mean the creepy science guy who lives in the— erm.”  She stops, looking sheepish.

Stan laughs.  “Don’t worry, I’ve called him way worse than that,” he says.  Granted, that was only in his own head or to tease him, but she doesn’t need to know that.  “Where does he live?”

“Up in the woods,” the woman says, seeming more than a little relieved.  “Somewhere on Gopher Road, I think.  I’m not sure where exactly, but I don’t think there are too many houses up there.”

Well, considering the whole ‘end of the world’ thing, Stan wouldn’t really be above knocking on random doors, but he’ll cross that crumbling bridge when he gets to it.

“Thank you so much,” he says, and turns to start for the door.  No doubt she’ll be glad to get his stench out of the store.

“Oh, sir!” she calls, pulling Stan’s attention back to her, a little surprised she’s still talking to him.

“Make sure you get some rest when you get to your brother’s house,” she says.  “Especially if you’ve been driving for days on end.”

Stan bites back a laugh.  He’ll have to convince Ford not to toss him back out into the dirt when he gets there.  Rest is the last thing on his mind.

“Sure thing,” he says anyway.  “Thank you.”

He ignores the stares from the customers as he walks back out towards his car.  The self consciousness at being smelly and unkempt was the first thing to go in the apocalypse.  He doesn’t really appreciate its return.

He drives as quickly as he dares through the rest of the main town, and then takes what seems to be the lone road out into the woods.  At least he knows where he’s going.

The closer he gets to Ford’s house, however, the more the realization settles in— he’s about to see Ford.   For the first time in over ten years.

He’d pictured how it would go countless times— good, with Ford saying he regrets letting Stan get kicked out, he wants to fix things between them, and (on the days when Stan really needs to delude himself) a hug.  Bad, with Ford snapping at him that he should have dropped him sooner, that Stanley only ever held him back, and (on the days when Stan really hates himself) a punch in the face.  No matter which version Stan ruminates on however, one thing is always the same; Ford is never the one in trouble.  Stan is either going there because Ford reached out, or he’s going there to desperately beg for help and get rejected.  He’s never gone there because Ford needs his help.  He’s certainly never gone because Ford got pulled into a dangerous con with an other-worldly being and is on the verge of ending the world.

Stan turns a corner and doesn’t see any house.

It’s fine.  The end of the world doesn’t mean he can’t do this.  He’s never dealt with a creature from an alternate dimension before, but he knows how cons work.  And that’s all that’s happened here; Ford’s fallen for a con.

First things first: find out whatever lie Bill sold him.  Next, poke holes in the lie.  The most important part is convincing Ford that getting tricked wasn’t his fault, and it doesn’t make him stupid.  Otherwise he’ll never listen.

Stan turns around another corner, but doesn’t reach the house yet.  Just how far away is this place?

He needs to bring up Bill as soon as possible, but ‘as soon as possible’ isn’t going to be as soon as he’d like.  These kinds of things take time, and Stan has nine days.

He jerks the car to a stop when he spots a mailbox labeled “618,” right next to a driveway.

He turns down the driveway, and stops next to the mailbox.  He opens the car door, pulls the mailbox open, and is met with a huge pile of envelopes.  He pulls one out, and finds a bill from a heating company labeled almost a month ago, made out to “Stanford F. Pines.”

Well.  That doesn’t bode great, but at least he knows Ford lives here.

Stan climbs back in his car, pauses, climbs back out and grabs the mail to stuff into his jacket, then gets back into the car and starts to drive for the house.  The nerves in his stomach increase as he does, leaving Stan almost feeling like he could throw up.

That Lolph idiot was right about one thing— so much is riding on him getting this right.  Not just Ford’s life, but also Shermie’s, Rachel and Ethan, Ma and Pa.  The woman he’d met at the convenience store.  The birds and two-headed deer he’d seen on the way here.  Rico.  Himself.

Stan drives over a hill, and a shack comes into view.  It looks, for a word, bad.  There’s boarded up windows, barbed wire spread around most of the property, and a harshly painted “Stay Out” sign.  The science gizmos and satellites outside the house would look relatively normal for Ford, but none of it looks like it has the fun Ford associated with mystery and weirdness as kids.  Instead, it looks like it was thrown up in desperation and panic.

“Moses, Poindexter,” Stan mutters, putting the car in park just outside the barbed wire.  Still, he doesn’t have time to waste.  He takes a deep breath, pulls his jacket tighter around himself, and steps out of the car.  He can’t quite stop himself from slipping his hands into his pocket to make sure his knuckle dusters are still there.  He doesn’t put them on, though.

Instead he picks his way past the one spot without barbed wire surrounding the property, and heads up towards the porch, ignoring the nerves that are bad to the point of nausea.

He can’t do this.  He can’t make this about saving the world.  He’ll crumble under the weight of it.  This has to be about saving his brother.

The good news is, that’s why he stole the time tape and ran from the only people who seemed to have any idea what was going on, so, head start there.

Stan takes a deep breath, then reaches up and knocks firmly on the door.  Once, twice, three times.

He hears a “Coming!” from inside, and his stomach swoops.

Arms down, fists loose, look non-threatening, get your showman smile ready, you can’t act like he’s working with a dangerous demon, he has to buy that you just happened to be here for some reason, you can do this you can do this you can do this—

The door opens just a crack, and catches on the chain.  An eye peeks out, and darts around.

“Uh,” Stan says.  The door slams shut again, and Stan hears what sounds like five bolts unlatching.  Then the door opens wide, and Ford is standing there.  And every thought as to what to say rushes out of Stan’s head.

He had accepted that he was never going to see his brother again as soon as the world went to shit.  It was over, he knew that.  There was no happy ending for them.  Ford was dead, Stan was going to join him very soon, that was that.  Stan has eighteen years of good memories that he’d fucked up by ruining his brother’s future, and that was all he’d ever have.  He hadn’t known that Ford was the one who ended the world at the time, that it was caused by Stan not being there to talk his brother through the fact that he was being conned.  And that made it fine.  As far as Stan had known, he was completely disconnected from whatever the hell it was that had ended the world, and he just had to prepare himself for the fact that he was going to die in less than a week.  It was fine.

It’s no longer fine.

Ford looks awful.  He’s wearing a torn and dirty looking trench coat.  His hair is a mess and his eyes look wild and crazed and he looks like he hasn’t eaten enough in far too long.  His hands are shaking, though the lack of scars and injuries at least puts them a step above Stan’s.  His gaze is darting around like he expects something to leap out of the woods and attack him.  He looks like someone a week away from the apocalypse.

Stan feels a little bit like he’s dreaming.  Not great for an incredibly tense opening moment that would hopefully lead to saving the world.  He needs to reconnect with reality and put his winning conman smile on.  He needs to convince Ford that he’s fine, he’s just here to… whatever the hell, catch up?  To get Ford to let his guard down, and he’s never been able to do that in his dreams.  Dream-Ford likes to torment him with everything he’s ever done wrong.

Evidently, Ford feels a little bit like he’s dreaming too, because he blinks at him, looking confused and suspicious.  “Stanley?”

Start with a smile.  You can do a smile.

Stan smiles.  “Hey—”

His stomach lurches, and he puts a hand up to his mouth.  “That’s not nerves.”

Ford blinks again.  “What?”

Stan whirls around, runs the two feet back to the edge of Ford’s porch, and throws up over the side of it.

“What on earth—” he hears in the background, but he doesn’t really listen to it.  He’s too busy searching for some kind of post to hold himself up with.

But apparently, it’s too far away for him to grab, because he leans dangerously far over the edge of the porch, and goes down hard into the dead grass, thankfully not landing right on top of his own sick.  He leans over onto his hands and upchucks the rest of what’s in his stomach, and then sits there for a minute, heaving out ragged breaths.

“Stanley?” comes Ford’s voice, followed by his footsteps and him leaning over to look at him from the side.  “Are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk,” Stan gasps.  The small amount of food in his stomach is gone, so he takes a moment to dry heave over the ground before he keeps going.  “I— I found this squirrel—” he’s stopped by more dry heaving.

“What?”

Stan manages to stop for a second, and pushes himself far enough to the side that there’s no danger of him landing on top of his own vomit when he flops back onto the grass.  “I guess I didn’t cook it well enough,” he mutters.

Ford gestures wildly in exasperation.  “Why would you eat a squirrel?”

“Why do I do anything!”

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just trying to visit,” Stan protests.  “I swear getting sick wasn’t part of the plan!”

“I don’t—” Ford drops his head into his hands and screams in frustration before yanking it back up to glare at Stan.  “For fuck’s sake, Stanley, why would you even try to visit?  What made you think I would want you here?”

“Wow, great to see you too, bro,” Stan says, trying to push past the sting that statement causes and refocus on the fact that he’s here to help his brother.

“I’m not— oh my god.   Get up,” Ford snaps, reaching down and grabbing Stan’s arm.  He yanks him to his feet, and Stan manages to hold himself steady after he does so.

“I uh,” he reaches into his jacket and pulls out the handful of envelopes.  “I brought your mail.”

Ford snatches it out of his hand and drags Stan up towards the house, seeming very unhappy about doing both.  They have to pause a couple times because Stan keeps dry heaving.  Eventually Ford drags him into the house and into a kitchen.  They stop in front of a sink, which Stan will admit is probably a better idea than trying to make it all the way to a bathroom, especially because he’s still trying to throw up his stomach.  He vaguely sees Ford lean back against the counter next to the sink, arms crossed and irritable.

If he wasn’t curled over the sink against his will right now, he’d probably be hiding his face anyway.  Why exactly had he thought he wouldn’t fuck this up right away?  It’s his specialty.

It takes his stomach a while to stop hating him, and when it finally does, he still ends up slumping weakly against the sink.  His head doesn’t feel amazing either.

“You done, then?” Ford asks.

Stan groans something mostly incomprehensible.  He stops for a second, forces himself to his feet, and mutters, “Sorry.”

Ford sighs, and Stan glances up at him, trying to gauge how pissed he is.  Ford’s not looking at him.

“It’s alright,” he says, and at least his tone sounds a little bit softer, if not much.  “Though I would have appreciated some warning of you coming.  I’m very busy.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, rubbing the back of his head.  “Bad move on my part.  I’m sorry.”

Ford looks back at him, and doesn’t say anything for a second.  Then a spark of amusement lights in his eyes, and he laughs incredulously.  “You really ate a squirrel?”

“It fell on the windshield of my car!” Stan protests.

Ford laughs again, short but genuine, and Stan huffs and crosses his arms as if offended, because choking down a relieved sob probably would come with some follow up questions.

“I just,” Ford says, shaking his head.  “Of all the ways I pictured seeing you again.”

“Yeah,” Stan mutters, smiling a little.  “Tell me about it.”

“Alright,” Ford sighs, his tone dropping back to professional.  “You probably have food poisoning.  The nausea is going to stick around for a while, so you should probably keep to lighter foods.”

“Way ahead of you.  I won’t eat anything.”

“That’s not what I said,” Ford says, rolling his eyes.  “I meant you should stick to things like crackers and toast.  I was going to go grocery shopping before you got here, there’s supposed to be a blizzard soon.”

“Uh, okay…?” Stan says, trying to figure out why that’s relevant to the first statement.

“You’ll also probably get some headaches—”

“Yeah, still way ahead of you.”

“And weakness,” Ford continues.  “And probably a mild fever.”

“Great, got it, thanks.  I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“We can do that tomorrow,” Ford says, crossing his arms, and definitely throwing Stan for a loop.

Tomorrow.  That poses problems for a couple of reasons.  The first being, he really shouldn’t waste any time.  He needs to find a natural way to reveal this Bill Cipher guy so he can learn more about him, and considering the fact that he only has nine days to figure all of this shit out, he really shouldn’t be leaving this soon after arrival.  But pissing Ford off by being a troublesome squatter (a sick one at that), immediately after seeing him again for the first time in over a decade, is likely to close more doors than it opens, even if it buys him more time in the house to snoop around.

No, he really can’t afford to piss Ford off.

So, after a second, Stan sighs.  “Tomorrow,” he says.  “Sure.  Wouldn’t want to interrupt your work or anything.”  With that, he turns to head back out to his car.  Maybe he can find a spot in the woods to pull into, just to save time tomorrow morning.

“Uh, where are you going?”

Stan turns to blink at Ford.  “Leaving?  I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“What are you talking about?  You’re sick.  Stan, there aren’t really any hotels in Gravity Falls.”

“Okay,” Stan says.  “That’s fine.  I’ve slept in my car, you know, before.”

“You’ve— Stan, don’t be stupid,” Ford says.  “You’re sick.  You’re staying here and going to lay down.”

Stan laughs.  “Okay, Ford, let’s chill out.  I’ve got food poisoning.  It’s not like I’m dying.”

“‘Chill out?’” Ford asks, sounding baffled.  “Stan, you shouldn’t sleep in your car if you’re sick.  There aren’t any hotels in Gravity Falls, and I wouldn’t expect you to drive back and forth from the closest one out of town.  Did you miss the blizzard that’s coming?  You’re staying here until you feel better.”

“What?  Ford, don’t be stupid, I can’t ask you to do that,” Stan says.  Except, now that he thinks about it, what would buy more time with Ford than being a sick invalid who needs to be taken care of.  And it’ll definitely let him snoop around.

“You don’t be stupid,” Ford says, giving him a firm look.  “Stanley, you’re sick and in Oregon in the middle of winter with a blizzard on the way.  I’m not letting you sleep in your car, for pete’s sake.  Come back here and lay down.”

Stan holds up his hands like he’s been beaten, and follows Ford when he heads for the edge of the kitchen and further inside the house.

“You uh, might want to check out that mail, though,” he adds on as they walk into the back entryway that Stan missed on his way in.  “I think one of ‘em is a heating bill that’s almost overdue.”

Ford grumbles irritably, but doesn’t disagree with him.  Instead, he walks them both through a living room, which looks like a hurricane tore through it.  It’s covered in scattered papers and books, and there are quite a few pyramid statues that Stan can’t figure out the purpose of.  Before he can think on that more, however, Ford leads him back through an empty hallway and into a separate room.  Inside is a couch with a lamp at one end of it, a stained glass window, an ugly shag carpet, and what looks like a connecting bathroom.

“Sorry about the couch,” Ford says.  “I used to have an actual guest room, but… now I don’t.  Plus, easy bathroom access.”

“It’s great,” Stan says, walking over to the couch and sitting down on it.  As soon as he does, he knows he’s not getting up for a while, and he can’t quite help flopping back with an exhausted sigh.

“Fuck,” he groans.  “Ford, you have a great couch.”

“Uh, thanks?” Ford says, not sounding sure how to feel about that.  “I’ll check on you in a bit, okay?  And I’ll… try and go grocery shopping.”

Well, Stan’s not sure exactly what that means, but between the apocalypse, the time traveling murderers, and the vomiting, he finds Ford has a point for once, and his eyes are already slipping closed.  He’ll have to start figuring out his next real step when he wakes up.

The last thing he sees before his consciousness gives up on him is Ford heading out of the room.

Chapter Text

It’s nighttime when Stan wakes up the first time, but not by choice.  Instead, he immediately runs for the bathroom, yanks open the toilet lid, and once again dry heaves over the bowl.

Sleep does not seem to have done him good.  His head is killing him, he feels faint and weak like Ford warned about, and he’s definitely got that fever.  He plans to stay in the bathroom for a half hour or so, just until he feels less nauseous, but he ends up falling asleep slumped against the wall opposite the toilet.  He’s woken the following morning to Ford shaking his shoulder.

His face looks a strange kind of concerned that Stan can’t remember seeing from him in ages.

“Hey,” Stan says, shaking his head a couple times to get some awareness back into it.  “You need something?”

“Did you fall asleep here?” Ford asks.

“I mean, not by choice,” Stan says.  “Hang on.”

He braces himself against the toilet to pull himself to his feet and takes stock.  Headache isn’t any worse than it was yesterday.  The weakness is a little better after sleeping, though the fever doesn’t feel much better.

“Alright,” he says, smacking his hands together.  “Grocery shopping, then?”

Ford stares at him.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“Yeah, that’s been established,” Stan says.  “So are we going grocery shopping?”

“You’re not going anywhere.  You’re staying here and resting.”

Stan barks out a laugh.  “Because of a headache and nausea?  Come on, Poindexter, you act like I’m on death’s door.”  If he could run for his life with the flu, like he had in his first winter homeless, or if he could beat up Rico’s goons with a stab wound, like he had in New Mexico, or if he could handle a week of an apocalypse, period, he could do a little grocery shopping with food poisoning symptoms.  There isn’t even anyone trying to kill him this time.

“But—”

“Look, don’t worry about it.  Just give me a pair of sunglasses and a bowl to carry around and I’ll be good to go.”

Ford looks a little disturbed at that, and Stan can’t figure out why.  He’s been through far worse than this, and he’s on a time crunch here— well, not that Ford knows that.

Unless— maybe Ford doesn’t want to go with him, which is fair.  Stan will probably be around a lot more than Ford wants him to be for the next nine days, but given the fact that Ford doesn’t know anything that’s coming, Stan feels hesitant to leave him alone.

“You need to eat something,” Ford says.

“I ate yesterday,” Stan says, waving him off.  “I’m good.”

“You threw up what you ate yesterday!”

“Exactly, so I shouldn’t eat more,” Stan says.  “We going or not?”

“I— no, you’re not.  I’m going alone.”

Stan narrows his eyes.  More than just a dumb idea, it looks like one that Ford hates.   He’s looking away and fidgeting with his extra fingers, which he always does when he’s nervous about something.

“You don’t look like you want to do that,” Stan says slowly, watching Ford’s face.

Ford hunches over, wrings his wrists.  He’s got a look in his eye like he’s talking to someone he knows has it out for him, and he doesn’t think he can lie well enough to get away.  He mutters so quietly that Stan has to strain to make it out, “He says they’re watching me.”

Uh.  Okay.

“He?” Stan says warily, wondering if that refers to Bill, or someone else.

That’s clearly the wrong thing to say, because Ford turns that paranoid look right on him.

Stan instantly holds up his hands.  “Okay, nevermind.  Look, what if I come along and look out for anyone watching you, okay?  You can handle all the actual grocery shopping stuff, and I’ll just… keep a lookout.”

Some kind of desperate relief enters Ford’s eyes, and he starts nodding before he even seems to realize he’s doing it.

“Okay,” Stan says, dropping his hands to his side slowly.  “Sounds like a plan.  “I saw the grocery store on the way in, do you want me to drive us there?”

Ford hesitates for a second, then nods again.

“Cool,” Stan says, pulling his keys out of his jacket pocket.  “Let’s hit it then.  You’ve got those sunglasses?”

Ford opens his mouth, then pauses, then winces.

“What?” Stan asks.

“I— sorry,” Ford says, and Stan blinks.  “I know how hypocritical this will sound.  But I think you should shower first, Stanley.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for a second as the words process in his head, and once they do, he looks away.  “Uh, yeah,” he mutters.  “Probably a good idea.”

It’s been awhile since he was actually ashamed of his general state.  No one in the apocalypse gave a shit because they weren’t doing much better, and before that he was too busy being on the run for his life from Rico and his goons to give a shit what he smelled like.  But it was definitely noticed by the people in the convenience store yesterday, and though they’re strangers, Ford is Ford, and Stan used to be the one forcing him to take a shower at least once a week.

“It’s upstairs,” Ford says, rather than linger on the awkwardness.  “I’ll show you.”

So Stan follows Ford back through the living room and towards the entryway from yesterday, where they go up a set of stairs across from the kitchen.  Ford leads them to a bathroom on the second floor, which is larger and nicer than Stan would have expected.  There’s a bathtub against the far wall, and a shelf attached to the wall next to it with towels.

“There’s shampoo inside the shower,” Ford says, stepping back into the hallway and letting Stan through.  “I’m going to go check the locks to make sure they’ll be good while we’re gone.”

“Or,” Stan counters, giving Ford a look that he tries to make come off as exasperated instead of concerned.  “You could go pay those bills, before whatever mailman Gravity Falls has stops driving up here due to the blizzard you say is coming?”

Ford hesitates.

“Very sick,” Stan says, forcing a couple coughs into his elbow.  “Don’t want to be up here in a blizzard without heat.”

Ford gives him a deadpan look, but nods.  “Fine.”

“Cool.  See you downstairs when I’m done.”  Stan shuts the door.

He makes quick work of his clothes, because once he actually starts to take them off, he realizes how disgusting they feel on his skin.  He’s not going to enjoy having to put them back on.

For now, though, he just climbs into the shower and turns the water on.

Okay.

Okay maybe Ford was onto something.

The hot water hitting his back feels better than the couch did last night, and that’s saying something, because Stan is pretty sure that couch is magic.

“Fuck,” he groans, tipping his head back into the water stream.  He ends up standing for what has to be at least ten minutes and lets the hot water soothe muscles he hadn’t even realized were aching.

Eventually, he remembers Ford is waiting downstairs and grabs the shampoo, sitting on a rack that’s hanging off the showerhead.  He scrubs his hair until his hands come through without dirt or grease sticking to them, and then scrubs the rest of his body down with his hands until it’s practically raw.

While doing so, part of his arm starts stinging, and he finds the cut Rico gave him, during their knife fight that feels like it happened years ago.  And, well, he should probably wash that, so he ignores the sting and scrubs at it until he’s not worried about it getting infected anymore.

He stands for probably too long under the hot water after he’s done, but eventually shuts the water off.  He’s not looking forward to putting his clothes back on.  If he wasn’t still nauseous and a little weak in the knees, he’d feel like a million bucks.  He doubts putting those clothes back on is going to help.

But to his surprise, when he steps out of the bathtub Ford’s left a change of clothes on top of the toilet, a long sleeved gray shirt, a sweatshirt, and a pair of sweatpants.  Before Stan can even consider how he feels about Ford loaning him clothes, he glances around to look for his jacket, and finds his old clothes are gone.

Stan grabs the loaned clothes and throws them on as quickly as he can, then tosses the sweatshirt over his arm and all but runs out the bathroom door and down the steps.

“Ford!” he yells, running for the steps.  “Hey, you didn’t put my jacket in the wash, did you?”

“No,” Ford calls back, sounding like he’s back in the kitchen.  “We can do that when we get home.”

Stan slows down with a sigh of relief, and makes his way down to the kitchen.  Sure enough, his jacket is sitting with his other clothes on top of a chair.  Ford’s putting what looks like a couple checks into envelopes, meaning he is actually paying those bills, which is good.

Stan picks up his jacket and sets it down on the table, then puts the sweatshirt down next to it.  It says BMU, and looks very much like a college sweatshirt, which makes something in Stan’s chest loosen.  At least his mistake hadn’t completely ruined Ford’s future.

…Though it’s not like “apocalypse-starter” is a great place to end up.

The sweatshirt does have one glaring problem though, that being that it doesn’t have any pockets.  Stan doesn’t want to wear his knuckle dusters in public, but it’s not like he can leave them behind.  And there’s no way he’s leaving the picture of him and Ford behind.  That thing followed him through the apocalypse, it stays on his person.

So after a second, Stan picks up the filthy, tattered jacket and slips it on.  The fact that it’s not going on top of other dirty clothes makes it feel a little better, and he can still wash it when they get back.

Ford gives him a look, and though he doesn’t comment, the look seems like he’s offended somehow.  Maybe he thinks Stan disapproves of his college or something?  Stan can’t imagine why he would.  He doesn’t even know what “BMU” stands for.

Eventually Ford moves on though, and stands as he picks up the envelopes with the checks in them.  “You ready?”

Stan nods, and as they step towards the car, Ford hands Stan a pair of sunglasses, and picks up a mixing bowl sitting on the counter.

Stan wears the sunglasses, but Ford ends up holding the bowl in the passenger seat, in case Stan needs to pull over quickly.  His stomach isn’t feeling amazing, but he hasn’t dry heaved yet this morning, and the shower helped too.  Maybe his stomach finally got the message that there isn’t anything in there.

Ford seems comfortable enough as they drive, though he doesn’t say much, not even about the frankly disgusting state of the car (even if it was worse off during the apocalypse).  He tells Stan about how far it is to the town, but otherwise just looks out the window, eyes darting back and forth searching for who knows what.  Stan’s not sure what Ford sees in the woods that he can’t see, but whatever it is, it’s definitely freaking him out.

Stan’s not sure what to say that might help him feel better, so eventually, he just keeps his focus on the road and keeps an eye out for anything obviously suspicious, like he told Ford he would.

Unfortunately, all the tension and paranoid stress in the car makes the drive painfully awkward.  Stan runs through a couple potential icebreakers just to give his brain something to do.

“So, how’s the ‘hermit in the woods’ life treating ya?”

“Hey, does Pa still hate my guts then?”

…“Hey, do you still hate my guts then?”

“You know, I thought I saw a two-headed deer in the woods the other day.  Crazy trick of the light, huh?”

Oh, forget it.  The world is doomed.

Ford speaks as they come up on a hill that Stan thinks he remembers as being close to the edge of town.

“We’re almost there.  Grocery store is on the left side of this street.”

“I remember,” Stan says with a nod.  He turns the corner, and pulls onto the town’s Main Street.  There’s a small parking lot attached to the grocery store, and Stan pulls into it.  He aims for one of the handicap spots, but before he can reach one, Ford reaches across the car and whacks him on the arm.

“Hey, what?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and we don’t need a handicap spot,” Ford says.

“Oh come on,” Stan says, “it’s not like anyone else is using it!  Both of them are empty!”

“That’s not the point of handicapped spots,” Ford says, giving him a disapproving look.

Stan grumbles under his breath, but changes course and pulls into a regular spot.  During the panicked looting throughout the first couple days of the apocalypse, Stan can’t think of a single person who’d given a shit about handicapped parking spaces.

He lets it go this time, and turns off the Stanley mobile.  Ford’s gaze is already darting around nervously, and Stan gives him what he hopes is a reassuring pat on the shoulder before stepping out of the car.  Ford steps out after him, and moves immediately to stand next to Stan as they start across the parking lot.

The grocery store looks small, which is unsurprising given the general size of Gravity Falls. There's a handful of shopping carts just inside the doors, and Ford rushes in to grab one. With the look in his eyes, it seems as though he’d been expected someone to steal them all before he could get to one.

“Okay—” Stan starts, before cutting himself off, and ultimately deciding not to acknowledge that.  He needs to pick his battles.  They walk in through the sliding doors.  “Whadda we need, then?  What’s left at the house?”

“Uh,” Ford says, looking around the store like he’s trying to scrutinize it for flaws.  “Not much?”

“Gotcha.”  Stan gives the store a quick once-over for anyone suspicious.  Unsurprisingly, there’s no immediate red flags, so he starts towards the first row and slips a jar of peanut butter into his jacket.

“Stanley.”

Stan glances back over to find Ford glaring at him.  “What?”

“Put it in the cart,” Ford hisses, gesturing down at it.  “You can’t just take things.”

Stan looks back at the peanut butter, a little surprised.  He almost hadn’t realized that’s what he was doing.  Right.  Fully functional grocery store in a fully functional society, in a tiny rural town that probably doesn’t expect much petty theft.  Apocalyptic raids also aren’t considered normal behavior yet.  Actually, that could work in his favor…

But for now, Stan puts the peanut butter in the cart with a sheepish smile.  Ford huffs in irritation, but steps forward to grab other groceries.  Stan can’t help but notice Ford puts a box of extra-sugary cereal next to the plain Cheerios he prefers.  He decides not to comment on this.  After all, their agreement is that while Ford collects groceries, Stan keeps an eye on the other customers in the store.  So, he pushes past the slight haze in his vision and gazes around.

There’s a red-headed woman with cat earrings picking up some flour at the end of the aisle.  A woman who looks like she’s there with her son is pulling said son away from a box of cookies, saying “Get out, get out,” in an exasperated tone.  There’s another young boy tugging on his father’s sleeve, looking like he wants to throw him the egg he’s holding like a baseball.  That’s not going to go well.  Overall, they seem fairly harmless, but Stan knows better than to let his guard down so easily.  It’s unfortunate Ford understands this now too.

They reach the end of the aisle when Stan’s eye is drawn to a man who wasn’t visible from the entrance.  He’s on the other side of the store, looking at the cantaloupes and muttering, looking almost as paranoid as Ford’s been acting.  He’s not moving towards them, just pulling on the sleeves of the red cloak he’s wearing and whispering something to himself.

Well, Stan’s goal on being lookout had been to show Ford there isn’t anything to worry about, but Stan’s not liking the vibes on that guy.  He’s about to turn and suggest that Ford go look for some noodles, when he sees Ford also staring directly at the guy, wide-eyed and panicked.

“Hey,” Stan says.  Ford jerks around to face him, startled, like he’s just remembered Stan is there.

“I got eyes on him,” Stan continues, and he nods down the aisle they’re now standing in front of.  “Go get stuff for pasta.”

Ford looks back at the man, and for a second seems like he wants to walk over to him, though that can’t be right.  Besides, what would the point of lookout be if Ford just walks up to the first crazy guy they see?  Then Ford ducks his head as if ashamed and quickly moves into the next aisle, out of sight.  Stan looks after him for a second, then back at the man on the other side of the store.  Maybe Ford said something rude to him one time?  He has always been bad at letting that stuff go.

Either way, Stan keeps an eye on the man as he gathers some fruit, though that’s more difficult than usual.  Even if he's still feeling nauseous, his mouth is watering at all the apples, strawberries, oranges, and more just… sitting out, ripe for taking.  The fact that Stan is going to actually pay for them is an insane thought.  He slips a couple apples and oranges into his jacket, just to keep the balance of the world in check.

He tries to steer clear of the muttering man along with everyone else, but at some point the man turns and looks right at him.  Both of their eyes widen, and Stan tries to decide if he can take him despite the slight shake in his legs.  But before he gets a chance to figure it out, the man turns to walk quickly in another direction.  Stan does the same.  He doesn’t want to stick around and find out what he wants, and he also doesn’t want to let him find Ford.

He meets up with Ford in front of the dairy section; Ford’s looking around again like someone’s going to steal the milk he’s holding, and Stan decides he’s not going to leave him to go off alone again.

“Hey,” he says, drawing Ford’s jumpy gaze, but thankfully not making him drop the milk.  “I got fruit.”

“Thanks,” Ford says.  Stan can hear him fighting to keep his voice level.  “I want to get some vegetables too, things for salad.  Do you still hate carrots?”

“I don’t hate nothin’ anymore,” Stan says.  Living on the streets beats a lot of sensitivities out of you, like food preferences or ‘allergies’.  “Get whatever you want.”

“You don’t hate anything.  Grammar,” Ford mutters, and Stan rolls his eyes.  “We should also stock up on toilet paper and toothpaste and shampoo.  Since we don’t know how long the blizzard will last.  Has your nose been bothering you at all?  Do we need kleenex?”

Stan shakes his head.  “Nah, I’m good.”

Ford nods to himself, then pauses like he’s remembering something.  “Let me know if you need to go back and rest, okay?” he says, turning back to Stan.  “I can come back later if I need to.”

“What?”

“You’re still sick?” Ford says, like that should mean something.

“Oh, come on, I’m fine,” Stan says, rolling his eyes.  Well, his head is killing him and his legs are shaking a little, but none of that is new.

Ford gives him a once-over.  “You don’t look fine,” he says.

“I can push through a little sickness, Ford, geez,” Stan says.  “We gettin’ ice cream or what?”

Ford doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a minute.  He almost seems like he’s concerned, which is honestly taking it a little too far.  Stan isn’t worth that.  Ford is the one worth pulling away from homework, or sci-fi novels, or nerdy weirdness research when he gets sick— he needs a sharp mind.  Nobody has to think that way about Stan.  A little food poisoning won’t stop him.  Especially not now, when he knows how to throw a punch whether the room is spinning or not.

Eventually, Ford must realize this, because he turns away and walks down the aisle a little bit to grab a tub of ice cream.  Chocolate, which is weird, because it’s Stan’s favorite, and he doesn’t like it that much.  Stan would steal another tub for him, but the ice cream would be liable to melt tucked up inside his jacket.  So instead he looks around for something else.  Across the aisle is a bottle of caramel topping.  And while Stan used to prefer to overload on chocolate by adding even more chocolate sauce, Ford tends to enjoy it.

Stan pauses for a moment, staring at it.  When was the last time he was grabbing Ford’s favorites at a grocery store?  He remembers tons of times he’d done it as kids.  The two of them had often made a game of it, trying to sneak each other’s favorites into the cart when Ma wasn’t looking, and hoping she bought them instead of taking them out of the cart when they inevitably couldn’t afford them.  Now that Stan thinks back, Ma probably knew exactly what they were doing, and just took pity on them one too many times.  But they’d stopped going to the store as they’d grown older, and gotten too old for games like that.

Stan never forgot Ford’s favorites, though.  He wonders if Ford still knows his.

He thinks back on the sugary cereal and a lump builds in his throat.  He stubbornly swallows it.  He glances around as he crosses the aisle, and when no one’s looking, tucks the caramel topping into his jacket next to the oranges.

A prickle rises on the back of his neck, and Stan spins around again, pulling the bottle back out of his jacket.  “Hey, I just don’t have a cart, I swear I’m gonna pay for this—”

No one’s there.

That is not a good sign.

Stan’s instincts don’t mislead him like that.  He’s had ten years of honing and perfecting them as his best tool to keep him alive.  If they tell him something is up, something is up, period.  If he can’t see anything obviously wrong, that means something is very wrong.

They need to get out of here now.

Stan makes his way quickly over to Ford.  “Hey, are we ready to hit the road?” he says, trying to keep his voice level now.

Ford glances back at him with a knowing glance.  “I told you to tell me if you couldn’t do this.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, look, do we need anything else?”

“I wanted to get some chicken and some Pitt Cola,” Ford says.  “But that’s it.”

The meat is in the freezer section close to the checkout, and soda is along the way.  That’s fine.

Stan sweeps his gaze around as they walk that way, looking for the reason his hair is standing on end.  He hasn’t found it by the time Ford puts several packages of chicken breast in the cart.

Stan's nerves are on edge as they head for the checkout and stay alert during the agonizingly slow process of scanning, paying, bagging, and walking to the car (which would have been shorter if they parked in handicap).

Stan helps Ford put the groceries in the trunk, still scanning the parking lot.  He walks him back to the door despite Ford’s weird looks, turns to walk back around the car— to see Dundgren lining up his gun to Ford's head from the shadows.

“Hey, Ford, check the glove box, would ya?”  Stan grabs the first excuse he can think of.  “I think I got an extra pair of shades in there— uh, here, you can have these back!  Shades are either there or in the back seat, keep lookin’ till you find ‘em, ‘kay?”

Ford gives him another weird look, but says, “Alright?” and ducks his head just out of Dundgren’s line of fire to look inside the glove box.

“Keep lookin’,” Stan calls over his shoulder.  “I’m gonna take the cart back.”

He walks fast towards Dundgren, and Lolph comes into view behind him.  Stan completely disregards the inside of the store, and walks with confidence until he puts himself right in between the car and Dundgren and Lolph.  He does not move, just stands there and stares them down.

Lolph scoffs, like Stan’s being ridiculous, and maybe he is.  So Stan pushes the cart over towards them, keeping it in front of his body as the best shield he’s got access to right now.

Dundgren doesn’t lower his gun from being aimed at the Stanley mobile as Stan approaches, but he does shift his gaze up to meet him.

“You should have known better than to try something this stupid,” Lolph says behind him, standing up straighter and crossing his arms.

“Oh, yeah?  I think you should have known I’d try something this stupid,” Stan says, raising an eyebrow.  “How much recon did you do?  Because it clearly wasn’t enough.”

Dundgren moves the gun threateningly, but Stan isn’t worried.  If they wanted to kill him, they’d have done it while he was walking over here.  They have to keep aiming at the Stanley mobile in case Ford moves his head.  But to hit him, they would have to kill Stan first, and that would alert Ford that something’s going on.

Still, he lowers his hands from the cart, discreetly slipping his fingers through the knuckle dusters in his pocket.  It’d be stupid not to.

“We thought that maybe the end of the world might make you not take such an unbelievably stupid risk,” Lolph snaps, sounding irritated that Stan’s still not looking at him.

Stan does respond to him, though; a slight smirk and a shrug.  “Always been a gamblin’ man.”

“Listen,” Dundgren says.  “I understand what you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to work.”

“Why, because you failed?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t think you understand how many times we tried,” Dundgren says, a definitely fake gentleness in his voice.

“Did you ever even manage to get inside the house?”

No response.

“Well, sounds like I’ve already got a leg up, then,” Stan says.  “You should back off and let me try.”

“There’s too much risk if you get things wrong,” Dundgren says.  “If your brother finds out what’s going on—”

“I’m not going to tell him,” Stan says.  “I’m not that stupid.  How would that even go?  ‘Hey bro, guess what, I’m from a future where you ended the whole world.  You wouldn’t happen to know why that is, huh?’  He’d stare at me like I was crazy.”

Dundgren and Lolph exchange a look, and Stan is definitely going to have to figure out what that means later, but for now, he slams the shopping cart forward into Dundgren’s stomach, eliciting a small “oof” and knocking the gun into the cart.

He reaches in and grabs it before they can process what happened, then points it right at Lolph, who’s got the other gun already aimed at him.

Stan sees Dundgren move the shopping cart behind them all and then look around, likely looking to see if anyone is watching them.  Stan can let him worry about that part, then.  He doesn’t seem to react in any way that indicates someone is, so Stan doesn’t move.

“Okay,” he says lowly.  “So how about we both put these down now?”

“Or what?” Lolph says, like an idiot.

Stan considers for a moment, and decides to take a gamble.  He turns the gun in his hands and presses it against the side of his own head.

Both of them react exactly how Stan expects them to— instant panic.  They do need him that badly.

Stan steps a couple steps back, out of their reach but still hidden behind the brick side of the grocery store.

“That’s what I thought,” Stan says.  “So are you going to let me try, then?”

Dundgren looks at Stan for a long moment, and Stan can’t read what he’s thinking.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.  “But I can’t.”

He looks at Lolph, and Stan has just a moment to wonder what that means before Lolph disappears, and reappears a second later right next to Stan.  He grabs the gun before Stan can process this, and disappears again.

Then he appears on Stan’s other side, and Stan jerks aside just in time to avoid a fist to the head.

He aims a swing back at Lolph, but Lolph vanishes before his fist can connect, and reappears to kick Stan in the back.

Stan stumbles forward and bites down a cry of pain, then dodges Lolph reappearing in front of him and aiming another fist for his head.

Okay, he needs to get rid of that stupid time tape.

Stan moves towards Dundgren, then makes a show of dodging to the side when Lolph appears again.

He does both things a second time to get Lolph comfortable with the pattern.  Then, when he moves forward the third time and Lolph appears to his left, Stan braces himself and takes the punch to his cheek.

His head all but splits open, but he forces himself forward anyway, taking in Dundgren’s surprised eyes and landing a kick right between his legs.

Dundgren hunches over with a surprised and pained gasp, and when Lolph turns to face him, Stan reaches forward and snatches the time tape out of his hand.

When Lolph turns to try and grab it back, Stan jerks to the side and swipes Dundgren’s off his belt, then hurls them both at the ground and stomps on them several times, until they’re both sparking and thoroughly broken.

He stumbles to lean back against the store and press a hand to his head, pushing out a couple of pained breaths and forcing his legs to stay upright under him.  The adrenaline is wearing off, and now Stan’s really regretting that punch to the head.

“What… what have you done?” Dundgren whispers.

Stan turns back to face them and finds them both staring down at the time tapes in shock.

“You can’t… we don’t have the tools to fix these,” Lolph says.

“Good,” Stan says.  “That’s what I was hoping.”

“But you didn’t— you can’t— what are we supposed to do now?” Lolph asks, turning desperately to Dundgren.

“Don’t worry,” Stan says, pushing himself off the wall.  “You can sleep on it.  Left hook!”

…

Ford isn’t looking in the glove box or the backseat when Stan gets back to the car.  Instead, he’s staring down at his lap, and a couple items in it.

He looks contemplative enough that Stan doesn’t bother with an apology and excuse why putting the cart back took so long.  Instead, he just climbs into the car and looks over at what Ford’s looking at.

He’s holding Stan’s 2-weeks-newer pair of knuckle dusters, a Grifter (the Grime Lifter!), and the picture that was taped to the back of the visor.

“Uh, you good Sixer?” Stan asks, pulling the door shut.

“Stanley,” Ford says.  His voice is shakier than Stan would have expected.  “Why does it look like you’re living out of your car?”

Oh, yeah.  Stan hadn’t really considered it when he saw a gun pointed at Ford’s head, but he did kind of give him free reign to poke around his car, huh.

But right now Stan’s head is still screaming at him from the punch, and the fight didn’t help how exhausted he feels, so he just sighs.

“Because I am,” he says.  He pulls his keys out and starts the car.

“Stanley,” Ford says, turning to face him with a pained expression.  “Why didn’t you—”

“This is for you,” Stan cuts him off, pulling the caramel topping out of his jacket and passing him over to Ford.

“What are you— I didn’t pay for this.  You stole it, didn’t you?”

“I stole a bunch,” Stan says.  He reaches inside and pulls out the apples and oranges too, now probably more than a little bruised from getting tossed around during the fight.

“Stanley,” Ford says, but it doesn’t really sound as harsh and judgmental as it would have at the beginning of this trip, which is what Stan had been hoping for.  Instead it just sounds upset and a little pitying.  Dammit.

“Let’s go home,” Stan says.  “Check if the mailman has picked up your bills yet.”

“Stanley.   We need to talk about this.”

“We really don’t,” Stan says.  “We have bigger fish to fry.”

“No, we don’t!  What fish?  How long have you been living in your car?”

Stan turns to face him at that, baffled.  “You were there.”

Ford looks at him for a second, puzzled, and then his eyes go wide.  He looks back down at the items in his lap.

“But— no,” he says, sounding confused.  “He— he said—” he stops.

“Who said what?” Stan asks.  “Pa?”

Ford, however, doesn’t answer, and instead gets very quiet and looks down at his lap again.

Stan looks at him for a second, then sighs.

“Honestly Ford, don’t worry about it,” he says.  “It’s nothing I didn’t do to myself.  Let’s just head back.”

He shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the parking spot.  He can feel Ford’s gaze on him, but he ignores it until he feels Ford look away again.

The sunglasses help a little, but the drive back is still murder on his pounding head.  Stan’s gotten good at hiding when he’s in pain, so he’s sure Ford doesn’t notice.  He does, however, swerve a couple of times on the road, and Ford definitely notices that, even if he doesn’t say anything.  By the time they get back to the house, he feels about ready to collapse.  Thankfully the mail has been taken, meaning they don’t have to head back into town to make sure they’re not going to lose power in the middle of whatever blizzard is coming.  

Stan helps Ford carry the bags of groceries in and puts them all away, learning the layout of the kitchen as he does.  Ford doesn’t say much throughout.

Once they finish putting stuff away, Stan says he’s going to lay down and retreats back to the guest room with the fantastic couch.

So.  Whether it was Bill who said it or not, someone is actually watching Ford, though it’s not the townspeople like Ford thinks.  It’s going to be hard to convince Ford he’s being paranoid if someone really is out to get him.  Trying to kill him, no less.  Maybe Stan expected these guys to show up at some point, and maybe he took the time travel element out, but that doesn’t mean things aren’t going to be more difficult now.

They can’t just stay cooped up in the house, isolated.  Well, they can because there’s a blizzard coming, but after that it’s a bad idea.  If Stan’s trying to break Ford out of a con, keeping him isolated in the woods isn’t a good choice.

But leaving the house doesn’t seem like a great idea either when there will be two time travelers actively trying to kill him.

Stan groans and shrugs his jacket off.  He pulls out the photo of him and Ford and his knuckle dusters, sets both on the couch, and hangs the jacket on the door handle.

Dang it.  He forgot the BMU sweatshirt in the kitchen.  He should probably put his jacket and clothes into the wash too, he doesn’t have any spare outfits.

He sighs, takes a deep breath, and prepares himself to push through his screaming headache a little while longer.  He reaches down and grabs his jacket, and heads back into the kitchen.  Ford is putting together a bunch of sandwich ingredients on the counter, but he must hear Stan walk in, because he turns to face him.

“Okay, seriously, go lay down,” Ford says, pointing behind them both.  “How hard is it to get you to rest when you’re sick?”

“Not enjoying a taste of your own medicine, then, Poindexter?” Stan says with a smirk.  Ford crosses his arms and doesn’t reply.

“Relax, I’m here to grab the clean sweatshirt you loaned me,” he says, picking up the BMU sweatshirt and draping it over his free arm.  “I’m gonna do some laundry and then go rest or whatever.  Where’s your laundry room?”

“So it’s only good enough for you when we’re not in public, then,” Ford mutters, completely ignoring Stan’s question.

“Uh.  What?”

Ford glares down at the table.  “Nothing,” he says.  “Laundry room is next to the bathroom, behind the living room.”

“Okay, no seriously, what,” Stan says, because he doesn’t have enough time to just let comments like that slide.  He’s been here over a day now and barely made any progress.  “What’s the ‘only good enough in private’ comment?”

“Well I know it’s not the greatest college in the world,” Ford snaps, gesturing at the sweatshirt.  “You don’t have to rub it in.”

Stan looks down at the sweatshirt.  “So this is your college sweatshirt?” he says.  He’d guessed as much, but Ford sounds really bothered by the fact that he didn’t wear it.  Where had Ma said Ford went to college?  Back at something?  His head is pulsing too hard to think of it.

“Obviously,” Ford says, rolling his eyes.  “What did you think BMU meant?”

“Big Majestic Unicorns,” Stan deadpans, as the first thing that pops into his head, in a hope to ease some of the tension.  It doesn’t work.

He sighs, and takes a minute to rub his forehead, which despite what he hopes does not help his headache.  “Look, Ford, I wore my jacket to the store because it’s easier to steal or hide stuff if you have pockets to shove it into.  I don’t give a shit where you went to college.”

Ford levels a gaze of cool fury at him.

“Uh, wait, no, that’s not what I meant,” Stan stammers, holding up his hands.  “I— shit, Ford, I didn’t even go to college.  I’m not trying to pass down some statement of judgement, or whatever.  I think it’s amazing that you even went.  You’re already leagues smarter than I am, we both know that, you don’t have to prove it to me.”

Ford sighs, and turns to look back at the sandwich ingredients he’s set up on the counter.  “Whatever,” he says.  “Laundry room’s where I said it is.”

Stan picks up his dirty clothes, still sitting on the chair, kicking himself.  He can’t afford to make stupid mistakes like that, he’s gonna lose enough time with this stupid food poisoning.

He puts on the BMU sweatshirt before he walks to the laundry room, but Ford’s turned around at that point, so Stan’s not sure he even sees it.

Chapter Text

Despite Stan’s lack of appetite, Ford makes him eat a roast beef sandwich.  He says the lack of appetite is a symptom, but that he still needs to eat.  Stan starts to protest the nausea, and then Ford asks when was the last time he ate something that wasn’t an undercooked squirrel.

Stan doesn’t answer the question and eats the sandwich instead.  The nausea actually gets a little bit better after, so maybe hunger was a contributing factor.  Not that he’s telling Ford that.

Shortly after lunch, however, Ford disappears.  He’s not in the kitchen or the living room, or anywhere else Stan has seen in the house so far.  Eventually, Stan starts to wander around in search of him.  

He checks the second floor first, thinking maybe Ford went to a bedroom or to take a shower.  But though he finds what clearly is Ford’s bedroom, and a spare room that looks oddly lived in, there’s no sign of Ford.  The third floor is just an attic full of boxes, so he heads back down to the first floor, which seems to be the biggest in the house, with a bunch of rooms he hasn’t seen yet.

There’s a sparsely decorated parlor, a room that seems to be dedicated to storage and botched experiments (which are labeled as such), and a large room near the back of the house that’s clearly a lab of some kind, full of in-progress experiments and papers scattered all over the place.  There’s a back door that leads outside, a ladder that he hadn’t seen upstairs which means it must lead to the roof, and, next to it, a high tech door that’s closed and locked.  There seems to be some kind of sciencey gizmo next to it, attached to the wall.

“The heck…?” Stan mutters, walking over towards it.  He peers at the scanner, trying to figure out what it is.  It’s got a red light and a weird glowy-sci-fi thing that looks straight out of a movie.  Then, as he stands there, something red lights up and scans his eye.

Stan yelps and jerks backwards.  The red light next to the scanner turns green, and the door swings open.

“Uh, okay…” Stan mutters.  “Sure.”

He steps through the door and turns to the left to find a set of stairs.  There’s a lantern hung on a hook above him that just barely illuminates a path to an elevator, but other than that, the passage seems barren, if shadowy and dark, like an entrance to a basement that really owns up to childhood fears of the steps.

“Ford,” Stan says to no one.  “You’ve got a secret bunker in your house.”

The next thought that pops into his head is one Stan really wishes hadn’t happened, but it’s there now: Apocalypse bunker?  Like the kind people build when they know there’s an apocalypse coming?

No.  Ford doesn’t know about the apocalypse.  That would mean he’s doing this on purpose, and if he is, Stan doesn’t know if he can stop him.  And if he can’t stop him…

Stan shakes the thought out of his head and starts down the steps.  The elevator is the only place he can go from here, so he hits the button and waits.  It doesn’t open right away, and takes long enough that it has to mean Ford’s on one of the other floors, but eventually the doors slide open.

The inside appears to be a relatively normal elevator, well, at least in the sense that any of this is normal.  When he steps inside, he sees three buttons.  The first level is lit up as the floor he’s on, and there are two others.

He hits 2, because he might as well take this one at a time.  The doors slide closed again, and the elevator rides down for a moment before opening again on a red door with a golden keyhole right in the middle.  Stan tries the knob.  Locked.

He knocks.  “Ford?”

No response.

“Hmm.”  Stan puts his hands in his pockets, searching for something he can pick a lock with.  He doesn’t find anything.  But even if Ford isn’t there, he might not ever get another opportunity to look inside, so after a moment’s hesitation, he hits the button for the highest level again and heads back upstairs.

It doesn’t take him long to find a paperclip, they’re scattered everywhere Ford has paper, which is also everywhere.

 He makes quick work of heading back down to the elevator, and hits the button for the same floor.  He knocks again when they open just in case, and when he hears nothing, sticks the key inside the lock.

Stan’s lockpicking skills are one of his pride and joys, so it doesn’t take long for him to hear a click, and then he turns the knob and pushes the door open.

He stops in his tracks.

Apocalypse bunker is starting to look more likely.

The whole floor looks like it’s just one room, and the whole room looks like it’s a shrine to the nacho chip that ended the world.  Directly across from the elevator are five massive tapestries with a design of Bill Cipher stitched onto them, orange flames alight in his hands.  Sitting on the desk to the right is a golden Bill Cipher statue with six hands, surrounded in flames and skulls and snakes.  There are pyramid prisms everywhere.  There’s a carpet with Bill stitched onto it right in the middle of the floor.

Stan takes a stumbling step back towards the elevator, trying to think of anything other than how this guy looked last time he saw him, deranged and hovering over the planet and creating his own shadow across half of North America.

Stan had seen when he reached out a finger to draw on the continent.  He’d seen it grow to incomprehensible size and reach out towards him.  He’d turned and sprinted in the other direction like a dumb animal, like his legs would make any difference against a creature of that size.  He’d slammed head first into Rico, and they’d both hit the ground just as the earth started to shake from the force of the canyons being carved into its surface.

Then Cipher had pulled out his teeth, and created the first and only time Stan and Rico had run from something together.

And now, despite the fact that tapestries and statues can’t possibly do anything of that magnitude, Stan feels that same “dumb animal” portion of his brain starting to kick into high gear.  He turns and runs back into the elevator, having just enough presence of mind to remember to hit 3 for the bottom level, so he can keep looking for Ford.  He keeps his eyes right on the tapestry across from the elevator until the doors close and shut it off from his gaze.  Then he hunches over, braces himself on the wall of the elevator.  Despite the fact that his nausea has gotten better since eating the roast beef sandwich, he feels a little bit like he’s going to throw up.

The doors ding pleasantly and open, and Stan forces himself upright, taking several deep gasping breaths and hoping Ford isn’t right on the other side of the doors.

Thankfully, Ford isn’t in the room he’s met with, and instead he sees a bunch of blinking consoles and gadgets and other science-looking boxes that he could not begin to figure out the purpose of.  There’s a viewing window at the other end of the room, across from the elevator, and a door to the right.  Stan can’t see Ford anywhere, but there’s definitely noises coming from the other room.

He steps out of the elevator, but instead of heading for the other room, he takes a couple steps to the right and hides behind one of the consoles.  He presses his back to it and takes several deep breaths, as deep as he can manage.

Calm down.  Ford does not want the apocalypse to happen.  Dundgren and Lolph are not right about Stan’s best option being to— to—

He can’t do it, he can’t kill Ford, he won’t be able to take it but he’s starting to realize that he also really can’t go through the apocalypse a second time.  And, well, that’s stupid, because he did it just fine the first time so what the hell is the issue?  It’s just a new kind of hell, Stan’s life has been hell for the past ten years there’s no difference—

Stan slams his head hard back against the console, which sends a splitting pain through it, made worse by the stupid illness and by the leftover fight.  He presses his head into his hands and tries to focus on how much it hurts in order to stop thinking about everything that’s sending him spiraling.

It doesn’t matter, is the point.  Stan is either going to convince Ford, who doesn’t know about the apocalypse, that Bill is bad news; or he’s going to fail, and he’s going to die, immediately, and he won’t have to worry about it.

He’s either safe or he’s dead.  Either option is fine, because it means he won’t have to pick his way through a dying world again.  It’s fine.

Stan’s head is still screaming at him when he pulls it up, but the darkness of the basement at least doesn’t make it worse.

He takes a deep breath in and tries to let it out slowly.  He mostly succeeds.

Ford doesn’t know about the apocalypse.  He’s at least 70% sure of that.  Lolph and Dundgren explained it as Ford getting tricked, which means he doesn’t know what’s coming.  Then again, they’d also said he’d been under Bill’s thumb for several years now.  Who knows what he’s convinced Ford of?

Stan puts his head in his hands again and takes another deep breath.  This one comes easier.

Maybe Stan doesn’t know what Bill is capable of, but he knows his twin, or at least, he’d like to think he still does.  Maybe Ford has a lot of bitterness towards the world, and maybe he has some fair reasons to.  It hasn’t exactly treated him well.  But that doesn’t mean he wants the world dead.   That doesn’t mean he wants everyone in it to die.  Stan has wronged him just as much as the rest of the world has, after all, and Ford took Stan in just because he showed up a little sick.  That has to count for something, right?

Stan takes another deep breath.  He was right when he thought he’d crumble if he focused too much on the world.  It’s already happening.  He has to stop.  He only has a little more than 7 days left before the end of the world, he doesn’t have time to convince a Ford who wants to end the world not to.  He has to act as if Ford doesn’t know the world is in danger.  That’s the only way he can imagine succeeding here.

He can do this.  He can do this.  Ford isn’t an apocalypse starter.  He’s a con victim, and Stan knows how to help those.  Or, well, he knows theoretically how to help those.

He can do this.

Ford’s probably in that other room, doing something important that Stan will need to know about for this to work.  Stan is going to stand up now, and walk in there on totally stable legs, and be totally fine and willing and ready to focus on what’s going on with his brother.

He can do this.

Here he goes.

…

“Uh, Ford?”

Ford screeches, and jerks around, holding up a blowtorch towards Stan like it’s a weapon.

Stan leaps three steps backward.

The room is almost barren, made of the rocks and dirt of the ground, with wooden beams holding it up and connecting it to part of the house.  It is just almost barren, though, because Ford is standing in front of a massive structure shaped very similar to the nacho chip that ended the world.  There’s two metal circles built into the floor and the ceiling in front of the triangle structure, creating two cylinders put together.  There’s also a manual override in the corner to his right, probably for the triangle structure that sits, hovering over them and adding a tension to the room Stan’s pretty sure isn’t natural.

And all of that is totally fine.  None of it is even remotely bad or terrifying, Stan is just Ford’s normal stupid brother and there’s nothing about this he understands and that’s definitely not the machine that caused the apocalypse.  (What else could it be—)

Ford himself has a welding mask over his face, and as he processes who’s standing in front of him, he lowers the mask and pushes it back, staring at Stan like he almost can’t comprehend what he’s doing there.  He turns off the blowtorch and sets it down at his feet.

“Stanley?” he asks, baffled.  “What are you— how did you— you’re not supposed to be able to get here!  How did you access this room?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Stan says, normally and with a very level tone of voice.  “I looked at the weird sci-fi door scan thing and the light turned green.”

“You looked at— we have the same eyes,” Ford mutters, smacking himself on the forehead.

“Yeah?” Stan says, wondering what the heck that means.

“There’s only two sets of eyes that scanner is supposed to work for, but we have the same eyes,” Ford says, rolling his eyes and clearly exasperated with himself.

Two sets.  Bill?  Someone else?  Please be someone else.  It’s probably not someone else.

“Ah,” Stan says.  His voice shakes.

“Well,” Ford says with a sigh, turning back to face the triangle structure.  “This was supposed to be secret until it was finished, but you’ve obviously seen it now.”

“What is it?” Stan asks.  He clenches his hands into fists, digs his nails into the palms of his hands, and focuses on the sting in an attempt to ground himself.

“It’s a transuniversal gateway,” Ford says, a large note of excitement entering his voice.  “A punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension, done via a portal that can access others.  I’ve created it with the help of— well, I’ve created it to unlock the secrets of the universe!  And it’s almost finished!  I just have to do final tests on the consoles, make sure no one who’s watching me gets in my way, and it’ll be done!”  He turns to face Stan again, obvious delight on his face.  “Stanley, can you even imagine the good it will do?  The things we can learn, the new science we can understand, the advancements we can make for humanity as a whole!  And I got to be the one to make it!  Isn’t it amazing?”

It’s terrifying.

Stan opens his mouth, trying to make something come out.  But all he can think of is the look of the sky when it caught on fire and the laughter of Bill Cipher as he flew away from the planet, as if the destruction he left behind was a delightful little inside joke.

Some small part of his head registers that Ford was excitedly talking about all the ways he’s going to use this machine for good, so he’s definitely not aware of the apocalypse it causes, which is a good thing.   But the problem is, Stan doesn’t have the time to slowly ease Ford into all the danger this thing is going to do.  Not to mention the fact that he’s pretty sure if he tries to convincingly lie about how amazing it is right now, he’s going to throw up again.

Stan squeezes his fists tighter.  He’s pretty sure he draws blood with his nails.

“Stanley?” Ford asks.  There’s a hesitation in his voice, like he’s suddenly nervous.

Wow, Stan’s about to look like a huge jerk, huh.

“It’s definitely— impressive,” he says, putting a very obvious ‘but’ into his tone.  Ford’s face falls, and Stan has to hold back a wince.

“Ford,” he says, as gently as he can manage.  “This thing— it sounds like it could be really dangerous if it got into the wrong hands.”

Ford’s face switches from hurt to pissed faster than Stan can blink.  “Well, I suppose it could,” he snaps.  “What, do you just not trust me?”

“It ain’t you I don’t trust,” Stan says.  “Just— have you thought about precautions?”

“Oh, you’re right, I should do that,” Ford says, crossing his arms.  “How about something like, I don’t know, keeping it in an underground basement that very few people can access?”

“I already got down here when I wasn’t supposed to be able to,” Stan points out quietly.

“Well, I guess if we have an evil triplet Ma and Pa never told us about, that’d be cause for concern.”

“Or if you know someone who knows how the scanner works and doesn’t want you to, uh, succeed,” Stan says.  “Someone who’d know how to bypass it.”

Thankfully, that actually seems to get through to Ford for a second, though Stan’s not quite sure why.  But after a second, Ford scoffs.

“I guess in either of those extremely specific instances I’d have to be concerned, but do you really have to say that right now?” he says.  “Moses, Stanley, I thought you could be happy for me for once.”

“Listen, I— wait, for once?” Stanley snaps, despite himself.  “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”  Sure, there’s the obvious example, and he’d be surprised if they aren’t both thinking of it right now, but Stan has no idea how that makes for once come into the equation.  The perpetual motion machine was the exception, not the rule.  Just because Stan fucked up one time in a truly epic way doesn’t mean that he’s been a horrible brother to Ford all their lives.

“You know what it means!” Ford says, taking an angry step towards him.  “You’ve always been like this!  You just steal and lie and—”

“Ride on your coattails?” Stan growls.

Ford stops for only a second.  “I mean you— you showed up here sick,” he protests weakly.

“I offered to get the hell out of dodge pretty much immediately, Poindexter,” Stan says, crossing his arms.  “You were the one who insisted I stay here.”

“Because I’m not going to make you sleep in your car in the middle of a blizzard!”

“Oh please!   It’s not like you cared the countless other times I did that!  What makes this time so special?”

“I didn’t know!” Ford snaps.  “He told me you were fine!”

“Who?  Pa?  Why the hell are you believing him?”

“Not Pa!  It was—” Ford stops suddenly and shoves his hands over his mouth, eyes going wide.  He looks like he can’t believe what he just said.

Stan pauses, honing in on Ford’s face.  Not Pa?  Who else on earth would he give authority to in regards to how Stan had been doing?

Ford lowers his hands slowly, still looking surprised at what just came out of his mouth.

Oh, goddammit.

He means Bill.

Ford asked Bill how he was doing.  And Bill said he was fine.  And Ford believed him.

“Who, then?” Stan asks, not snapping anymore.  He doesn’t really sound as calm as he’d like, though.

“No one,” Ford says faintly.

“Ford—”

“No. One.  Get out,” Ford snaps, turning back to the portal behind him.  “You’re not welcome down here.”

Dammit.  Dammit.

“Ford, look, I’m sorry—”

“Out!” Ford screams, but he doesn’t turn around, just clenches his hands at his sides.

Stan swears under his breath, but turns and leaves.

Way to go, idiot.  Maybe next time you can fistfight him instead.

…

Ford doesn’t come upstairs until he makes chicken noodle soup for dinner, and he doesn’t speak except to tell Stan that he has to eat the soup.  It does help Stan’s stomach, and the weakness goes down significantly.  Now he’s just dealing with an abysmal headache from one part food poisoning, one part fighting, and one part breakdown and slamming his head against a metal console.

He’d give up the improvements, however, in order to avoid the awkwardness of the dinner.  They both sat at the table and didn’t say anything, just ate the soup and ignored each other as best they could.  As soon as Ford finished, he put his bowl in the sink and left the kitchen immediately.  Stan did both of their dishes once he finished his own food, and already knew that he’d be giving Ford a wide berth afterwards.

Tomorrow morning he’d have to go and find him and make some kind of apology stick in a way that doesn’t dismiss his statements about the portal.  But tonight, he needs to let Ford cool off.  He won’t hurt from some time to process what he’s learned, either.

After he finishes the dishes, he turns out the lights downstairs and heads back to the guest room.  He starts pacing across the shag rug rather than lay on top of the couch.  If he spends any amount of time laying down he’s pretty sure he’ll pass out.

So.  What has he learned?

He was right.  Ford doesn’t know about the apocalypse, which makes Stan’s job significantly easier than if he was trying to cause the end of the world.

The thing that causes the apocalypse is a giant interdimensional portal in the basement.  The portal must be how Bill gets access to this dimension, meaning Stan is fighting all of his instincts that are currently screaming at him to take a sledgehammer to it.

It seems like a straightforward solution, but he can think of several reasons it’s bad.  He doesn’t know how to take it apart safely, for one.  The last time he interacted with one of Ford’s inventions, it didn’t go great.  He doesn’t want to do anything without Ford’s explicit permission this time.  Knowing him, he’d just make things even worse.

Ford has also clearly put his heart and soul into that thing.  They’re going to have to destroy it, if they want the world to be safe.  But Stan… he’d love to not be the one to do it.  Not again.  If Ford starts powering it up, sure, he’ll go find that sledgehammer, and establish himself as exactly what Ford was yelling earlier that he is.  But if he can get Ford to agree to take it down, it’ll go smoother, and he won’t get tossed back into the coming snow while Ford just marches right back down there to rebuild it out of spite.

He also won’t hate Stan even more than he already does, but that’s a small perk, barely worth mentioning.

And that’s about all he’s learned, Stan’s pretty sure.  No second basement floor with a creepy shrine to mention, nope.  He’s not gonna think about that.  That won’t go to good places.

Oh, yeah, and then there’s the whole “it really seems like Bill lied to Ford about Stan being fine and Ford believed him” thing.  That thing.  Paired with Ford’s reaction when he learned Stan has been living out of his car, Stan doesn’t know what to think about it.  He doesn’t know if he wants to think about it.  If he tries, he’ll start making this about Ford not hating him, because that’s exactly the kind of selfish piece of shit he is.  He needs to let it go.  This isn’t about getting Ford to stop hating him.  Ford’s never going to stop hating him.  That’s not the goal.  The goal is to make his brother realize he’s been conned, and get him out of that situation so he can go back to the life he’s made for himself, without Stan around to screw it up again.  Then Stan can go back to his own cons and grifts and scrape his way through life, and probably die young and abandoned by the world, but do it knowing the world is safe and his brother is safe in it.  That’s the goal.

So.  First thing tomorrow, he goes and apologizes to Ford, gauges his reactions.  Maybe brings up the “who told you I’m fine” thing again to get started on the Bill conversation, but only if Ford seems open to it.  Then maybe he helps Ford get the house ready for a blizzard, tries to exist in the same space as him and sees where it takes them.

On his third day here.  With less than seven days to go.

It’ll be fine.

A loud thump sounds from somewhere outside the guest room, drawing Stan out of his thoughts.  He glances up.  That sounded like it came from somewhere upstairs.

“Ford?” he calls, hesitantly.  “You okay?”

He stands up.  He pokes his head out of the guest room, flicks on the hallway light, and listens for a response.

Instead, he hears a burst of crazed laughter, followed by a loud crash.

“Ford?!” Stan yells, sprinting for the living room.  That sounded like a bad fall down the stairs.  He scrambles around for the lightswitch, but can’t find it.

Another round of laughter comes from over near the front door, and suddenly Stan hears the crack of a neck snapping up too harshly.

Looking at him from across the dark room are two glowing yellow eyes.

“What the fuck,” Stan whispers weakly.  Despite himself, he takes a step back.

“Whoo!” yells a voice that is very decidedly not Ford, but also makes the yellow eyes slightly less scary.  “I tell you what, I’ll never get sick of pain!  It’s hilarious!”

Stan left his knuckle dusters back in the guest room.  He looks desperately around for something he can use to beat whoever the hell this is back out of the house before he gets upstairs to Ford.  But the only things scattered around seem to be books, and he’d have better luck with his bare fists, so Stan hoists them up.

“Out of the house, buddy,” he says.

That just gets more laughter in response.

“Stanley Pines,” the person says, and Stan freezes.  “Why, I was starting to think we’d never get to meet!”

“Who are you?” Stan says darkly.  “How do you know that name?”

“Oh, I know lots of things!   Like how you’ve tripped your way into a second chance at a timeline!  But I’m getting ahead of myself!  We haven’t even been properly acquainted!”

There’s a click from across the room, and the lights go on.

Stan, for a moment, isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

Because across the room is Ford, with bright yellow slitted eyes and a too-wide smile that looks nothing like his brother.

“Wh- who,” Stan says.  “What…?”

“Aww, so shocked?  I thought you’d be more open minded after going through an apocalypse!  How was that, by the way?  Did you have fun?  Did I finally show your dimension how to party?”

Stan swallows.  “Bill Cipher?” he guesses, managing to keep his voice level.

“Wow, never would have thought you’d be anywhere close to as smart as that brother of yours!  I almost like ya!”

How the hell—

Lolph and Dundgren had said he only shows up when Ford is asleep.  When he’s—

Moses.  Did Ford make a deal with an actual demon?

“Now now now,” Bill-in-Ford’s-body says.  “I know we have a lot to discuss.  You want to grab a Pitt Cola?  I love to pour it in my eyes!”

“Uh, what?” Stan asks, partly because he’s genuinely thrown off and partly because it’s probably smart to seem stupider than he really is.

“Ah, just come into the kitchen!  We can chat!”

He turns and marches Ford’s body off before Stan can say anything, leaving Stan no choice but to chase after him.  He’s not leaving Ford alone with that thing in his head.

When Stan reaches the kitchen, Bill’s hunched over a counter and shoving something in his coat.  But as soon as he sees Stan, Bill grins at him and starts to spin Ford’s body around like a top, slamming him into the table, the fridge, and various spots on the counter.

“Hey, stop!” Stan snaps, running forward until he can grab tightly onto Ford’s arm, and hold Bill in place.

Bill just laughs.  “Man, I just don’t understand you humans!  Why do you not want to throw yourself in painful situations all the time?  The sensations are just beautiful!”

“Sit down,” Stan snaps, marching him over to the table.  “If you want to talk, sit still.”

“Hey, whatever you say, pal!” Bill says, swinging Ford’s body towards the chair, but overshooting it and falling off the other side.  Stan just manages to catch his head before he hits the floor and forces him into a sitting position.

“So,” Bill says, folding Ford’s hands together as Stan takes a seat close enough to grab him again if he needs to.  “You’re the Stanley Pines from the timeline after I liberate your planet!”

“Liberate?” Stan asks, staring at him.  “Everyone’s dead!”

“Oh come on, that was gonna happen to all you humans eventually, wasn’t it?  You can’t blame me for wanting to get on with things!”

“You killed my brothers,” Stan growls.

“Look, it was a mistake, kid, relax.  You know about those, don’t you?”

Stan clenches his jaw and doesn’t reply.

“Look, if you want to get technical, I haven’t killed anyone yet.  But don’t worry, I can see what happened through your head, and I know what went wrong.  I just didn’t grab old Sixer fast enough!  Whoopsie daisy!  But listen, I can understand your concern, and I tell you what.  I’ll make sure to grab him first this time, before I do any snacking!  Sound fair?”

Stan stares at him.  “I… honestly don’t know what you’re saying right now.”

“Oh, it’s simple!  I,” he puts his hands on Ford’s chest as if to gesture at himself, “need you,” he gestures at Stan, “to back off!  That’s all!”  He shrugs and folds his hands back together.

Stan snorts.  “Yeah.  Sorry, no thanks.”

“Stanley,” Bill says, shaking Ford’s head.  “I don’t think you realize what you’re throwing away here!  I’m offering to save your brother’s life, just like that.”  He snaps his fingers.  “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

Stan doesn’t say anything, just looks at Bill for a moment.

“You know what, I don’t usually do this, but I’m in a good mood,” Bill says.  “I’ll save both of your brothers.  Take them both up to my Fearamid palace in space and keep them as pets!  And I take very good care of my pets.  You can be assured of their long lifespans.”

Stan still doesn’t say anything.  He’s finding himself a little baffled.

“Look, buddy, I can’t keep a one-sided conversation going forever,” Bill says.  “If you want to negotiate, let’s negotiate.  But two brothers is the max freebie.  I’m not in that much of a good mood.”

Stan has had a couple images of Bill Cipher in his head up until now.  First, he was some kind of ancient eldritch horror that ended the world that Stan could never hope to understand.  Then, he was the other-dimensional being that tricked Ford into ending the world.  He was also the image on the tapestries that Ford made, almost some kind of fucked up deity to worship.  Just now, he’d been starting to become the demon that possessed his brother while he was asleep and helpless to stop him.

But that hasn’t lasted through this conversation, because honestly?

Bill Cipher is just such an ordinary shitty conman.

The way he’s talking to Stan is exactly how Stan talks to people who’ve figured out his cons, but who he also thinks he might be able to swindle just one last time.  “Okay, you caught me, you know what I’m about, let’s make one last deal to make this work for you as best we possibly can.  Because we both know I’m a piece of shit, so how can you get the best possible deal with me, the piece of shit?”

Okay, easy Stanley.  Don’t underestimate him.  You knew he was a conman going into this.  Just because you can see through him like glass right now doesn’t mean he’s not still hiding things.  Plus, he’s still in Ford’s body, and he definitely threw him down the stairs earlier.  That’s not ordinary conman behavior.

But still.

“It’s… hilarious you think that would work on me,” Stan says.

“Who said anything about it working on you?” Bill says.  “I really would rescue your brothers.  Heck, I’m pretty fond of old Fordsy all on his own.  And I bet he makes the prettiest scream when he finally realizes what I’ve done with him.  Why would I want that to end?”

Stan takes a slow, calming breath and gives Bill an even look.  “I’m not making any kind of deal with you.  I’m stopping you, and you don’t get anything out of that deal.”

Bill grins at him.  “Pretty bold claim you got there.”

Stan shrugs.  “If I’m wrong, I won’t live long enough to be embarrassed.”

Bill laughs.  “Alright, alright.  No bargaining, then.  I’ve got another idea.”

He stands, and Stan immediately does the same, moving closer towards him.

Bill, before Stan can reach him, sticks his hand inside Ford’s trench coat and pulls out one of the knives from over on the counter.  Dammit, Stan should have noticed that’s what he grabbed.

He takes a quick step back, but realizes a second too late that he’s miscalculated.

Because Bill slams Ford’s hand down on the kitchen table and swings the knife down toward it.

“No!” Stan screams, but Bill’s moving too fast to stop even if he decided to himself.  So Stan does the only other thing he can think of, and sticks his right hand in between Ford’s and the knife.

He cries out at the sharp pain, but he’s been stabbed in much worse places, meaning he still has the frame of mind to yank his hand back before Bill pulls the knife out of it.

Instead, he pulls it out himself, grits his teeth at the second wave of fuck shit ow, and levels a glare at Bill.

Bill, for one, looks delighted.  He starts laughing, eyes shut and head tipped back in joy.

“Oh, this is going to be fun ,” he says, as he finally pulls himself together enough to speak again.  “But unlike you, I’m not on a time crunch!  I just have to run out the clock!  I think I’ll let Fordsy sleep now, maybe pop in on his dreams!  We’ll revisit all his worst memories of you!  Then it’s your move, Stanley Pines!”

Before Stan can say anything, Ford’s eyes roll back in his head, and he slumps forward.  Stan steps forward just fast enough to catch Ford in his arms.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and for a minute doesn’t move.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, not Ford or Bill or your hand.  Just— just get Ford up to his room.  Deal with the rest tomorrow.

Stan checks Ford over to make sure Bill didn’t give him any more obvious injuries before throwing him down the stairs.  He seems to be fine in that regard, so Stan hoists Ford into his arms and carries him upstairs, back towards the bedroom that had seemed like his when he was poking around.

He sets Ford down on the bed, covers him up, and heads to the bathroom to wrap his hand.  Hopefully it doesn’t need stitches.

I’m not on a time crunch!  I just have to run out the clock!

Don’t think about it.

I bet he makes the prettiest scream when he finally realizes what I’ve done with him.

Don’t think about it.

I’ll save both of your brothers.  Take them both up to my Fearamid palace in space and keep them as pets!

Don’t think about it.

I don’t think you understand how many times we tried—

Stan grabs a handful of bandages, wraps them as tightly and quickly as he can around his hand, and all but runs out of the bathroom, down the steps, and towards where he’d spotted the landline earlier, in the kitchen.

He dials the number Ma gave him and listens to it ring once, twice, three times.  It goes to voicemail.  He calls again.

This time someone picks up on the fourth ring.

“Ford, for pete’s sake, when I said I wanted you to call me more, I didn’t mean—”

“Shermie?” Stan asks desperately.  The other side of the line goes dead silent.

There’s a long enough pause that Stan says again, “Shermie?  Are you there?”

“Stanley?” Shermie breathes, like he doesn’t know if he can believe it.  “Is that really you?”

“It’s me,” Stan confirms.  “I— I just needed to talk to you.”

“Stan, you— I mean, of course, but— where have you been?  Are you alright?  You’re with Ford?”

“Yeah,” Stan says.  “I’m trying to… well, you know.”  Sure, let him think this is a reconciliation thing.  It’s easier to say than the truth.

“Oh,” Shermie says softly.  “Stan, I’m so glad.”

“Yeah,” Stan says again.  He clenches the phone tightly in his hand, and feels another sharp pain come from it.  He switches hands, and looks down to see he’s bleeding through the bandages, and they’re already falling off.

“You uh, you got caller ID?” Stan asks, shifting the phone to his ear so he can at least pull the bandages back around the wound and hold them there.

“Yeah, I wanted to know when Ford was calling,” Shermie says.  “I’ve been trying to get him to do that more.”

“Damn,” Stan says.  “And here I was all set to start prank calling you again.”

Shermie laughs a little bit, and Stan manages a small smile himself, even if Shermie can’t see it.

There’s another pause, and Stan feels the tension stretch back over the phone line.

“How’s it going?” Shermie asks quietly.  “With Ford?”

“Uh,” Stan says, “bad, I think.”

“Oh.”  There’s another pause.  “Can I help?”

“Nah, that’s okay,” Stan says.  “I never had high expectations, I just… had to try to talk to him.”

“Well hey, don’t give up yet.  He cares about you, you know.  He misses you.”

Stan gives a bitter laugh.  “No he doesn’t, Sherm,” he says.  “But that’s sweet.”

“Hey, I mean it,” Shermie says.  “Talk to him about the important stuff.  Don’t just hope everything will work itself out.  Tell him you’re sorry.”

“Yeah.  Maybe.”

There’s another long stretch of silence.

“Ma says you’ve still got that little terror running around, yeah?” Stan says.  He feels a lump start building in his throat.

“I do,” Shermie says, a note of pride entering his voice.  “Ethan’s almost twelve now.”

“Man,” Stan says.  “Time flies.  Last time I saw him, he was…” he trails off.

“Stan,” Shermie says.  “Come meet him.  When you’re done with Ford.”

Stan sniffs, and keeps talking before either of them can acknowledge it.  “Nah, I— I shouldn’t, Sherm.  I’ve got, you know, a full plate.  Always do.”

“I want you here,” Shermie says firmly.  “Come meet your nephew.”

Stan pulls the phone far away from his mouth and sniffs again.  He takes a couple deep breaths to compose himself, and puts the phone back to his ear.

“—still there?” Shermie is saying.

“Shermie,” Stan says, “can you do something for me?”

“Of course,” Shermie says.  He sounds surprised to have been asked.

Stan swallows, squeezes his eyes shut.  His throat aches.  His hand screams at him.  “Can you leave?”

There’s a baffled pause.  “What?”

“Not for long.  Just— just a couple weeks?  Take Rachel and Ethan and go east.  Go visit Ma and Pa, maybe?  Just— just get out of the American west altogether.”

There’s another pause.  “Stan, are you feeling alright?”

“Please,” Stan says, in lieu of an answer.  “Please, Shermie— Sherman, please.  I need you to do this.  I can’t tell you why.”

“Stan, what’s going on over there?”

“Nothing.  I’d just feel a lot better if I knew you and your family were with Ma and Pa.”

Shermie doesn’t say anything.

“If you do,” Stan says.  He swallows.  “If you do, I’ll come meet Ethan.  I’ll— I’ll call you when, and I’ll come meet Ethan, okay?  I promise.”

“Stan, that’s not fair.”

“Please.”

Another pause.  Stan holds his breath.

“Okay,” Shermie says finally, quietly.  “I can take time off in three days.  We’ll drive out there.”

Three days means they’ll have four days to get there.  They’ll make it.

“Thank you,” Stan says.  His voice comes out far shakier than he wants.

“Stan, are you okay?” Shermie says.  “No, actually, that’s a stupid question.  Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, Sherm.  I think we just need a little space to work stuff out.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“…Yeah.”

One last long pause.

“If you need me,” Shermie says.  “You call me.  I’ll drive right back there.”

“Okay,” Stan says, knowing he won’t ever call him.  Not unless he doesn’t fail.  “Sorry I woke you up.”

“Hey,” Shermie says.  “I missed you.”

“…Goodnight, Sherm.”

“Goodnight.”

Stan hangs up the phone.  He looks down at his hand, which is now wrapped in bright red bandages.  He sighs, and goes upstairs to look at his hand better.

It’s definitely going to need stitches.

Chapter Text

Stan sleeps far later than he should.  He wakes up and sunlight is streaming through the window above the couch.  His hand still aches.  It’ll do that for a while.  Stan will have to use his recently-washed jacket, which thankfully smells better than it has in years, to hide the bandages.  Heh.  Look at him hiding his hands from Ford.  That’s almost funny.

Checklist, day 3.  Apologize to Ford.  Definitely don’t do the “who told you I was fine” talk.  Ask if there’s anything left to do before the blizzard hits.  He can do this.

Stan pushes himself to his feet, and ignores every part of him screaming at him to lay back down.  His food poisoning symptoms seem mostly gone, but they’ve gifted the unhelpful aftereffect of leaving him fucking exhausted.

But, well, when has he not been that?  Either way, he has to do this.

Stan starts to make his way towards the kitchen, only to stop at the edge of the living room when he hears Ford’s voice.

“Yeah, he showed up a couple days ago.  He had food poisoning.”

Pause.

“He ate a squirrel.”

Another pause, which Stan can somehow tell from here is exasperated.

“I know, right?” Ford says, with more than a little bit of laughter in his tone.  “Like, you think he’d change at least a little bit in ten years, wouldn’t you?”

Pause.

“Well, I— I don’t know, actually.  I mean, he… doesn’t seem super willing to tell me anything, except… Sherman, he’s living out of his car.”

Shermie.

Shermie called Ford too.  Of course he did.  And now Ford’s telling him that he’s living in his car.

Dammit.  Stan needs them to leave.   He needs to know they’ll be safe if the apocalypse— well, safe for as long as possible.

“I— I don’t know,” Ford says.  “Obviously I don’t want— I just don’t know if I can.”

Obviously he doesn’t want what?

“But you can’t do that!” Ford exclaims.  “I mean you— you can’t afford that!”

Okay, Stan has no earthly idea what they’re talking about now.

“Wait, you’re what?”

Pause.

“He asked you what?   Why?”

Pause.

“He… oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Oh boy, that doesn’t sound good.

“No, he’s worried about this thing I have in the basement.”

Shit.

“No, he shouldn’t be!  I—”

Pause.

“What do you mean you’re doing it anyway?”

Stan slumps weakly against the living room wall, relieved.  He means he’s still leaving, right?  He has to.

“Why are you indulging him?  He’s being unreasonable!”

Ouch.

“No, I haven’t visited Ma and Pa in— Sherman, I don’t want to see Pa.”

Pause.

“That’s not fair.”

Pause.

“Why do you always take his side?”

Long pause.

“I— hey, I didn’t mean—”  A sigh.  “I’m sorry.”

Pause.

“I… I think so.”

Pause.

“Maybe you’re right.  I… alright, I’ll try.  And… thanks.  For talking with me.”

Pause.

“Yeah.  Yeah, call me when you get there, okay?  It’s… nice to hear from you.”

Pause.

“You too.  Bye, Sherman.”

The phone is set back on the hook.

Stan waits for another minute or so, and walks quietly back to the other side of the living room, before increasing the volume of his footsteps so Ford knows he’s coming as he walks towards the kitchen again.

As soon as he sees Ford in the kitchen, however, he stops like he hadn’t been expecting him there.  In reality, he’s taking in the way Ford looks.  He’s hunched over the table in obvious pain, a cup of coffee and a bowl of cheerios in front of him.

“I— hey,” Stan says.  “Are you— did you fall out of bed in your sleep or something?”

“Yes,” Ford lies.  “But I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Stan asks.

“Yes, he’s just not— I mean, I’m just not used to moving around in— while I’m sleeping.”  Ford gestures with his hand as if to dismiss it, then winces and rubs his back.  “It’s… a new development.  But it’s not going to be a problem.”

“Yeah,” Stan says, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets.  He swallows past a lump in his throat.  “Okay.”

He starts over towards the cabinet with the bowls, and uses only his left hand to get it out, then walks over to the pantry and gets the extra sugary cereal out, then struggles for a moment to open the box.  It’s weird, having to hide an injury.  Normally people don’t give a shit, but Ford would definitely have questions.

Eventually, he gets a bowl of cereal, and sits opposite Ford at the table, then starts eating with only his left hand, which feels awkward and hopefully doesn’t look too weird.

He’s trying to come up with the most effective way to apologize to Ford, when Ford speaks up first.

“Hey,” he says, and Stan glances up.  “Look.  I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Stan blinks.  “What?”

“I wish you hadn’t shared your concerns right then, but…” Ford sighs.  “I get it.  If you’re not used to this kind of thing, it can be, you know, scary.  And maybe you had a point about it falling into the wrong hands.”

Stan stares at him, trying to figure out what the heck to make of that.  Never in a million years had he thought Ford would apologize first.  Especially not if Bill was serious about a fucked up trip down memory lane last night.

Ford looks up at him, a little expecting.

Shit.  Say something.

“I— yeah,” he says.

Way to go.

“I mean, I’m sorry too,” he adds on quickly.  “Really.  That probably wasn’t the best way to go about that.  It just freaked me out a little.  You’re right, it’s really not my wheelhouse.  Sometimes big scary triangle things are scary.”

Ford laughs a little bit.  “Yeah,” he says.  “I think I was just hoping you’d be as excited about it as I am.  You aren’t the first person to be freaked out by it.”

“I’m not?” Stan asks, genuinely surprised.

Ford looks away.  “I had an assistant for a little while,” he mutters.  “He… left.  Recently.”

There’s a lot of tension and backstory packed into left.

“Shit, Ford, I’m sorry,” Stan says.  “Were you, you know, close?”

“He was my college roommate,” Ford says.  And while that doesn’t really answer the question, Ford’s face sure does.

Stan doesn’t know what to say to make that better, so after a moment, he takes another bite of cereal.  But then, Ford speaks again.

“He betrayed me.”

Stan coughs the mouthful of cereal back out into the bowl.  “He what?”

“He just quit,” Ford says, clenching his hand around his spoon until Stan’s half worried it’s going to bend in half.  “Right as we were about to succeed.  We were testing the portal, and he fell through, and—”

“Woah, what?”

“—and he told me I had to destroy it!   My life’s work!  Think of all the good we could have done with it, and he just wants to toss it aside!”

“Woah, hey, Ford, slow down,” Stan says, holding up his hands.  “He fell through it?”

“I— yes,” Ford says.  He looks away.  “We probably should have put up a safety bar or something.”

“Ya think?”

“But he got the first glimpse of another world, Stanley!  And he just threw it away!  He wouldn’t even tell me what he saw!”

“I mean, yeah,” Stan says.  “But…”  He pauses, trying to figure out how best to word this.  He has a feeling Ford said something like this to his assistant, too, and if that’s the case, he’s pretty sure he knows what happened.

“Okay,” he says after a second.  “Do you remember when we found that rabid dog, in the junkyard back home?”

Ford stares at him like he’s grown a second head.  “Yes?”

“We’d never seen anything like it before, yeah?  And you were gonna walk right up to it and try to figure out why it was acting all weird for a dog, and I was more unsure about it, and I made us go home?”

“Yes?   What’s your point?”

“We asked Ma about it, and she explained about rabies, and said it was good we left, because it was dangerous.  And you said you wanted to go back because you still wanted to study it.  And I freaked out when you said that.  I would only let you go once we put together that, like, full body armor suit in case the dog tried to bite you.”

“Yes, I remember, Stanley, what are you talking about?” Ford asks, sounding exasperated.

“Ford, you kind of have this thing you do, where when you find out something is dangerous, it makes you that much more interested in it.  And Sixer, I love that about you, okay?  But not everyone does that.  Most people, when they find out something is dangerous, just freak out and get scared.”  Stan gives Ford his best “really listen to me” look, and says the next part slowly and gently.

“Ford, I think your assistant needed to hear ‘okay, let’s go build a full-body armor suit,’ and you said ‘nope, we’re going right back to the junkyard.’”

Ford opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.  He closes his mouth again, and looks down at his cheerios.  “I— I wasn’t trying to—”

“Hey, I know,” Stan says.  “You wouldn’t, not on purpose.”

Ford doesn’t say anything else for a long moment, and eventually Stan takes another bite of his cereal just to cut the tension.  Stan doesn’t say anything else either, and they both finish their breakfast in silence.

Finally, Ford stands, carries his bowl over to the sink, and mutters something about having important portal work to do.

Well, at least he’s not hiding it anymore.

Stan has a feeling that for now, at least, he won’t be welcome to help, so he lets Ford go and decides he’ll check on him in an hour or so.  He glances over at the dishes.  There aren’t that many there, but Stan has a feeling the hole in his hand won’t agree with the water involved.  He’s given himself stitches before, but not often enough to get good at it, and he’s pretty sure the ones he did last night aren’t exactly something a professional would approve of.

Still, if he’s going to do them one handed, he should do them now, when Ford’s not around to question it.

Stan shoves his injured hand in his jacket pocket, and starts over towards the sink.  But just as he’s about to start stacking the bowls so he can scrub them without having to pick them up, there’s a snip that comes from somewhere near the porch and then a sudden, harsh noise from outside.

Stan drops the bowls, slips his hands into his pockets to grab his knuckle dusters, and moves quickly next to the window.  Then he peeks his head around just enough to look out of it, and there, at the edge of barbed wire, is a two headed deer, caught in between the coils.

Stan blinks, rubs his eyes, and looks again.

Nope.  Two headed deer.

“Okay,” Stan sighs, and turns to head out the back door, to hopefully help the stupid freak of nature get free of the wire.

He peeks through the peephole of the front door, but just as he’s about to open it and head outside, something moves that isn’t the deer.

Stan pauses, considers for a second, and heads back to the kitchen window.  He peeks around just far enough to see the deer, and waits.

Something moves again.  Something that looks suspiciously like a futuristic time travel gun.

Stan groans and walks back to the front door.  He slips his knuckle dusters on, but makes no show of being quiet or subtle as he undoes all of Ford’s five locks, then pulls the door open.

“Get out,” he yells, putting as much exasperation into his voice as he can.

Neither of them show their faces.

“Ford is down in the basement,” Stan says.  “And will be there for a while.  He’s working on that futuristic portal thing you could have warned me about a little better.  Now if you want to kill me, go for it, but I tried that already and you didn’t like it.  I’m going to free this deer-adjacent creature, and you’re going to come back another time.”

“Stan,” calls Dundgren, though Stan doesn’t see his face.  “Please listen—”

“I can and will keep Ford down in the basement all day,” Stan snaps.  There’s a couple seconds of pause.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Dundgren says.

“Fine,” Stan snaps, reaching the deer who is at this point freaking out.  “Whatever.  You obviously can’t get past this stuff anyway.”

The deer tries to lean away from him, but Stan leans forward to carefully grab the wires and pull them apart enough so that it can sprint back into the woods.

As soon as he starts to do that, Dundgren fires his future gun at the ground behind Stan.

Stan yelps and spins to look at it, but the deer sprints off unharmed, and the gun wasn’t aimed anywhere near him.  He turns back to Dundgren and is about to ask what the heck that’s supposed to accomplish, when something snaps behind him.

Stan jumps back, spinning around to see whatever was shooting from the house.

Some kind of crossbow mechanism seems to be receding back into a slit in the wall, and an arrow has hit the spot right where Dundgren fired.

Before Stan can even figure out what the heck that means, he hears rapid footsteps coming at him from the other side, and he spins back around to find Lolph and Dundgren both running for him.

Stan swings a fist on instinct, and hits Lolph hard in the jaw.

Lolph cries out and jerks backwards, then presses a hand to the spot that Stan hit.  Apparently it’s harder to fight when you can’t dodge all of the hits with your magic time tape.  So much for all his fancy muscles.

Dundgren aims a fist at Stan too, but neither of them pull out their guns.  Stan’s not sure if it’s because they don’t want to seriously hurt him or they don’t want to let Ford hear that something’s happening, but either way he’ll take it.

He dodges Dundgren’s fist and aims an uppercut at the same spot on his jaw, which makes him stumble back with a wince, but doesn’t hold him back for as long as Lolph.

And unfortunately, that means that both of them come at him simultaneously.  Stan manages to dodge Lolph, but gets a fist in his left eye from Dundgren.

Stan’s head snaps back, and his ears start ringing.  He swears, but he has much more experience pushing past pain than these two.  He shakes his head out to get rid of the ringing and aims another shot for Lolph—

Only for Dundgren to grab him and pull them both backwards, away from Stan and back past the barbed wire.

“What, you bailing in the middle of a fight, you cowards?” Stan spits.

A second later, he gets his answer, as he hears a click from behind him and turns to see the crossbow, armed, but sliding back inside the house.

Wait.  So that thing senses motion based on approach?  Why hasn’t it been going after him this whole time?

“We have the same eyes.”

Oh.  Nice.

Not a great indicator of Ford’s mental state, though.

Stan turns to see Lolph and Dundgren retreating back into the woods.  He waits a bit after they’re gone, but they don’t come back.  So instead, Stan heads back inside to find some ice to put on his eye before it starts swelling.  Looks like that headache is coming back.

He’s in the kitchen, wrapping some ice in a paper towel, when he hears a loud slam from the other side of the house.  He jumps and whirls around, and is about to put his knuckle dusters on again when he hears Ford yell “Stanley!”

A second later, Ford runs into the kitchen, looking frantic.  “I was working and I couldn’t hear the alarm going off, but it says something was shot at outside the house, are you—”

“Woah, chill,” Stan says, holding his hand up, and shoving his injured one back in his pocket.  “It was a deer.  It got caught in the barbed wire.  I went out to try and help it and your crossbow thing went off.  You might want to—” he stops mid-sentence.  He’d been about to say, “change the sensitivity on that thing,” but if it keeps Lolph and Dundgren away, he definitely shouldn’t, not yet.

“What happened to your eye?” Ford asks, pointing at it.

“Oh,” Stan says.  He presses the ice up to his left eye.  “It uh, kicked me in the face.”

“It kicked you in the face?   Stanley!”

“I’ll be fine, Sixer, calm down.  I’ve dealt with way worse, trust me.  Besides, I have a more important question.”

“More important than getting kicked in the face by a deer?  Is it— wait, why did the crossbow go off?” Ford asks, now sounding confused.  “If something gets caught in the barbed wire, that’s not close enough to set it off, it shouldn’t have fired while it was running away.”

Stan nods, starting to put the pieces together.  “Is it on a timer?”

“Yes,” Ford says, sounding unhappy about it.  “About ten seconds.  I’ve been trying to fix that, but it has to reload automatically—”

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” Stan says.  “The distance was probably some flukey thing.  But none of this is my question.”

“Oh.  Okay,” Ford says, turning back to look at him.  “What’s your question?”

“Why the fuck did that deer have two heads?”

Ford blinks, and then understanding fills his eyes, and then, strangely, delight.

“Oh!” Ford says, beaming at him.  “Because this is Gravity Falls!”

“I… don’t know what that means.”

“It’s— well it’s because things here are a little—” Ford looks up at Stan’s face and stops suddenly, hesitant.  Then, as Stan watches, a wall comes up.  “Nothing.”

“What?  What do you mean nothing?” Stan asks, crossing his arms and taking care to hide the bandage on his hand.  “You were practically jumping up and down a second ago.”

“Well, it’s just… more things like the portal in the basement that you hate,” Ford mutters bitterly, looking away.

“Wait,” Stan says.  “I don’t hate—” he stops, because man is that untrue.  He does hate that thing.  He was thinking just last night about how much he wants to go find a sledgehammer to introduce it to.  He’s terrified of that thing, and he wants to shut it down, and he knows exactly what will happen if he doesn’t; it’ll mean Ethan won’t get to see his 12th birthday, and Ford won’t get to live any kind of life he wants, and Bill will probably hunt down both of his brothers and do horrible fucked up things to them, and Stan won’t be able to stop it because Bill definitely won’t save him and he’ll definitely be dead, and Stan hates that thing.

But he can’t say any of that to Ford.  Especially when the look on Ford’s face is less “you have serious problems with the thing I made” and more…

“I don’t hate it because it’s yours,” Stan says, the only thing he can think to say.

Ford looks back at him, and Stan can’t tell what he’s thinking.

“Look,” Stan says after the silence stretches on too long.  “If you don’t tell me why the deer has two heads I’m just gonna have to go find out myself.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ford asks, looking a little amused.  “How are you gonna do that?”

“I’ll go ask it.  And then when it says nothing because it’s a deer, I’ll poke it with a stick until I figure it out.”

Ford snorts.  “You’re just gonna get kicked in the face again,” he says.  He looks down, but he’s smiling a little bit this time.

“Well, looks like you have no choice but to explain yourself, then,” Stan says.  “Unless you want your poor, sick, and now injured brother to be even more brutalized by the cruel, cruel, world.”

Ford laughs.  “Dumbass.”

Stan grins.  “You know it.”

“Fine,” Ford says, exasperated but fond.  “Come here, then.”

He leads Stan back towards the basement.  Stan does an excellent job of ignoring the nerves that come with approaching the portal again, and Ford skips them right past the second floor anyway, which means there’s zero reason for Stan to be bothered at all, and so he’s not.  When they reach the first floor, however, they don’t actually go into the room with the portal in it.  Instead, Ford walks right over to the desk and picks up three books that are laying on top of it, then gestures back towards the elevator.

“I uh, made these,” Ford says as they do.  For a second, he holds them a little closer to his chest.  Then Stan watches him take a deep breath, and he hands one over.  It’s a bright red book with a golden, six fingered hand on the cover, painted with a number 1.

“Please don’t look at them without my permission,” Ford says quietly.  “But they detail the kinds of things people can find in Gravity Falls.  You can look at that one.”  He gestures to the journal Stan is holding.

Stan hides his bandage with the book and opens it to the first page.  He finds an introduction from Ford, dated about six and a half years ago.

June 18, 1976

I have begun this journal as a way to record the strange and wondrous things present in all of Gravity Falls, Oregon.  There is much in this town that delights and fascinates me, and makes it well live up to the expectations I built for it.  I will have much more to record at the beginning, as I have notes about creatures in various other less official notebooks, but I doubt my recording will slow down after, as I seem to find some new unexplainable thing every day.  Thankfully, things being odd or unusual has never stopped me for long, and thus I will endeavor to explain all of it.

Stan turns to the next page and finds a drawing of something labeled an “anomaly map,” with significantly more dots signifying anomalies near Gravity Falls.

The elevator dings, and Stan glances up to find they’ve reached the first floor.  He follows Ford out, and they both head through the door to the left and into the living room.  As soon as they get there, Ford perches on the edge of the couch and looks up at Stan anxiously.

“Oh, uh, hang on,” Stan says.  He sits down on Ford’s right and looks back at the anomaly map page.  “You know I read slow.”

The anomaly map is apparently something Ford figured out when trying to decide what to do with his massive research grant from Backupsmore University.

Stan flips the page.  He’s not sure what exactly to expect, but he finds an entry about a tree-sized monster who apparently picked up his car and dragged it off into the woods, which explains why he doesn’t have one, at least.  That monster better not like the look of the Stanley mobile.  He turns the page again, and finds an entry on multi-limbed creatures, like the two-headed deer he found.  Ford’s best guess seems to be that they’re normal animals who wandered in and got warped by Gravity Falls’ weirdness somehow.

The next page is about unicorns, which is a little jarring after two creatures Stan doesn’t know anything about.  They don’t seem to be anything like the unicorns that people tell stories about, however.  Instead, Ford writes about how they can tell whether or not a person is “pure of heart,” and that they apparently decided Ford wasn’t in a very condescending manner.  Tough break.

“Stanley?” comes Ford’s nervous voice.  When Stan looks up, the nerves on his face look worse than they did before.  “You get the idea, right?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Stan says.  “So there’s just a whole bunch of weird stuff here?”

Ford blinks, obviously surprised.  “You believe me?”

“Well, sure.  Maybe if you’d said something before I saw a two headed deer—” and lived through an apocalypse, and met the demon who hangs out in your head while you sleep— “I might not have, but… I don’t know, that kinda confirms it, doesn’t it?  Plus, you aren’t the type to stretch the truth.  And I mean, we did find the Jersey Devil as kids, didn’t we?  So it’s not like I didn’t know weird things existed.”

“You remember that?” Ford asks in surprise.

“Giant angry monster from hell?  Kinda hard to forget.”

“Right, I— yeah.  Sorry, I’m just used to people looking at me like I’m nuts when I try to explain,” Ford admits, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Pa says I’m wasting my grant money on made up fairytales, so.”

“Pa can go to hell,” Stan says plainly, setting Ford’s journal back on top of the two other ones.  “You’ve always liked this stuff.  It’s pretty neat that it’s all real, huh?”

“I know!” Ford exclaims, clutching the journals back to his chest, but this time in obvious excitement.  “And there’s so much more I don’t understand yet!  There are creatures I haven’t been able to find, like the Hide-Behind, and I’ve got puzzles and codes that I’ve been trying to crack and I can’t!  Here, let me show you!”  He starts flipping through his third journal, and though he holds it close so only he can see, Stan can’t help a fond smile.  Only Ford could talk about things he doesn’t understand with such glee.

After a second, he finds what he’s looking for and holds it out to Stan.  Stan takes it and finds a page of what looks like gibberish, except the gibberish is surrounded by a triangle that looks so much like Bill Cipher that Stan’s surprised Ford hasn’t noticed.

“I think it relates to the town founder,” Ford says.  “It’s officially said to be Nathaniel Northwest, but that might not be true.  I just can’t figure out how to decode this one, but I haven’t given up!  I just— haven’t worked on it in a while.  You know, because I’m busy with… yeah.”

Ford pauses for a second, and Stan watches a sad look cross his face.  Stan’s not quite sure what that means.

“Well, hey,” he says.  “We could always give it a try now.”

“What?  Oh, no, I can’t,” Ford says, waving his hand dismissively.  “I have to finish the portal, it’s way more important.  It’s the key to all of this, actually!  The reason Gravity Falls is so weird is because there’s another dimension, a ‘weirdness dimension,’ of sorts, leaking into ours.  I’m building the portal so I can go there and study it.  Just imagine, I get to be the one to figure it all out.  To prove them all wrong.”  Ford smiles, more to himself than to Stan, and looks back at the journals, a wistfulness in his gaze.

Oh.

There’s the lie.

Dammit, Bill really does know how to work his brother.

“Sorry,” Ford says, drawing Stan’s attention back to him.  “I’m getting off topic.  But that’s the reason behind the two-headed deer.”

Stan shakes the other thoughts out of his head for a moment and smiles at Ford.  “That’s really neat, Poindexter.”

Ford beams at him, and Stan knows for now, at least, he’s said the right thing.

…

That night, Stan dreams that the time tape doesn’t work properly, and sends him to New Jersey instead.  He tries for nine days to get to Gravity Falls, but things keep stopping him.  He runs out of gas money in Ohio, he gets into a car accident in Iowa, he gets arrested for a full day in Wyoming.  By the time he makes it to Ford’s house, the only thing he has time to do is pull out a gun and shoot him point blank in the head.

He falls to his knees next to Ford’s corpse and is wondering where on his own head he should point the gun at next when he’s instead interrupted by a very familiar cackle.  He becomes abruptly aware of the fact that he’s dreaming just before Bill Cipher appears next to him, this time in all his yellow triangle glory.

“Man, no wonder you didn’t take those time idiots up on their deal,” Bill says, and Stan gets the distinct impression that if he could smile, he’d be grinning smugly at Stan.  “Your self-worth is a mess, Stanley Pines!”

“What do you want?” Stan growls at him.

“Just showing you we have the same end goal!” Bill looks down at Ford’s body and gives a sad sigh.  “It would be such a shame if this happened.  I’d miss all of Fordsy’s desperate vying for approval, wouldn’t you?”

“Get out of my head,” Stan snaps, ignoring that comment.

“Well you should,” Bill says.  “He’s so cute and pathetic when he thinks he’s about to lose someone.  But then, you wouldn’t know about that, would you?  You’re the one person he didn’t mind losing!”

“Get out of my head.”

“Alright, alright, chill out.  Look, I’m here to help you.  We both want to avoid this,” he gestures down at Ford.  “So let’s make a deal.”

Stan snorts.

“Oh come on, hear me out first!”

“Nah, I’m good, thanks.  Actually, you know what, can I just—” he waves his hand experimentally down at Ford’s body, and to his great relief, it vanishes.

“Aww, boo, we coulda had some fun with that!  Actually, hang on, maybe we still can!”  Bill disappears, but before Stan can be glad for it, Ford reappears, just this time with bright yellow Bill eyes.

“Gee brother, you should totally take Bill’s deal!” Bill says, in a complete failure of Ford’s tone and body language and any signifiers that it’s actually him in his body.  “He’s real nice once you get to know him!”

“Wow,” Stan says.  “You are a shit liar.”

Bill gasps in obvious offense.  “How dare you!  I am not even trying to lie to you right now!  We’re having fun!”

“Sure we are.”

“Okay, okay.  Actual deal time.”  Bill sticks out Ford’s hand.  “Help me cause Weirdmaggedon, and I’ll get your brother to stop hating you.”

If Stan had even had a list of things he thought Bill might say, that wouldn’t have come close to making the cut.  “I— what?” he asks.

“Oooh, got your attention now, don’t I?  Think about it.  Your brother is sitting there, wondering why he and Shermie are the only two humans who made it through the apocalypse, and I get to tell him it’s all thanks to you!   Imagine how grateful he’ll be!”

“That’s not…” Stan starts, and trails off.

It’s the most tempting offer he’s heard since all this started, and Stan has to take a moment to wrestle his thoughts back in line. 

No, Ford won’t be grateful.  He’ll probably be wishing he’s dead as much just as Stan did when the apocalypse first started, after he realized what had happened to his brothers but before Rico started chasing him and the survival instincts from who-knows-where had kicked in.

Ford won’t hear that Stan saved him, he’ll hear that the apocalypse is also partly Stan’s fault, and therefore hate him even more.  He’ll probably have support from Shermie, who’ll definitely have joined the “Stan Hate Train” at that point, because he knows Shermie’s line stops before the end of the world.

Bill also might not even tell Ford that.  He’s just trying to sell Stan a lie to get him to stop trying to defeat him.  Does dying with Ford not hating him sound better than dying with Ford hating him?  Sure, except that’s putting his own wants before Ford’s, and that’s never been the goal here.  The goal always has been and still is, “die knowing the world is safe and Ford is safe to go on hating you in it.”

So Stan crosses his arms, looks back up at a grinning Bill, and spits, “Go to hell.”

Bill’s gaze shifts from patient and delighted to pissed off in less than a second, and then Stan watches him forcefully smooth it over.

“Ah, well, your loss buddy!” he says.  “I’m just trying to make this easier for you!  We both know who’s going to win!”

Stan pauses, and gives Bill a real once-over.  Last time they talked, he was gloating about how all he had to do was run out the clock, but this time he’s making a real offer that got Stan’s attention for a second.  Why switch up tactics if he isn’t starting to think Stan is a threat?

Stan smiles, just a little.  “Do we?”

Bill’s gaze switches back to rage.  “I’d be careful about what you say, Spare Parts,” he says lowly.  “Let’s not forget who has access to your brother’s subconscious here.”

And well, Stan wants to shoot back a quip about how it didn’t seem to work last time, but Bill’s right.  There are worse things he can do than take Ford on a memory tour, and he doesn’t want Bill making things worse to be his fault.

So he stays quiet, and thankfully, that seems to make Bill’s anger fade just a little.

“Smart,” he says.  “I’ll be seeing you.”  He vanishes.

Stan sighs.  “I can’t wait,” he says to the empty air.

…

Stan wakes up to the sound of swirling snow, with an image in his mind’s eye of the look on Ford’s face when he pulled the trigger.  He’s not sure if it’s a parting gift from Bill, or his own head refusing to let it go.

But either way, he pushes himself up, makes his way out through the living room, up the stairs, and into Ford’s room.  Thankfully, Ford’s asleep, and not staring up at him with glowing yellow eyes.

Stan shakes his shoulder, and pushes back a moment of panic when Ford doesn’t move at first.

“Ford,” he says.

Ford stirs and grumbles something, then rolls over in the bed and opens his eyes, staring blearily up at Stan.  “What?” he grumbles.

Stan, searching for an excuse, points at Ford’s bedroom window with his unbandaged hand.  “Blizzard’s started.”

Chapter Text

A blizzard in Oregon, it turns out, is generally worse than a blizzard in New Jersey.  Or maybe it’s just that this one is particularly bad.

The snow is well past ankle deep outside by the time Stan drags himself out of bed the next morning, and Ford confirms that the snow is supposed to last at least a day, and that the plows come up here last anyway, so they’ll be stuck at the house for a while.  Stan finds he doesn’t mind that much.  A blizzard is another obstacle between Ford and Dundgren and Lolph.  Stan has a feeling those two aren’t super familiar with being homeless in a northern winter, and hopefully that means it’ll take them a while to figure out what they can do next.

The point is, for now, they’re both stuck inside.  When Ford isn’t downstairs working on the portal and frying Stan’s nerves by doing so, they’re either in the living room and Stan is trying to come up with something to say that will sound like a natural conversation starter, or the kitchen making something that will help things feel less freezing.  They’re going to be eating a lot more chicken noodle soup in the coming days.

Stan has been trying all day to think of how to bring up the way Ford thinks the portal will prove him some kind of genius.  That’s clearly how Bill is convincing him to go through with this, or at least, how he successfully convinced him to start it in the first place.  But Ford’s always been pretty attached to the idea of himself as a genius, and it’ll be hard for Stan to pull him away from that.

Hard for multiple reasons actually, because in many ways Ford is a genius.

He’s obviously the smarter of the two of them, but even beyond that, he’s got a brain that most people could never hope to match up to.  For as much as Stan hates the portal, it’s a damn impressive feat, and the fact that Ford did it with the help of only one other person is insane.  He is a genius, Stan wouldn’t even try to argue otherwise.

What he’ll have to convince Ford is that genius doesn’t mean you can’t be tricked, and that getting tricked doesn’t mean you’re not a genius.  That won’t exactly be easy, but Stan’s got a pretty good idea for how to get started.

He has to trick Ford.  About anything.  Something small and stupid, ideally.  Something that won’t matter in the long run.  Because if he does it, they both know where they stand.  He’s still an idiot, Ford’s still a genius and smarter than him in every way.  Proof of concept.

So, a little ways into the morning, while Ford is writing something in his third journal in the living room, Stan slips into Ford’s bedroom, grabs the first journal (as the one Ford allowed him to read) off his desk, and puts it in an inside jacket pocket.  He then walks back into the living room and sits down, which Ford makes no acknowledgement of.

Stan had been drawing some meaningless doodles on some spare paper before, so he goes back to doing that.  The first journal was totally filled up when he read it, so he doesn’t expect much notice of it until Ford starts working on the portal later.  As such, Stan lets it slip out of his mind until relevant.

He’s there for a little longer before Ford closes his journal and stands, likely to go back downstairs.  But before he leaves the living room, he pauses at the doorway.  Stan, after sensing Ford’s eyes on him, glances up.

“Do you want to come watch while I work on the portal?” Ford asks.  “If I show you how it works it might help it be less of a… scary triangle thing.”

“Oh,” Stan says, more than a little surprised at the offer.  Well, he’s not sure how long he can hold his composure around that thing, but Ford clearly wants him to.  Plus that could lessen the time for Ford to potentially get irritated after he notices the journal is missing, which is probably the best outcome here.  He could also always use the bathroom as an excuse if he needs to get away for a minute.  He doesn’t remember seeing one down there before.

So, after a moment, he nods.  “Sure.”

Ford’s gaze brightens, and Stan smiles a little as he rises to follow him.

Stan still shuts his eyes as they go past the second floor on their way down, however.  Hopefully Ford doesn’t notice.

The sci-fi consoles don’t make any more sense this time around, but Ford walks past them like they don’t even matter, so Stan tries not to be intimidated by them, and just follows Ford into the final room.

“So,” Ford says, turning to face the portal.  “The circle in the middle is where things will come through.  I’ll be monitoring it very carefully and can shut it off if something comes through that could be dangerous.”

“You sure?” Stan asks.

“Positive.  I got some help from a friend for that part.”

From Bill.  Great.

“Plus my assistant helped me design a manual override, in case it overheats or malfunctions and needs to be shut down.”  Ford points to the manual override in the corner.  “And I think you’re right about the safety bar, so I’m going to add one before I test it again.”

“Okay,” Stan says.  He’s not going to outright try and convince Ford how dangerous this thing is this time around, at least.  Based on how that went last time, and how hesitant Ford was to let him back down here, that will just do more harm then good.  Instead, he goes with, “Do you know what kinds of creatures are gonna come over?”

“I— well, no,” Ford says, sounding like he’s realizing it as he says it.  “But I’ve been assured… I’m not worried about it.”

Stan looks at Ford for a long moment and doesn’t say anything.  Eventually, Ford looks back at him.

Stan just nods.  “Okay.”

“What?” Ford asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Nothing.  I said okay.”

Ford looks suspiciously at him for a moment, but doesn’t comment, and eventually turns to face the portal again.

“Anyway,” he says.  “I’m planning on going over there myself eventually, but not until it’s tested a couple of times.  With groundbreaking technology like this, it would be foolish not to.”

“Fair enough,” Stan says with a nod.  “What’re you testing it with?”

“Well, last time the intent was to use a dummy, but then my assistant… well.  That’s what the safety bar will be for this time.”

Stan nods.  “You want some help setting it up?”

Ford brightens.  “Sure!  I’m going to have to get most of the supplies after the blizzard ends, but I’ve got some stuff set up in the other room.”

“So… we can’t test this thing until the blizzard ends, then?”

“Unfortunately,” Ford says with a nod.  “But I don’t think it’ll be too long before that happens.  The blizzard’s only supposed to last three days, and the roads outside the house will be plowed two days after that at most.  So we’re still stuck inside for a while, but the test should be possible before the week is out.”

Three days for the blizzard and two days for the plowing puts them right at the ninth day.  Stan hasn’t even managed to buy time.

He shakes his head to get the thoughts out of it and follows Ford back into the room full of consoles.  He’s planning on following Ford back upstairs, since he hadn’t seen any materials down here, but as they walk into the room Stan sees motion to his right.  He turns, and a monitor next to a desk displays Dundgren and Lolph, up in the trees directly above the roof.

Stan turns quickly towards Ford, and thankfully finds him reading through the third journal.  He steps over in front of the screens as subtly as he can, and starts thinking of ways to get up to the roof without Ford noticing.  The ladder that he saw before is probably what would take him there, but it’s not like he can just use it without Ford seeing, they’re heading right up to that room.

Even if he somehow can, he’s not exactly great with heights.

“Okay,” Ford says, glancing back at him, “I keep a bunch of stuff we can use in the storage room, and there’s some failed experiments we can raid that might be helpful.  I’ll need your help to carry some of it, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” Stan says.  “Just let me go to the bathroom first, yeah?”

Ford nods.  “I’ll meet you there.”

They both start over to the elevator, and Stan makes sure to block the monitors behind him as he walks.  He’s silent on the ride up the elevator, trying to psyche himself up.  Excuse or no, he’s going to hate using that ladder.

Ford heads back towards the storage room, and Stan follows him towards the living room before their paths split off, and he moves as quickly as he can back towards the room with the ladder.

He doesn’t have time to be scared, so he hoists himself up onto the ladder without thinking, looking at nothing but the next rung.

One foot at a time, Stanley.  You can do this.

Is this ladder longer than it should be?  Given what Ford says about weird things happening in this town, that’s totally possible right?

Ugh, just don’t look down.

There’s a trap door built into the ceiling, and when Stan pushes it back, there’s a much longer ladder built into the wall, leading up much further.

Stan bangs his head forward against one of the rungs, which he probably shouldn’t have done, given it just aggravates his headache that’s near-constant these days.

“Just look ahead,” he mutters to himself, forcing his eyes back open.  “Don’t look down.  One rung after the other.”

He reaches up and pulls himself up, ignores the fear taking root in his stomach, then does it again.  And again, and again, and almost before he realizes it, he’s reached another trap door.

Before he can push it open, however, it’s pulled open from above, and Stan’s met with Lolph’s stupid face.

“Well hey there,” he says, forcing his voice not to shake.  “Hang on, let me come up there and help ya out.”   He forces himself up onto the roof with the last bit, making Lolph take a couple steps back and closing the trap door quietly underneath him.  The roof is too steep right there for him to stand on it, but he can balance himself on the slant well enough, so he leans against it instead.  Totally not terrifying, he’s so relaxed right now.

The snow is swirling around them, which would obscure Stan’s view of them if they were much further apart, but the roof doesn’t feel icy or slick, at least not yet.  Dundgren and Lolph are both on the top of the slanted section of roof just above him, which seems to leave just enough room to stand.

Dundgren gives a sigh of exasperation.  “You really want to get into a roof fight in the middle of a blizzard?” he asks.

“I didn’t pick the location,” Stan shrugs, probably a little too stiff for them to believe his nonchalance.  “And I’m not the one who has to worry about getting shot at if I fall.”

Just the leg he’ll definitely break after the terrifying drop to the ground.  No biggie.

“Even so, you don’t look like you’re having fun up here,” Dundgren says.  “We could always take this inside.”

“Fat chance,” Stan spits.  He reaches into his pockets and slips his knuckle dusters on, not taking his gaze off the two of them.  Neither of them pull out their guns, meaning they haven’t figured out a way to do this without him.  He can probably count on that fact in this fight too, which is nice to know.

Lolph steps forward with the first punch, and Stan swings himself to the side, using the top of the roof to hold himself upright.  The snow crunches under his fingers.

Unfortunately, his shift gives Dundgren time to swing down at him from the other side, and while Stan dodges his punch too, that also means he rolls off the trap door.

Lolph reaches down to open it, and Stan swings hard at his reaching hand, forcing him to dodge and drop the door, then take a moment to steady himself.

Dundgren reaches for the trap door while he does so, but while Stan aims another swing for him, that gives Lolph enough time to recover.  He swipes at Stan’s hands, and the stiff cold from the snow combined with the sweep knocks them off the edge of the roof.

Oh fuck oh fuck he’s falling fuck—

Someone else’s hand grabs his jacket, and pulls Stan hard back against the roof.  His head slams against the wood, basically confirming he’s never getting rid of this headache again.  His jacket slips off his free arm, leaving him dangling by the other sleeve.

Stan swings his other hand forward to grab the roof, gripping tight and trying to ignore the snow.

He glares up at Dundgren, the one who grabbed his jacket, and keeps eye contact as he yanks his other arm forward, pulling Dundgren towards him.

He stumbles, and slips, and Stan tightens his grip on the roof with his free hand.

Dundgren goes over the side and slams against the roof below Stan, and Stan’s hand almost slips off the roof, but he holds on.

Lolph moves forward hesitantly, but seems unsure of what to do.

Stan’s jacket starts to slip off, and Stan shakes his arm back and forth several times to help it along.

Dundgren reaches up to grab at some other part of Stan, but before he can grab ahold, Stan kicks him as hard as he can in whatever part of him he can reach.

His foot hits him in the legs, and while it’s not hard enough that he lets go, he swings out of reach of grabbing any other part of Stan.

As he swings back towards him, Stan kicks again, and this time he hits him in the stomach, which makes Dundgren slip off the roof.  Stan’s jacket slips off his arm and falls with him.

Stan throws himself forward and grabs onto the roof with his now second free hand, just as Lolph cries out and reaches for Dundgren.

Lolph abandons Stan entirely as Dundgren falls, and Stan holds tightly onto the roof as Lolph leaps over the edge.  The cold snow stings his fingers, but he squeezes tightly.

Stan glances over his shoulder to watch, and sees Dundgren manage to grab onto the edge of the tin metal roof hanging over the back door.

Lolph grabs his arm and hoists him back up, but unfortunately for them, they’ve fallen just far enough that Stan hears a click, and the crossbow slides out of the wall right into their faces.

They drop down to the ground just as it fires, so the bow flies over their heads, but they both take off running as soon as it starts to reload.

The snow obscures his view of them as they run further, but when the crossbow fires again, he doesn’t hear any agonized screams.

He would wait in case they come back, but his fingers are going to go totally numb if he’s out here that much longer.  He’s also about had his fill of heights for the day, thank you very much.

Stan manages to hoist the trap door back open, and tightens his grip on the roof as he tries to take a couple deep breaths.

The ladder’s just inside.  He can do this.  The inside won’t be snowy.

His feet didn’t touch the ground much during that fight, so his shoes thankfully aren’t slick or covered with snow when he gets them onto the ladder rungs.  Stan takes a couple steps down, then yanks the trap door closed over his head.  After a couple seconds of looking, he finds a lock, and clicks it in place.

Don’t stop, just get down from the ladder.  One rung and then the next, come on.

Stan’s breath shakes as he makes his way down.  His hands are numb and don’t want to listen to him.  He forces them to stiffen, to grip the rungs tightly.  Climbing up is always easier.

Eventually, however, he makes his way back to the main floor of the house, and closes the trap door.  He finds a lock and locks that one too, just to be safe.

Stan leans his head against the bottom rungs of the ladder and breathes.  His head pounds.  His legs shake.

Fuck, everything he’s been through, and a stupid thing like heights still gets to him.

…Well, the two time travelers attempting to murder his brother and fighting him on the snowy rooftop didn’t help either.

He stays there for probably far too long, but eventually he forces himself back and walks quickly to the back of his house.  He grabs the BMU sweatshirt from the guest room and heads back to the bathroom.  He doesn’t come across Ford on the way there.

There’s snow in his hair that he runs his fingers through to get out.  He runs warm water over his hands until they feel a little more normal, then quickly replaces the bandage on his injured one.  He goes with band-aids instead of full bandages, since he’s not going to have a pocket to show it into while he’s carrying things upstairs.  He can replace it again later, and band-aids will get far fewer questions.

He’s about to head back out to find Ford, but stops when he looks up.

Shit.   His head is bleeding.  None of his thoughts feel slow or sluggish, so it’s probably not a concussion, yet.  But if he takes too many more hits on his head it easily could be.  He runs his head under the faucet and cleans it as best he can, then dries his hair with the hand towel.

Okay.  Deep breath.  Just have to go help Ford carry some stuff downstairs.

His arms, aching from having to hold onto a cold snowy roof, practically scream at him in protest.  Stan tells them to shut up.

When he opens the bathroom door, Ford’s just outside, hand raised to knock.

“Geez, Poindexter, haven’t you heard of a thing called privacy?” Stan asks, pushing his way past him and pulling the door shut after him.

“You were taking a while,” Ford says irritably.

“Are you, like, asking me to make a toilet joke?”

“Ugh, no.   Just— just come on,” Ford grumbles, gesturing back towards the storage room.

Stan follows him, with a totally not-aching head that isn’t in need of any painkillers, and totally not-aching arms ready to do some manual labor.

…

Stan does end up hunting some painkillers down after they finish moving everything, and they help take the pain down from “excruciating” to just “noticeable,” which is a win.  He then lies to Ford about the headache from the food poisoning coming back, and spends a good hour in the living room with the lights off, which also helps.  By the time Ford comes back upstairs, his head is back to how it felt pre-fight on the roof.

Stan, at this point, is sitting on the couch with a washcloth over his eyes, fighting unconsciousness.  He hears Ford walk into the room, but if he’s needed, Ford will say something.  Stan will be ready to start talking again by dinnertime, he just needs a minute.

“Hey, Stan,” Ford says.

Ugh.

Stan gives a grunt of acknowledgement without moving.

“Stanley,” Ford says, a little more insistent.

“Mmhmm.”

“Have you seen Journal 1 anywhere?”

Stan’s eyes shoot open under the washcloth.  His hands fly towards his jacket pocket— he’s not wearing his jacket.  His jacket fell off along with Dundgren when he was holding onto the roof.  Shit.

“Uh, what do you need it for?” Stan asks, pulling the washcloth off his eyes and sitting up, aiming for incredibly casual.

Ford’s eyes narrow, meaning he obviously failed.  “So you have seen it,” he says.

Stan winces.  “Okay, but you can’t be mad.”

“What did you do?” Ford says, crossing his arms.

“It’s… outside somewhere?”

“What?”

“I was trying to prank you!  I put it out there last night and forgot to grab it before the blizzard started!”

“You lost my journal?”

“I wasn’t trying to lose it!”

“You’re such an idiot!”

“I know that!”

“I cannot believe—” Ford screams in frustration, then starts marching immediately for the door.  Stan leaps up and runs after him.

“Wait, wait,” he says, pulling Ford back by the shoulder.  “Look, I’m really sorry.  Just let me go get it, it’s freezing out there and I know where it is.”

Ford glares at him.  “Not a chance,” he hisses.  “I am not letting you screw this up any more than you already have.  I never should have trusted you with this!”

“I’m sorry.   I really am.  I wasn’t—”

Ford shoves him away and marches outside.

Stan runs after him, and they both make their way to the front door.  Ford unlocks the five bolts on the door, then pulls it open, letting snow blow into the house.

Stan follows him out, and Ford slams the door shut and turns to glare at him.  Stan tries to take the anger in his eyes and not flinch away.

“Where is it?” Ford snaps.

“Around the back of the house,” Stan says quietly.

Please, for the love of god, let it still be there.  Please let Dundgren not have realized it was in the jacket and let him not have grabbed it while they ran off.

Stan legs start to shake as they make their way around the house.  He lets himself pretend it’s the snow soaking through his pants.

If they have Ford’s journal and Stan gave it to them, that’s the end of it.  Ford will never trust him again.

They round the corner to the back of the house.  Laying at the base of a pine tree, the sleeves flapping gently in the wind, is Stan’s jacket.

Stan all but pounces on it, digging through the inside pockets, and, mercifully, finds Ford’s journal still tucked into one, and still dry due to the jacket’s protection.  He pulls it out and immediately hands it over.

Ford rips it from Stan’s hands and hugs it to his chest like it’s precious.  He gives Stan one last murderous glare and turns around, then marches back towards the front door.

“Ford, wait!” Stan yells, running after him.

Ford doesn’t reply.  Stan chases him all the way around to the front of the house, where Ford stomps inside, and stamps his shoes off several times in the entryway.

He then turns around to look at Stan, and for a moment, his gaze flicks to the door.  He moves as if to shut it.

“Ford?” Stan says weakly.

Ford looks back at him.  Stan sees the abject fury on his face, and he shrinks back.

Something in Ford’s face slips, just for a second.  He squeezes his eyes shut and screams through his teeth.

He turns around and storms away without looking at Stan, but he leaves the door open.

Stan walks slowly inside.  Something in his chest pinches.  He feels, for a brief moment, like he’s seventeen.

He shakes himself.

Stop it.  End of the world.  Ford’s life in danger.  You can’t hide from this.  Go say sorry.

Stan shuts the door after him and locks all five locks.  He hears Ford stomping his way up the rest of the stairs.  He drops his jacket so it can stay here and dry in the entryway and runs for the stairs, takes them two at a time.

He makes it upstairs just as Ford slams his bedroom door shut and locks it.

Stan walks quickly over to it and stops himself just outside it.  He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down.  He hunches over, purposefully makes himself smaller to match with his mindset.

“Ford,” he says quietly.  He knocks three times on the door.  “Ford, I’m sorry.”

“This,” Ford says tightly, “is a really bad time, Stanley.”  He sounds like he’s right on the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.  I don’t know what else to say.  I wasn’t trying to—”

“You never try to anything!  That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen!   I never should have let you see my work, I never should have— he was right, I should have known you’d ruin it again like you always do!”

“I’m sorry!” Stan begs.  There’s a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes.  He tries to ignore them.  He’s pretty sure he knows who Ford means by he.   “Ford, I— I fixed it, didn’t I?  Nothing’s ruined.”

“This is too important, Stanley!  I can’t let anything get in the way of this, this is— if I fail, and it’s your fault, Stanley, I swear—”

Stan turns around, leans back against the door.  He’s pretty sure, based on the pressure he feels, that Ford’s doing the same thing on the other side.

He can’t think of anything to say.  In the ideal scenario, Ford will fail.  And it will be Stan’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” Stan whispers, which isn’t enough, but it’s all he has.  It’s not like he can stop.

Ford doesn’t say anything.

Stan slides down the door, landing on the floor and slumping forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.  “I didn’t want— I never wanted—”

And, well, he doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore, so instead he just stops and buries his head in his knees.

After a long, long pause, he feels Ford slide down against the door too, and he hears the gentle thump of Ford leaning his head back against the door.

“Why did you do it?” Ford asks quietly.

“I don’t know,” Stan says, pulling his head up so Ford can hear him.  “It was stupid.  I know those journals are important to you, I—”

“Not that,” Ford says.  He doesn’t say anything else, probably because he assumes Stan knows what he means, because of course Stan knows what he means.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” Stan whispers.  “It was an accident.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Ford snaps.  He bangs something on the door, a fist or the journal or something else.  “Why were you there?   Why did you do it?”

Stan’s pretty sure he knows what Ford is asking.  The problem is, Stan has spent the last decade repeating to himself over and over that it was an accident, that it’s not fair because he didn’t mean to do it.   And that’s true, but that’s not what Ford’s asking about.

“I…” Stan thinks back, tries to search his memory.  Why was he at the school?  What made him go there?

“You were going to that stupid college,” Stan manages.  He rests his chin on his knees.  “You were going to that stupid college and it was that stupid thing’s fault.  So I wanted to find it and yell at it, as if that would help anything.  I didn’t go there because I was going to break it.  That part was an accident, really.   I was just too much of a coward to say it to your face.”

“Say what?”

“‘Don’t leave me,’” Stan says miserably.  “‘I don’t think I can make it on my own.’”

“What happened to not needing anyone?” Ford says coolly.

Stan gives a bitter laugh.  “For fuck’s sake, Stanford, I was lying.”

Ford doesn’t say anything.  The silence stretches on, and Stan wonders if this is it, if he’s got one last chance to say the right thing or it’s still game over.

The problem with that is he has no clue what to say.  They’ve clearly only been able to make it this far because they’ve been ignoring the giant, perpetual motion machine shaped elephant in the room.

But Stan has been here for four days at this point.  He can’t keep going like this for another five, the world won’t make it.

“Talk to him about the important stuff,” Shermie had said.  “Don’t just hope everything will work itself out.”

“Ford,” Stan says.  He drops the desperation and the pleading and just says, sincere and intentful, “I’m sorry.”

Ford stays quiet.

“I shouldn’t have tried to put my wants above yours,” Stan continues.  “That’s not how it works.  I should have been happy for you.”

“It would have been nice,” Ford agrees quietly.

Stan leans his head gently back against the door.  It’s aching again.

He’s not expecting Ford to say anything else, so he’s surprised when he hears, “But… I’m sorry too.”

Stan blinks, and turns around to face the door.  “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

“No, I do,” Ford says.  “I shouldn’t have let you get kicked out.”

“Ford, come on,” Stan says, rolling his eyes.  “What were you going to do, stand in between me and Pa?”

Ford laughs a little.  Good, at least they can both be amused by the visual.

“No, I guess not,” he says.  “But… I could have reached out.  Made sure you were okay.  Especially after I got a house of my own.  I was mad, but… I didn’t want you to get hurt.   You said you could make it on your own, and I… well.  I’m sorry I believed you.”

“I thought you hated me,” comes out of Stan’s mouth before he can help it.

There’s a moment of silence, and then sudden movement from the other side of the door, and it’s yanked open.  Stan catches himself on the door frame with his good hand.  He shoves his bandaged one in his pocket.

Before he can turn around, Ford’s arms are around him, awkwardly positioned and a little unsure of themselves, but firm and determined.

“Never,” Ford says, a slight shake in his voice.  “Not ever, Stanley.  I could never hate you.”

Stan’s good hand comes up to grasp at Ford’s arms.  “Oh,” he says weakly.

Ford holds him for a long moment, then lets go of Stan and stands up.  He grabs something behind him, moves around to Stan’s front, and sits down, facing him this time.  He’s clutching his journal in his hands.

“Seriously, though,” he says, looking down at it.  “What were you thinking?”

“That maybe… maybe we could do stupid pranks again,” Stan lies, looking down at his lap.  He clenches his hands together.  “But I should have done it with something else.  Next time I’ll just grab all of your forks.”

Ford laughs.  “That sounds like a better plan,” he says, and a little of the tension in Stan’s chest releases.

He won’t, next time, not if it comes down to it.  He can’t make a point to Ford with forks.  The journal was the right call, and it still will be, if he has to do something like this again.  Dundgren and Lolph just fucked everything up.

And sure, he probably won’t do something like this again, not after it went so catastrophically.  But god, is he sick of lying to Ford.

Who doesn’t hate him, apparently.

He wishes that made it better.  Really, it just means he has something to lose.  Something he still can’t think about, because he’s not the most important factor here.  He has to carry on thinking about this the way he’s been thinking about it, with the added bonus that every shitty thing he has no choice but to try might push Ford over the edge and make him hate Stan when he now, apparently, doesn’t.

“Hey,” Ford says.  Stan looks up, and finds Ford looking at him pointedly.

“What?”

Ford pushes himself to his feet, and holds out his journal-free hand to Stan.

“Stop getting stuck in your head,” he says, and Stan blinks, surprised that Ford caught that.  “Let’s go have some of that ice cream we bought.”

Stan reaches out with his good hand and takes Ford’s.  “Okay,” he says quietly.  He lets Ford pull him to his feet.

Then they both walk downstairs to eat ice cream.

Chapter Text

Stan would have thought, after spending several days dealing with Dundgren and Lolph, that they were the only two people stupid enough to keep trying to break in.  The mailbox is down at the end of a long driveway, meaning the mailman wouldn’t even have to.  And even if there wasn’t a ridiculously complex security system, there’s a blizzard happening.  Stan really hadn’t thought that he’d be dealing with anyone else trying to break into the house.

But apparently, there’s things he has yet to worry about, because he wakes up early the next morning to glass shattering above his head, and a stranger trying to force his way through the window over the couch.

Stan goes immediately for his knuckle dusters, put under his pillow while his jacket is drying, and takes a heavy swing at the figure who’s now partway through the window.

He hears a pained cry, and the figure falls backwards out of sight.

Stan dives immediately for the window, and when he pokes his head out, is met with, of all people, the man with the red robe that he saw in the grocery store.

He stares down at him in bafflement for a second, until movement catches his gaze out of the corner of his eye, and he looks up to see Lolph ducking behind a tree.

Oh, awesome.  They’ve found a way to sick crazy strangers on him.  But how did he get past the crossbow?

Before Stan can yell some kind of devastating insult at Lolph about his hide and seek skills, he hears something click below his head, and looks down to see the barrel of a gun pointed at his face.

Stan immediately ducks back inside the window just as it goes off.  It sends off some kind of blue light, and the barrel doesn’t look like the barrel of any other gun he’s ever seen, but a gun is a gun, and he doesn’t want it aimed at his face.

The stranger jumps up a second later and aims the gun in through the window, and Stan ducks to the side, pressing himself as far back against the wall as he can get while still on the couch, and grabs the gun from the stranger’s hands.

“Hey!” the stranger yells, poking his head through the window.  “Give it back!”

“Oh yeah, sure, I’ll just do that,” Stan says, and instead points whatever the hell kind of gun right at the stranger’s forehead.

The stranger just laughs in slight amusement.  “Oh, I’ve done that to myself far too many times for that to scare me.”

Uh.  Okay.  No time to unpack that.

Stan drops the gun onto the couch just out of the stranger’s reach and aims a hard left hook at his head.  The stranger’s eyes roll back inside it and he collapses on top of the broken glass in the window.

Stan winces, and picks him up off the glass before it can injure him too much, then pulls him inside.  He lays him down on the couch and finds that thankfully none of the glass embedded itself in his stomach.

Stan pokes his head out again, and sees Lolph and Dundgren just outside the edge of the barbed wire.

“Uh, honestly don’t know what you were trying to do there!” Stan calls, waving at them.  He makes sure to keep his voice low enough to not wake Ford.  “I’ll be keeping this guy, thanks!”

Stan glances back down at the red-robed stranger.  However terrible he is at fighting, and using guns apparently, he managed to get past the crossbow somehow, meaning Stan can’t just let him go on his way.  But wouldn’t keeping him here technically be kidnapping him?  Stan has successfully kidnapped people before, mostly for short-term jobs for guys like Rico, but he’s also been kidnapped, meaning he knows it’s not fun.  He’s also never kidnapped anyone of his own free will before.

Then again, this guy was trying to shoot him.  Maybe that lessens the moral grayness a little bit?  Not that it would make much of a difference if it didn’t, because he doesn’t seem to have a ton of alternate options.

Before continuing on that path, though, Stan looks back at the gun.  It definitely doesn’t look like any gun he’s ever seen before.  He picks it up, and finds what looks like a glass bulb, attached to some other red glass piece, attached to another sci-fi looking mechanical section.  There’s a dial on the side and a screen on the back, and into the screen is typed “Stanley Pines.”

All of which raises so many more questions than it answers.

Stan sets it to the side for now and looks back at the stranger.

What the hell is he supposed to do with him?  Even if Ford had a shed, it’s too cold to take him outside.  And if he did, Lolph and Dundgren might find him.  He can’t bring him to the basement, Ford goes down to the portal far too often, and Stan has no idea how often he uses the creepy shrine place.  Ford’s often in just about every room in the house except— well, except this one.

Stan glances towards the bathroom, then back towards the guy.

Tying him to the toilet it is.

Stan definitely has some rope in the trunk of his car, but he’s going to have to be quick and quiet about this.  The guy probably won’t wake up immediately with how hard Stan hit him, but dawdling isn’t a great idea.

Unfortunately, his car is just outside the barbed wire, which poses several problems.  Namely Dundgren and Lolph.  The snow won’t be fun either.

Stan blows a breath out through his mouth.  Okay, he can do this.  He knows how to sneak around.  It’s come in handy many times.

He makes his way to the front door.  Closer to his car, further from Dundgren and Lolph, but also closer to Ford, so he makes his footsteps as quiet as he can.  He clicks the five locks, then shuts the door quietly after him, and starts making his way towards the forest.  Thankfully, the blowing of the snow covers a lot of his movements.

It doesn’t occur to him until he’s almost reached the edge of the barbed wire that Dundgren and Lolph might have taken his car, and the thought makes his throat seize up with panic.  Sure, he still has his keys, but these guys are from the future, who knows what they could do.

But the car is still sitting just outside the barbed wire, so they haven’t moved it.  No, they’ve done something much worse.

“I knew we shouldn’t have trusted something like this to Fiddleford,” Lolph says, from the passenger seat of Stan’s baby.   “The fool can’t do anything right.”

“He’s the only other person who could have gotten past the crossbow,” Dundgren says from the driver’s seat, though he sounds exhausted.  “And he already wants the portal destroyed.”

“If only he could actually do something about it,” Lolph says.  “We’ve got one idiot who wants the portal gone but is losing his damn mind and is too pathetic to succeed in doing anything about it, one idiot who wants the portal gone but won’t touch it because he thinks his brother is more important than the entire rest of the world, and one idiot who doesn’t want the portal gone at all.   What are we supposed to do?  We’re running out of time!”

“I understand that,” Dundgren says, clipped and irritable.  “Lolph, you act like I don’t know what’s at stake here.”

“But what are we going to do about it?  We’ve tried everything we can think of!”

There’s a long pause, and then Dundgren says, “Desperate times might call for desperate measures.”

There’s another long stretch of silence, and then Lolph looks back at Dundgren.  They both clearly know what he means, and aren’t going to say it aloud.  Still, Stan watches them both agree with each other without words.

Lolph then looks away and lets out a shaky breath.  “What if we fail?” he says quietly.

Dundgren puts a firm hand on his shoulder.  “Then we go down together,” he says.

Lolph takes a deep breath and nods, a look of resolve on his face.  Neither of them say anything else.

Stan takes several steps back, then turns once the car is hidden from sight and walks quickly and quietly back to the house.

He’s not going to think about the idea of the two of them being in this together.  It doesn’t make his chest ache.  He’s fine.

He makes it inside, then takes a deep breath as he starts for the storage room.

When this is over, he’s going to strangle them for sleeping in his car, and he’s going to have to be on his toes for whatever they’re planning next, but for now he’s got a guy getting closer and closer to waking up and no way to get to the rope in his trunk.  Hopefully Ford has some in the storage room.

Thankfully, Stan finds some relatively quickly, set in a corner with other spare parts.  He grabs the rope, and, after a second of thought, the duct tape sitting next to it.  He heads quickly back to the guest room, where the stranger (Fiddleford?) hasn’t woken up yet.

Stan picks him up, hoists him over his shoulder, and carries him into the bathroom.  Fiddleford starts to shift slightly when Stan sets him down on the floor, but Stan has the rope wrapped tightly around him and the toilet by the time he groans and opens his eyes.

Stan ties the rope tightly, far enough away from his hands that Fiddleford won’t be able to reach it, and then walks back around in front of him and sits on the floor.

“Hey there,” he says.

Fiddleford shifts around in the rope, but it holds fast.  “Let me go,” he snaps.  His voice, which Stan hadn’t been paying too much attention to earlier, has a strong southern accent.

“Why on earth would I do that?” Stan says.  “You just tried to shoot me.”

“Those guys told me—” Fiddleford squirms around in the ropes.  He turns a furious glare back to Stan.  “They said you’re tryin’ to end the world!”

Stan raises an eyebrow.  “Sure I am.  You believed ‘em just like that?”

“You— you’re—” Fiddleford looks around, the same kind of crazy paranoid look in his eyes that Ford has when he talks about people watching him.  “You have to be.  You’re here, it’s… it’s here…” his eyes go hazy, and he blinks hard, like he’s trying to force his brain to work.

Yeesh.

“Okay, bud,” Stan says, reaching for the duct tape.  “You’re clearly working through something here, and I have enough going on.  Nothing personal, but I really can’t have my brother figuring out you made it past the crossbow, he’ll have questions.  I’ll bring you some food in a couple hours after breakfast.”  He pulls out a swatch of tape, bites it with his teeth so he can tear it, and before Fiddleford realizes what’s happening, tapes it down over his mouth.

Fiddleford startles out of whatever daze he’d been in, and gives Stan an almost offended look.

Stan shrugs.  “Sorry.  Promise I’ll let you go in five days, one way or another.”

With that, he heads out of the bathrooms and shuts the door behind him.  He hears muffled protests, but nothing anywhere close to loud enough for Ford to hear.

Well.  Stan foresees no problems whatsoever arising from this.  All he has to do is keep an entire other person hidden in Ford’s house for the next five days, while focusing mainly on getting Ford to realize the problem with Bill and shut down the portal, and navigating two murderous time travelers continuing to show up and cause problems for him, and keep his injured hand hidden from Ford, and avoid further injures from the demon who takes over his brother’s body when he falls asleep.  Oh yeah, and he probably shouldn’t let the demon hurt the person he’s kidnapped either.

Man, he is so on top of things.

…

Stan doesn’t get much more sleep that night for obvious reasons.  He hangs up a blanket over the window to block some of the snow from coming in, and pulls the couch far enough away that it won’t get wet while he tries to sleep, but neither of those things seem to help.

Eventually, he gives up and heads to the kitchen early to make breakfast, partly to take over from Ford who’s done most of the cooking the past couple days, partly so he can easily make an extra helping to give to Fiddleford later and not have Ford question it, and partly so he can eat his breakfast and not have to worry about hiding his hand while he does it.

Just as he’s finished and is about to stand up and do his dishes, however, Ford shows up in the doorway to the kitchen, and Stan switches gears and shoves his hand under the table.  His jacket isn’t dry yet.

“Oh, morning Stanley,” Ford says, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Morning,” Stan says.  “I made you some toast.”  He nods at Ford’s place at the other end of the table, which has toast with jam and a glance of orange juice.

“Thank you,” Ford says as he sits down.  He has Journal 3 with him.  He sets it down on his lap, out of Stan’s line of sight, before he opens it and starts reading.  He mutters to himself while he does, and Stan’s pretty sure he catches “too early your stupid codes, Bill” at one point.

So Stan’s probably going to have to get a hold of that third journal at some point, but that’s a problem for later.  For now he takes advantage of the fact that Ford is still waking up to stay there with an empty plate and press his bandaged hand against the underside of the table.  He stares at his plate as if it’s very interesting, and he couldn’t possibly get up from the table until he’s examined it in detail.

If Bill’s writing to Ford in code in journal 3, Stan’s going to have to figure out what he’s saying.  He already has no idea what Bill says to Ford while he’s sleeping.  But it also sounds like it might be helpful to force Ford to move slower on decoding them, and he has other things he needs to know too.

Mainly, he needs to figure out how to ask Ford if there’s a way for anyone else to get past the crossbow, without setting off his paranoia and making him search the whole house, and consequently find the guy Stan accidentally kidnapped and tied up in his bathroom.

Fortunately, he’s pretty sure he’s got a solution for that one.

“So hey, Sixer,” he says, and Ford glances up.  “Do ya think you could maybe show me how that crossbow security system works sometime?  I might want to set up something similar for the Stanley mobile.”

Ford blinks at him.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.  “It’s a lot easier to get closer to a car than a house in the middle of the woods surrounded by barbed wire and trespassing signs.  Someone would get hurt.”

“Well yeah, no, obviously I’d have to modify it so it doesn’t just shoot people who walk past it.  I’d probably only have it go off if someone tries to break into it or something.  Maybe a portable one I can bring with me on nights I can swing a motel room, but I’ll figure that out later.  How does the face recognition thing work?”

Ford winces.  “I— Stanley—”

“Look, you don’t have to build it, just show me how it works and I can jerryrig one up.”

“You can do that?” Ford asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure I can.  I built a working vacuum cleaner.  Well, sort of.”

“Yes, and that inspires confidence,” Ford mutters.  “Look, Stanley, I think we should…” he trails off, and looks down at the journal in his lap.  There’s a pause, and something passes over his face that Stan can’t read.

“Why would you even need a portable security system?” Ford asks after a second.  His voice sounds quieter, and there’s another tone in there that Stan can’t figure out.

“Why do you need one on your house?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Because what I’m doing is extremely important, and—”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re watching you.  You know, putting aside the fact that I haven’t seen anyone actually doing that—” Nice lie thrown in there casually that will hopefully help, please let him be able to say that— “I can understand.  Home security systems are a thing, they’re not crazy.  But it’s a lot harder to stop someone from smashing through your car window at night and dragging you out of it when they see you there.  Just saying, it’d be nice to have some backup.”

Ford makes a strangled noise.  He looks weirdly upset.

Stan blinks at him.  “What?”

“Has— did someone do that to you?” Ford asks weakly.

“What?  No,” Stan says, laughing a little bit.  Ford’s face melts in relief.

“Geez, Poindexter, calm down,” Stan says, giving him an amused smile.  “Like I’d ever let anyone touch my baby.  I know how to hide her well.  I just might be able to be less stressed about it if I had some kind of backup system like you have.  How does the face recognition thing work?”

“Um,” Ford says, still sounding a little shaken for some reason.  “I built a scanner into it, like the one with the door to the basement.  It’s just… better at seeing long distances.”

“And how do the faces that don’t set it off get set up?”

“I take a scan of the face and add it to the programming as an exception.”

“Is there a way to add new ones after it’s done?  You know, uh, in case someone tries to hack my car, or something.”

“I mean,” Ford seems to consider this.  “Theoretically, yes, but it’d be pretty difficult.  Do the people you’re worried about have a lot of engineering experience?”

Stan shrugs.  “Probably not, but you never know.”  Maybe crazy muttering robe guy actually has a PhD in engineering.

It’s… actually possible, now that he thinks about it, if Fiddleford built whatever the gun thing is that’s hidden under Stan’s pillow.  If he was gonna add his face to the crossbow thing, he’d have to get to it first, but maybe Dundgren or Lolph dropped him on the roof.

But either way, now he’s got Fiddleford tied to a toilet, and if Dundgren or Lolph knew how to add their own faces to the crossbow exception thing, they probably would have tried it before now.  Stan should stay on guard, but he probably doesn’t have to worry about any other random strangers with bizarre looking guns showing up in the middle of the night.  That’s one less thing on his insanely long list of worries, at least.

“Well, I might be able to figure something out,” Ford says, and there’s something else in his tone Stan can’t read.  He’s fidgeting with his fingers.  “But it’ll take me a bit, and I’m working on the portal right now.  Would you mind if I finished that first?”

“Oh sure, that’s fine,” Stan says, shrugging casually.  He’ll be gone by then if they succeed, anyway.

Stan lets Ford do the dishes this time, in order to better hide his hand.  He grabs his jacket from the entryway on his way out of the kitchen, and finds it dry.  He takes the sweatshirt off and slips it on, then immediately sticks his hands in his pockets and gives a sigh of relief.

“I’ll be downstairs working on the safety bar for a little bit, Stanley,” Ford calls from the kitchen doorway.  “Do you want to come help?”

“In just a minute,” Stan says.  “I’ve got to take care of something first.”

Ford thankfully just nods and doesn’t press, and Stan heads back to the guest room.  He waits until he hears the door close, then waits a little longer to make sure Ford’s really downstairs, and heads back to the storage room.  He grabs several spare planks of wood, along with a hammer and nails, then carries them back to the guest room.

He pulls down the blanket he hung up by the window last night, then, as quickly and quietly as he can, hammers the planks of wood over the window, pushing past his arms protesting way more than they should be after only one all-nighter.

It doesn’t matter, though, he had to get these boards over the window either way, both to stop the sound of snow blowing in, and to stop the snow from actually blowing in.

He does a good enough job that he can comfortably push the couch back underneath the window, which works for now.  He puts the weird gun thing back under the pillow for now, not sure what else to do with it.  Then he takes the hammer and nails back to the storage room and heads back to grab the extra breakfast in the fridge.  He pauses at the sink to splash some water on his face to wake himself up, then carries the breakfast back to the guest bathroom.

Fiddleford is slumped asleep against the toilet, and Stan has a brief pang of sympathy for the neck and back problems he’s going to have when all this is over, if they’re all still alive.

For now, though, Stan just reaches down and shakes his shoulder.

Fiddleford stirs and slowly opens his eyes, then looks slowly around the room.  He seems deeply confused for a moment, and the confusion doesn’t fade when he looks up at Stan.

“Hi,” Stan says with a wave.  “I’m the guy who kidnapped you yesterday.  You’re the stranger with memory problems.”

Some kind of recognition seems to spark in Fiddleford’s face, and his gaze shifts to a glare.

“If I take the tape off your mouth to give you some food, are you gonna yell?”

There’s a long pause where Fiddleford keeps glaring at him, but eventually he shakes his head.

Stan leans forward and rips the tape off his mouth, and Fiddleford gives a startled yelp.

“What did I just ask you not to do?”

“Well sorry, it kinda hurts a bit if you rip it off that fast,” Fiddleford snaps.

“Oh, shut up and eat your toast and your orange.”

He sets the plate on Fiddleford’s lap, shortly before realizing the problem with this.

Fiddleford seems to realize it too.

“You gonna force feed me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not untying you,” Stan says firmly.  “I can’t let my brother know you’re here.”

“Who the heck is your brother and why is it so important he don’t know I’m here?”

“What, the time travelers who told you to shoot me to prevent the end of the world didn’t fill you in on that little detail?” Stan asks.  He picks up a piece of toast and holds it up to Fiddleford’s mouth.  “Take a bite.”

Fiddleford does, looking very unhappy with the situation.  He takes every bite of food that Stan gives to him, however, so he’s either hungry or doesn’t have much in the way of dignity.  Or both.  Stan knows from experience that an increase in hunger tends to result in a decrease in caring about dignity.

When he’s done giving him all of the food, he grabs the duct tape he set out of reach and tears off another piece of it, then sticks it back on Fiddleford’s mouth.  Fiddleford gives him a disgruntled grumble through the tape.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan says.  “I’ll be back sometime for lunch.”

He closes the bathroom door after him and takes the dishes to the kitchen.  He leaves them in the sink for later, however, because he’s definitely running out of time before he has to go downstairs, and he wants to do one other thing first.

He heads back to the guest room, sits down on the couch, and pulls the gun Fiddleford had out from under his pillow.  It still says his name on the screen part, so whatever it runs on must have a heck of a battery.

Stan points the end of the gun firmly away from him and fiddles experimentally with the dial on the side.  It takes a bit, but he figures out how to erase his name, and how to get other things to show up on the screen.  It’s not limited to people, either, since while trying to figure it out, he types “portal,” “forks,” and a string of random numbers and letters.

That doesn’t say anything about what it does, though.  Fiddleford said he used it on himself, so it’s clearly not fatal, but Stan isn’t really curious enough to test it on himself.  For now, it’ll stay hidden under his pillow during the day, and under the couch at night.  He’ll ask Fiddleford what it does once the more pressing matters are taken care of, if they’re all still alive.

Okay, he’s used up enough time.  Downstairs.  Hopefully he’ll be able to freak out about the portal less if they’re actually trying to make it somewhat safer.

He still shuts his eyes as he passes the second floor, though.

Ford’s lining up several heavy-duty pieces of metal from previous experiments when Stan makes his way into the portal room.  He turns when he hears Stanley coming and then pauses, setting down the piece he’s holding.

“Stanley, hang on, I found something of yours,” he says, and walks over to where his three journals are sitting on the other side of the room.

Stan starts over curiously as Ford picks up the first journal.  Ford flips it open and pulls out Stan’s picture of the two of them.

“I think it got stuck in the book when you had it in your jacket,” Ford says, holding it out to him.

“Oh, thanks.”  Stan takes it with his uninjured hand.  There’s been so much on his mind, he hadn’t even realized it was missing.

“Hey, question, if you don’t mind,” Ford says, and Stan glances back up at him.  “It looks a lot more… weathered, than I remembered when it was in your car.  Did something happen to it?”

“Uh, must have gotten torn up when it was left outside with my jacket,” Stan says.

“But the journal is fine,” Ford says in confusion.  “It wasn’t even wet.”

Stan shrugs.  “I dunno.  It’s a lot flimsier than the journal.”

“You’re not upset?” Ford asks, still sounding confused.

“It’s been through a lot, Sixer,” Stan says.  He tucks the photo back in his pocket.  “As long as I can still make everyone out, I’m good with it.”  He pauses.  “Well, maybe Pa can get a little more illegible, and that’d be fine.”

Ford laughs a little bit, though there’s a layer of tension in it.  He looks down at the journal.

“Something on your mind?” Stan asks, keeping his tone casual.

Ford reaches suddenly inside his trench coat and pulls something out.  He holds it out to Stan and mutters, “I keep a photo on me too, is all.”

Stan looks down and sees a photo of the two of them next to the Stan-O-War.  They’re both standing proudly on the deck, bright smiles on their faces.  The photo looks to be in much better condition than Stan’s is.

Stan reaches out with his good hand and takes the photo, and Ford lets him, though it takes a minute for him to let go.

Stan doesn’t have any pictures of the Stan-O-War.  He’d actually put the boxing one in his car originally because it was one of his lesser favorite photos.  He’d warmed up to boxing, but Ford certainly never had, so the photo had been there as a temporary keepsake.  He’d planned on taking a whole photo album of pictures he actually cared about with him when he and Ford left, on the Stan-O-War.  The boxing photo only became important to him in retrospect, once it became the only photo he had left of any of his family.  The apocalypse hadn’t exactly lessened that importance.  And sure, maybe there’s another version of this photo out in his car right now, and maybe he’d liked finding that nicer version of the picture when he first saw it, but, well…

Stan has a feeling the apocalypse-specific boxing photograph could be falling apart at the seams and he’d find a way to keep it.  It feels like tangible evidence of the fact that he’s actually been there.  That, and his two-weeks-more scraped up knuckle dusters.  Proof that he hadn’t dreamed the whole thing up.

But still.  It’s been a long time since he’s seen a photo of the Stan-O-War.

“Stanley?” Ford says, pulling him out of his head.  Stan glances up and shoves the photo back at Ford before he can say anything else.

“Uh, neat,” Stan says.  “How’s— how’s the old girl doing, anyway?  She still around?”

Ford stiffens as he takes the photo back.  “No,” he says.  There’s an obvious story in his voice, but Stan is not going to be able to keep it together hearing a story about what happened to the Stan-O-War, so he doesn’t push.

After a second, Ford shoves the photo back in his pocket.  “Well then, safety bars to make!” he says, with transparently fake enthusiasm.  “Let’s get going!”

“Yes,” Stan says, taking the out.  “That’s exactly what I came down here for, so we could make this portal thing less dangerous!”

“Excellent, I’m glad we’re on the same page!” Ford tucks his hands behind his back even as he walks back over the metal pieces he’s going to have to pick up in just a second.

Stan forgot to swap his bandages out for band-aids this time, so he’s just going to have to hope Ford is too focused on avoiding talking about childhood boats to notice his hand.

He’s not too worried, though.  He’d bet money on that possibility.

Chapter Text

They’ve got the beginnings of a safety bar by the end of the day, which has the opposite effect of the intention of a safety bar.  They’re closer to the portal being fully functional.  Stan is trying to find energy to be panicked about it along with how exhausted he is.  His muscles are aching, his headache is coming back with a vengeance, and by the time he makes his way back to the guest room, it’s harder than it should be to force his feet to do what he wants and make them walk.

Every part of him is dying to sleep when he gets back to the guest room, but when his head hits the pillow, his thoughts start to race.

Ford went upstairs to his room the same time Stan did, meaning this is the fifth night Stan has been here, Ford is already asleep, and the next time Stan sees him he’ll have four days left.  He still feels like he’s made almost no progress.  He hasn’t even gotten Ford to mention Bill yet.  He’s been too busy fighting off time travelers and weirdos with weird guns.

If Ford doesn’t bring it up naturally at some point tomorrow, Stan is going to have to consider himself officially too far behind, and bring him up himself.  The way to play that is going to be tricky, though.  At this point, he has basically two options.  Option one, steal journal three and be reading whatever codes Bill wrote in there when Ford walks into the room and finds it.  Option two, walk up to Ford and say, “Hey bro, I know about the demon in your head.”

Option two feels like the obvious worse option, but based on how the last time he took one of Ford’s journals went, Stan’s really not enthusiastic about the idea of stealing another one.  One Ford didn’t give him permission to read, at that.  It would feel like yet another betrayal, and Stan doesn’t know how many more of those he can get away with.

On the other hand, “Hey I know about Bill and have been trying to convince you he’s evil this entire time without telling you about it” doesn’t feel like it’ll go over much better.

God, if he had a month or two with Ford before the end of the world this would all be so much easier.

Stan rolls over on the couch, still turning over the two options in his mind, trying to figure out which one will work better.  He hasn’t yet reached a consensus, however, when there’s a loud bang from what sounds like the front door.

Stan’s heart leaps to his throat, and he throws himself to his feet.  He grabs his jacket, throwing it on as he runs so he can grab his knuckle dusters as he runs towards the front door.  There’s the sound of a gun going off, and Stan ducks instinctively, then curses himself for slowing down and starts running again.

He reaches the living room just as the front door is slammed into the wall, and Dundgren and Lolph burst in.  Lolph has a crossbow arrow sticking out his arm.

They both turn and run up the steps before Stan can reach them, leaving him no option but to pound up the stairs after him.

“FORD!” he screams.  “WAKE UP!”

There’s some kind of thump upstairs, but Stan doesn’t hear Ford yell back.  Neither Dundgren or Lolph pay his yell the slightest bit of attention.

Stan has almost reached Lolph by the time they both make it to Ford’s door.  He’s aiming for his injured arm, but before he can grab him and before Dundgren can pull the door open, it’s slammed open on its own.

And in the doorway stands Bill, bright glowing eyes and delighted smile on his face.

“Hi there,” he says, and his voice sends a chill down Stan’s spine, despite the fact that he doubts it’s directed at him.  “I hear you want to kill my pet.  But I haven’t given you permission to do that.”

He reaches out, grabs Dundgren’s gun, and twists it.  Dundgren winces but keeps his grip and starts to fire up the gun.

Bill, however, just seems to find this irritating.  He sighs, and twists Dundgren’s arm until there’s a painful crack.   Dundgren cries out, but Bill keeps twisting.

By the time the gun goes off, it’s aimed at Lolph’s injured arm, and that’s what it hits.

Lolph screams, hand going for an arm that’s no longer there.

Dundgren whirls around with transparent panic.  “Lolph!”

Stan takes advantage of his panic to dart past both of them and start to push Ford’s body back inside the bedroom.

“Oh, come now, Stanley, we’re actually on the same side for once!” Bill says.  He ducks underneath Stan’s arm and holds out a hand.  “Truce!  Just until these very persistent problems are out of the house.”

“No way in hell am I shaking that thing,” Stan spits at Bill’s hand.  “But… fine.”

Bill cackles in delight, and they both turn to face Dundgren and Lolph together.

Dundgren is crouched by Lolph’s side, still looking at his arm, but he turns around the instant they start to move.  He steps in front of Lolph and holds up his gun again.

“You’re siding with a demon now?” he snaps at Stanley.

“I’m siding with whatever will keep my brother alive,” Stanley snaps back.  “If you leave, I’ll get him to stop.”

Bill sighs.  “Oh, Stanley, I would have thought you’d know better by now,” he says.  He takes a couple steps forward, and Dundgren fires his gun up.

Stan starts to step forward to get the gun aimed away from his brother’s body.  But before he can get close enough, Bill steps slightly to the side of the gun, putting himself just out of Stan’s reach, and keeps walking towards Dundgren.

Dundgren tries to move his non-injured arm out of Bill’s reach, and Bill instead reaches for his injured one and twists.

Dundgren cries out and drops the gun, and Bill picks it up off the ground.

Lolph has started to stand up in the meantime, though still in obvious pain.  Fortunately, this gives Stan more than enough time to move close enough to him to knock his own gun out of his hands.

It lands somewhere near the top of the steps, and he and Lolph both dive for it.

Stan gets to it first.  Lolph overshot it, and realizes this just in time to tumble down the stairs.

Stan winces in sympathy, and stops for a second.  Should he go after him?  Or is leaving Dundgren alone with Bill a bigger risk?

His decision is made for him a second later, when Dundgren screams again.

Stan whirls back around.  Bill has shifted his grip so he’s holding Dundgren at arm’s length by his broken arm.

Dundgren tries to push past him enough to grab the gun back, but the pained look on his face pretty clearly means that’s not going to work.

“Aww, you’re such a cutie!” Bill says.  “Two little time travelers, scrambling all alone, trying to fix a scenario way above their pay grade.  I gotta tell ya, you don’t get entertainment like this back in the nightmare realm.”

“You’re not—” Dundgren starts, and just cries out when Bill twists his arm again.

“Hey,” Stan snaps, drawing at least Bill’s attention.  He makes his way to Bill’s right, while keeping himself out of reach of Dundgren’s good arm.

He holds his hand out to Bill.  “Give me the gun.”

“What?  Come on Stanley, I was gonna kill you with this next!” Bill says.

Dundgren finally yanks his broken arm away from Bill, then cradles it to his chest.  “You’re still on board with the helping him plan?” he snaps.

Stan ignores him and grabs the gun from Bill’s hand, which Bill very obviously lets him do.

“Fine,” Bill says with an overdramatic sigh.  “You caught me, I wasn’t.  Fordsy would be way too whiny if he woke up to find you dead.  I wouldn’t get any more portal work out of him!”

“We’re not killing anyone,” Stan snaps.  “We’re getting them out of the house.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun.   Fine.”

Bill takes another step towards Dundgren, who backs up.

“You could just leave you know,” Bill says lightly.

A firm expression takes hold on Dundgren’s face, one Stan recognizes from all the times he’s felt what it means.  It’s hopeless, and they all know it, but he’s standing his ground anyway.  Dundgren raises his good hand to guard his face.

Admirable, considering the stakes.  Also stupid.

Bill realizes this too, based on the spark of delight that enters his eyes.

He’s going to kill him.

Stan turns to Dundgren and sprints right at him, surprising both him and Bill.

Stan grabs Dundgren’s broken arm and yanks it down, making Dundgren scream and reach down with his good arm to stop him.

Instead, Stan drops the arm immediately, and swings a fist at Dundgren’s head.  He hits with a hard clang that does not sound pleasant.

Dundgren goes down hard.

“Hey,” Bill says.  “Rude.  You’ll want him dead too when you find out what Specs’ gun does.  Maybe I’m doing you a favor.”

Stan gives him an unamused look, then bends down to hoist Dundgren up over his shoulder.

He doesn’t really expect Bill to follow him, but he hears footsteps pacing after him, meaning he has.

Stan reaches the top of the steps and finds Lolph passed out in a heap at the bottom.  He’s not surprised when Bill doesn’t step forward to help him with Dundgren’s weight.

Stan glances over his shoulder anyway to make sure Bill isn’t trying anything, and finds him grinning a far-too-wide and way-too-creepy smile, but otherwise doing nothing.

Stan nods down the steps.  “You first.”

“Alright, bossy,” Bill says.  He walks over to the top of the stairs and leans forward, only for Stan to grab him by the collar.

“Hey!”

“Walk,” Stan snaps.

“I’d be a little more careful bossing me around there, buddy,” Bill says, turning an angrier smile back to face him.  “Just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean we can’t have some fun.”

Stan swallows the fear in his throat and firmly repeats, “Walk.”

His voice shakes, and Bill cackles in delight.  It seems to be enough for him, though, because after a second he does walk down the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom, he nudges Lolph causally with his foot.  “You coming?”

Stan takes a shaky breath and starts down the stairs.  He bends down at the bottom, and manages to get Lolph over his other shoulder.

Bill whistles casually as Stan tries to stand up, looking around as if not much is bothering him.

Stan doesn’t make it to his feet, however, before he realizes this isn’t going to work.  He doesn’t collapse, but rather watches himself almost in slow motion fall forward onto his knees.

Dundgren and Lolph fall from his shoulders.  Lolph, the less carefully balanced, lands on top of his shoulders and knocks him onto his stomach.

Stan pushes himself up immediately, climbing out from under Lolph despite his arms and legs now shaking.

Bill laughs.  “Aww, I always forget how fragile you humans are!  Not even 36 hours without sleep and, whoop, you’re done!  Here, let me help you out with that buddy.”

Bill steps forward and pulls Lolph onto Ford’s shoulders, then picks up Dundgren by his broken arm.

“Welp!  Back to the car that you let these guys steal from you!  Man, I bet that really stings.  Wasn’t that like the only item of value you had for a decade?”

“Shut up,” Stan manages, pushing himself to his feet.  His legs still feel like they’re about to give out, and he feels a bit like he’s going to throw up again.

He follows Bill back to the Stanley mobile, just to make sure he doesn’t kill them both as soon as he’s out of Stan’s sight.  The crossbow must recognize the two of them, because it doesn’t fire at Dundgren or Lolph either.

Bill heaps them both on top of each other in the car and slams the door shut without trying to make them comfortable in the slightest.  Stan doesn’t envy the first aid the two of them will have to do tomorrow, but they won’t freeze to death in the blizzard, at least.

“Well alright then!” Bill says.  He swings an arm around Stan’s shoulder, and grins at him when Stan’s breath catches in his throat.  “I’m done for the night!  Need Fordsy in tip top shape working on that Doomsday Device tomorrow!  Have fun carrying him upstairs!”

With that, Ford’s eyes roll back in his head, and Stan quickly grabs his other side, holding up the now unconscious dead weight of his brother.  His arms keep shaking.

Just get him upstairs, and then you can sleep.

…

Stan gets Ford upstairs, but does not sleep again that night.  Instead he sits on the couch, head in his hands, and tries not to think about how Dundgren’s arm looked when Bill finally let go of it and shoved him in the car.  How Lolph had a stub where his arm used to be, an injured one, but still.  How easily Bill maimed them and how easily he could have killed the two people who had been giving Stan serious problems for the past six days.

Stan doesn’t want them dead.  He wants them to stop trying to kill his brother and sending random strangers after him, sure.  And based on Bill’s comment about what Fiddleford’s gun does, there’s more he doesn’t know, and that more would probably piss him off.

But they’re desperate.  Stan knows desperate.  Hell, he is desperate.  They’re tackling the same problem two different ways, and thus creating additional problems for each other, and yeah, if they actually managed to kill Ford, Stan could see himself losing it in a blind rage.  But that’s irrelevant, because Ford is alive, so Stan doesn’t want them dead.

Stan looks up at the bathroom, where Fiddleford is likely not sleeping at this point, because that noise would wake anyone up, unless you happened to be possessed by a demon for the duration of the fight.

Bill must know he’s here, he talked about his gun.  But then why hasn’t he touched him?  There’s no “Ford would whine” failsafe protecting him.  Does Bill just think Ford would notice?  It’s not an impossibility.  Ford might not have noticed a kidnapping happening in his house, but a kidnapping and a murder are two different things.

Either way, Fiddleford’s probably in some pretty serious danger while he’s here.

Stan shakes himself.  He doesn’t have time to worry about it.  He can’t let Fiddleford go, and he’ll be dead in four days anyway if Stan fails.  Ford’s awake during the day, and Stan’s door is locked at night and he’s twenty feet from Fiddleford the whole time.

Plus at this point, Stan would be surprised if he slept before this was over, meaning he’ll know if Bill tries to get in here.  Five all nighters in a row won’t be great, but it’s less than his record!  It doesn’t matter that he almost collapsed earlier!  He can do this!

Stan drops his head into his hands again.

“Breathe,” he says aloud to himself.  “In and out.  You can do this.  You can.  You have to.  Breathe.”

He stays there, breathing into his hands, listening for Bill, and listening for Fiddleford, long past dawn.

…

“Hey, Stanley?”

Stan jerks to look at him from his place staring out the window, and Ford holds up his hands.

“Woah, hey,” he says.  “Take a breath.  Are you okay?  You seem… jumpy.”

“I’m fine,” Stan says.  He looks back out the window, gaze darting around for any sign of Dundgren or Lolph, and grabs the only excuse he can think of.  “Just had a really bad nightmare last night.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ford says, but thankfully he seems to buy it.  “We can take it easy this morning.  There’s not much I can do for the portal at this point until the blizzard ends, anyway.”

“Yes, agreed,” Stan says, clenching his hands into fists in his pockets.  “Day off.  Let’s laze around all day, we both deserve it.”  Anything to keep Ford from working on that stupid thing until Stan gets his head in order.

“Well, not all day,” Ford says.  “But sure.”

Stan spends the rest of the breakfast (or at least, Ford eating breakfast.  Stan told him he ate earlier but really his nausea is back) staring out the window, but he doesn’t see Dundgren or Lolph anywhere.  Eventually, Ford puts his dishes in the sink and says he’ll do them after lunch, and that for now he’s going to go work on something in his journals.

Stan agrees, keeping his gaze on the window.  He catches a worried glance from Ford on his way out of the kitchen, but he doesn’t have time to linger on it.  As soon as Ford is thoroughly upstairs, Stan makes his way to the window and peers out it, looking towards the woods where he knows the Stanley mobile is.

There’s no movement, and the visibility is too poor for him to see it anyway.  Stan’s certainly not going out there.

Maybe they’re just not awake yet.  He and Bill hurt them pretty bad last night, Stan wouldn’t be surprised if they needed a bit to recover.

He scoffs at himself.  As if.  They’re working under the same insanely stressful deadline that he is.  They don’t have time to slow down just because Bill broke Dundgren’s arm and shot Lolph’s into nothingness.  They’re trying something else.

He wouldn’t be surprised if that something else was more along the lines of Fiddleford, however.  They might take a day to fix themselves up however they can with whatever future technology they have.

Stan forces himself to make an extra breakfast for Fiddleford, pushing past the exhaustion that’s making it feel like he’s got extra weights on his arms and legs.  He makes some toast again, since it’ll be faster to make Fiddleford eat than cereal, and forgoes adding any kind of butter.

He puts it on a paper towel that he can just pitch after and heads back into the guest room.  He pauses outside the bathroom, takes a deep breath, and pulls himself together as best he can.  Then opens the bathroom door.

Fiddleford does not look any happier to see him today than he did yesterday.

Stan, however, doesn’t have any time to waste, so he pulls the tape off Fiddleford’s mouth and covers it to muffle the immediate yelp he makes.

“Eat your toast,” Stan snaps, shoving the whole piece in Fiddleford’s mouth and letting go.

Fiddleford gives him an irritated look, but takes at least a couple bites before it falls out of his mouth and into his lap.

“Who spit in your oatmeal?” Fiddleford asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Sorry, were you expecting politeness from a guy who kidnapped you?” Stan asks, picking up the toast and shoving it back in Fiddleford’s mouth.  “I don’t have time for this.”

Fiddleford glares at him, but finishes the toast.

“So sorry to be an inconvenience to you,” he grumbles.

“Whatever,” Stan says.  He tosses the paper towel in the waste bin and heads back out, going right back to the kitchen window.

Still no Dundgren and Lolph.  Great.

God, he needs a nap.

Instead, he drags himself over to the sink.  His arms still feel weighed down, and it takes him a second to get them to do what he wants, but eventually he starts the dishes.

Dundgren and Lolph are fine, right?  They have to be.  They were still breathing when he and Bill took them to the car, and their problems had just been with their arms.  They won’t have a fun time after they wake up, but there’s no reason to assume they’ll get worse before they do.  No reason for Stan to run out there and check on them, they’ll probably just shoot him.

No, wait.  He shoved their guns into his duffle bag in the guest room.  A horrible place for them, really, but he couldn’t think of a better one last night.  He can’t sleep with three guns under his pillow, and at least Dundgren and Lolph can’t get to them now.  Now all Stan has to worry about is Bill.

But Bill won’t kill him, he needs him alive.  Everyone needs him alive for one reason or another, it seems.

The same isn’t true for Ford, or Fiddleford, but they’re in danger from different people.  Either Stan leaves the guns with Dundgren and Lolph and puts Ford in danger, or he keeps them with him and puts Fiddleford in danger, if Bill gets ahold of them.

…Sorry, Fiddleford.

It’s not personal, it’s just that Stan barely knows him.  Plus, Fiddleford is a pretty clear threat too, though Stan doesn’t know the exact reasons he is.

“Stanley?”

Stan jerks upright and whirls around.  Ford is standing in the entryway, looking at him in clear concern.

“Are you, uh, good?” Ford asks.  “You’ve been scrubbing that bowl for thirty seconds.”

“That’s not that long,” Stan mutters, turning back to the bowl and sticking his hand further down into the sink to keep his now thoroughly soaked bandage out of view.

“Sure,” Ford says, not sounding at all convinced.  “You know, you can leave those if you want.  I’m going downstairs.  You want to come?”

“Sounds fantastic,” Stan says firmly, setting the bowl down.  “Give me two minutes?”

“Sure,” Ford says.  “I’ll meat you down there.”

“Great.”

Stan gives Ford a couple seconds to walk out of view of the kitchen, then moves as quickly as he can upstairs, which is slower than it should be.  He changes his bandages, pulls it tighter around the spot where one of the stitches looks loose, and then heads quickly back downstairs, and for the basement.

He closes his eyes again when he goes past the second floor, and straightens himself up with a deep breath as the doors ding on the lowest level.

The consoles are blinking rapidly, which don’t help his nerves.  Stan’s gaze catches on one, and he stares at it, watching it blink for a couple seconds.

Something bangs on the floor in the other room, and Stan jerks his focus away from the lights.  Ford is visible through the viewing window, his back to him.

Stan shakes himself, trying to force his head back in order, and walks through the control room, then out into the main one.  Ford turns when Stan pushes the door open.  He smiles at him, and Stan manages a weak one back.  The portal looms massive and silent in the distance.

God, he hates that fucking thing.

“Well, I’ve got good news, Stan,” Ford says, turning to look at the parts for the safety bar they’ve put together and laid out in front of the portal.  “I think we’ve done about all we can do until the blizzard is over.  So I guess that means we will get to take it easy today.”

“What happens after the blizzard is over?” Stan asks, looking up at the portal.

“Well, I’ll need to run to the hardware store in town to get some final supplies, but then it should be ready to test.  And if the test goes well, I’ll be ready to actually use it!”

Obvious excitement enters his voice, and Stan tries to paste on a winning smile as Ford looks back at him, but based on the way Ford’s smile fades, he must not do a very good job.

Rather than getting angry, though, Ford just looks concerned again, which is… progress?  Maybe?

“Hey, seriously,” Ford says, taking a step towards him.  “Maybe you should go take a nap, Stanley.  You don’t look so good.”

“What, don’t be silly, I’m fine,” Stan says, waving Ford off.

“Are you sure?  You’re not getting sick again, are you?”

“From what?  Seriously, I’m good.  Just need an easy day, like you said.  What do you want to do?  Board games?  Go over your nerdy research stuff?  Other things we can do without leaving the house or at least not stepping outside the barbed wire outside it?”

Ford looks at him for another second, and Stan clenches his hands into tight fists inside his pockets.

“You gonna say something, Sixer?” he asks.

“Let’s watch a movie,” Ford says, and Stan blinks.

“A movie?”

“Sure.  I’ve got some VHS tapes of documentaries, you have to like at least one of them, right?”

“That’s debatable,” Stan mutters.

“Hey, don’t knock them until you try them.”

And well, he has a point there.  Stan hasn’t ever seen a VHS tape before.  They’re new enough that he was on the road when they got big, and didn’t have access to a TV.  Of course Ford would waste them on documentaries, but maybe he could sneak a nap in there somewhere.  And maybe Ford wouldn’t mind if he misses it because he’s being so weirdly concerned today.  And maybe Bill will suddenly have a complete change of heart and decide he actually doesn’t want to kill everyone after all.

Either way, Stan nods, and Ford smiles brightly at him, which makes it worth it in the moment, at least.

So they make their way back upstairs, and into the living room with the TV.  Stan flops down on the couch while Ford drags a box forward from behind the TV, then starts digging through it.  He pulls out a couple to show to Stan, but Stan is too exhausted to even pretend to have an opinion on what to watch, so Ford ends up choosing one about the space program that led to Apollo 11.

They both sit on the couch, and Ford starts to talk through the opening credits, explaining about the background behind the space program, and the documentary, and what footage they used.  (And what footage they should have used, since Ford has his own copies of footage and there’s much that they didn’t use that would have worked better, according to him.)

Stan tries to listen, honestly he does.  But he’s had so many other things on his mind for so long, and Ford’s excited nerd voice mixed with the droning of the TV playing some nerd thing is bringing back dozens of familiar childhood memories of that exact scenario.  Eventually, Stan’s eyes start to droop, and not long after the credits fade out and the documentary actually starts, he’s asleep.

…

“Hey there, spare parts!”

Stan jerks awake and shoves himself upright.  As soon as he takes a breath, however, he’s coughing, and when he manages to look around, he finds himself just outside the husk of the building where he fought Rico over a squirrel.  He doesn’t see Rico this time, but Bill is leaning back against the building where Stan remembers him sitting, and that’s not exactly better.

Rather than throw up his knuckle dusters, however, Stan is stuck coughing into his elbow.  Dammit, he’s gotten too used to breathing clean air that doesn’t have smoke in it.

“Aww, poor humans,” Bill says.  His voice sounds much closer, and a second later, Stan feels him patting him much too hard on the back.  “Needing silly little things like oxygen.  It’s not my fault you haven’t evolved enough.”

Stan reaches out and shoves Bill away as best he can, which admittedly doesn’t do much right now.  He stumbles a couple steps back to increase distance between them, hacks one more cough into his elbow, and manages to stop.

“What do you want?” he snaps at Bill, his voice coming out worse than it’s sounded all week.

“Who, me?  I’m just here to chat, buddy!  You haven’t fallen asleep in days, and last time I saw you we had to fight off time travelers together!  I’ve missed talking with someone who knows what’s coming.  Hey, do you think you could tell me a bit more about what the world looks like after I fix it up?  I could really use a little extra time to come up with decorating ideas for my palace.”

“Get out of my head,” Stan grumbles, turning away.  He turns and starts walking towards where he remembers the center of the city.  If this is a dream, he should be able to fix the air problem by thinking about it.

Sure enough, after a second the air around him clears, and he takes a deep breath in.

“Cheater,” Bill says, reappearing next to him.

“And I’m sure you’re a strict rule abider,” Stan says, rolling his eyes.

“Eh, you got me there.  You know, if you want to see sights you couldn’t see in real life, I could speed this up!”

Before Stan can ask what that means, Bill grabs him by the arm, and the world blurs around them.  Bill lets go of him seconds later, and Stan stumbles, reaching out for something to grab to steady himself.  He doesn’t find anything there, however, and a second later he sees why.

In front of them both is the edge of the world, right where Bill took a bite out of it.  The lava from the mantle is flowing at Stan’s feet, though it goes right through them without any effect.  A few feet in front of them, the ground drops sharply into nothing, and Stan has the feeling if he looked over the edge, he’d see the inside of the planet.

He turns around instead, but the expanse behind him isn’t much better.  There aren’t even any crumbling, on-fire cities like he’d been in with Rico, there’s just an empty expanse of dead land and fire.

“Oh-ho-ho!  Did I nail it or what?” Bill asks, delight painting his voice.  “I mean, just look at this!”

Stan ignores him, closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath.  As soon as he breathes in, however, he realizes the clean air he dreamt up is still there.  Right.  His mind.  He can do this.

On the exhale, he pictures the call of seagulls, the gentle rocking of waves, and the unmistakable scent of saltwater taffy and broken glass shards.

He opens his eyes, and he’s standing on the Stan-O-War, tied to the dock of Glass Shard Beach.

Stan turns back to Bill and finds him very unamused.

“Ugh,” he groans, crossing his arms.  “I never understood the obsession with this thing.  Yeah yeah, childhood fun, dreams of adventure, blah, blah, blah.  You know this thing wouldn’t have lasted two days on the water, right?”

Bill floats over and lightly kicks the mast.  A loud crack comes from the spot his foot hits, and then the mast falls down onto the boat with a crash.

“Hey, quit it,” Stan snaps.  He waves his arm and the mast repairs itself.

Bill sighs and sits down on the edge of the boat’s railing.  “You’re no fun.”

“I’m okay with that,” Stan says, settling down on the opposite railing.

“Ah, well,” Bill says.  “I think I prefer the first setting.  I mean, that’s new, isn’t it?  You’ve seen this thing countless times.  Though I guess the first one will be back in a couple days.  Considering how badly you’re blowing this whole thing.”

“Sorry, I can’t hear you,” Stan says, closing his eyes.  “The seagulls are extra loud today.”

“Hey, you want to live in denial, I’m not gonna stop you!  It’ll be more fun for me to watch you struggle desperately and fail.  Desperate panic is a good look on you!  But we both know how this is going to end.  Don’t beat yourself up about it.  No one ever expects the stupid twin to actually do anything worthwhile with their life!  You’ve been proving that right for ten years, why stop now?”

“I can think of a couple reasons,” Stan says, without opening his eyes.

“Ugh, you humans are no fun.  None of you see the benefit in the end of the world.”

Stan sighs, and opens his eyes to glare at Bill.  “Get out of my head.”

“Yeah?  You want me to go visit Sixer instead?  Or maybe I should pay Specs a visit, see if he still knows who I am or if I’ll have to find creative ways to remind him!”

“Get out of my head or I’ll punch you out,” Stan says, lifting up his fists and summoning his knuckle dusters.

Bill laughs.  “Oh, alright.  ‘Bout time for you to wake up anyway, pal.  You’ve got a phone call coming in a couple minutes!”

Before Stan can figure out what the heck that means, Bill snaps his fingers and pops out of Stan’s head.  For some reason, that doesn’t really make him feel any better.

“S’okay,” Stan says aloud, closing his eyes again and trying to listen to the seagulls.  “You can do this.  You can do this.”

…

When Stan opens his eyes, he’s laid out on the couch.  There’s a blanket thrown awkwardly over the TV, which is loudly playing static, and Ford is gone.

Stan jumps to his feet, looking around.  “Ford?” he calls.  “You still there?”

There’s no response.

Stan darts immediately for the guest room, but when he opens the door, there’s no screams of pain coming from the bathroom, and no sign that anything has been moved.  When Stan pulls the bathroom door open, Fiddleford is asleep.  His head is slumped awkwardly on his chest, and he doesn’t look too comfortable, but he’s obviously breathing.

“Okay, okay,” Stan whispers, running a hand through his hair.  “S’okay, it’s okay.”

He closes the bathroom door quietly, and slips his knuckle dusters on as he walks out of the room.  The house is eerily quiet, and when he pauses to listen, the only sound is the snow swirling outside.

He makes his way to the kitchen, wondering if maybe Ford is just working at the table, but his attention is drawn immediately to the window, instead.

Outside, just at the edge of visibility, there are two blurred shapes, not moving.

Dundgren and Lolph.

Stan takes a deep breath and walks back out into the entryway.  He doesn’t hear any movement from upstairs, and Ford might think he’s still asleep.  Still, he’s going to have to do this quickly.

He unlocks the front door, which takes far too much time, and walks out into the cold.  The blizzard has settled down a bit, but the temperature certainly hasn’t warmed.

Dundgren and Lolph are both standing outside the barbed wire when Stan approaches it.  Dundgren’s arm is braced and wrapped in a sling, and Lolph is standing so his one remaining arm is closer to Stan.  Neither of them look particularly happy to see him.

“Hey,” Stan says, not making any effort to hide the sheepishness in his smile.  He turns to Lolph.  “So, half off manicures for life, huh?  You excited?”

Lolph grits his teeth and snaps, “I swear to Time Baby—” which definitely inspires at least one follow up question, but Dundgren cuts him off by holding his arm out in front of him.

“Hey, look, I’m sorry about your uh, arms,” Stan says, rubbing the back of his neck.  “Really.  Never allied with a demon before, didn’t really know how to prevent collateral damage.”

Dundgren gives him an unamused look.  “Does that mean you’ve realized by now that your plan isn’t going to work?”

“Yeah, it probably isn’t,” Stan says with a shrug.  “But I’m not done trying.”

“I cannot believe you,” Lolph spits.  “You understand what you’re sacrificing?  For the sake of what, a tiny chance to save your brother?  Have you always been this selfish?”

“Sure have,” Stan says, giving him a winning conman smile.  “If you back off and let me give it my best shot, however, I’ll be more likely to succeed!”

He doesn’t really expect that to work, but after a second, Dundgren sighs.  “Fine.”

Stan blinks.

“What?”

“Fine.  You win.  Clearly nothing we try is going to work.  We’re done.”

…Bullshit.

They cannot still think he’s that dumb.  Or are they just trying to get him to stop figuring out what they’re next plan is?

“Yeah, uh-huh, sure,” Stan says, narrowing his eyes.

“He means it,” Lolph says.  “We’ll be here when you realize this is hopeless and you need our help to kill your brother.  If you get us to him, we’ll even do it for you.  Or get someone else to do it for all of us.”

Stan snorts.  “I already told you, I ain’t doin’ that.  You still seriously think you can get me to?”

“I think you’re just as scared of the apocalypse as we are,” Dundgren says.  “And you’re the only person your brother isn’t paranoid enough to shoot on sight.  When you realize you can’t convince him he’s wrong, come find us.”

And with that, the two of them turn and walk off, likely back to his car.

Okay.  So, still bullshit.  They’re not going to sit on their heels and hope he changes his mind.  They’re trying something else.  But what the heck could it be?  They don’t have any way to time travel anymore, they clearly can’t successfully break into the house and kill Ford themselves, Stan isn’t going to help them do it, they already tried with Fiddleford, what else is there?

Stan starts back towards the house.  He tries to come up with what their next plan would be, but his head still feels sluggish despite his nap.  He also doesn’t have time to agonize over what they’re going to try next, not if he’s going to keep trying to convince Ford about Bill.

Speaking of which, he still hasn’t decided what he’s going to do there.  If he steals the journal or reveals he knows about Bill without it.  Stealing something they both agreed he wouldn’t, or reveal he’s been trying to manipulate Ford to an end all along.  He’s really just debating which form of betrayal would piss Ford off the least.

The house is still achingly quiet when he walks back in, and nothing changes after he locks the door, but Stan is getting a sick sense of dread in his stomach.  Something bad is about to hit.

“Ford?” he calls up the stairs.

No response.

Stan listens closely, trying to pick out if Ford is making any noise in the house, or if he needs to head down the basement—

The phone rings, sharp and shrill, and Stan leaps a foot into the air.

Moses, it’s just the phone.  Calm down.

“Ford, phone’s ringing!” Stan calls.  Which also gets no response.

Ford doesn’t get too many phone calls.  It could be Shermie saying he got to New Jersey earlier, which would be great, but with the way Stan’s luck has been lately, he doubts it.  It could be Ma or Pa calling for a visit, which sounds more in line with his luck.  Or maybe Ford’s luck is changing, and this is that assistant he mentioned calling to say he wants to make up?

The phone rings for a third time, and Stan realizes he’s still standing in the entryway.

He walks into the kitchen, braces himself for the worst case scenario of hearing Pa snap something at him, and picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“You think you can get away from me by running halfway across the country, Hal?”

Rico.

Rico?

“Rico?” Stan asks, almost baffled.  “What are you— did— did you say get away from you?  Because that’s crazy!   No, I came up here to uh, Michigan, to get all that money that I owe you!  Yeah, it was up here, and I’m gonna drive it back down as soon as I can get it all set up in about uh, four days!  Four days from now, not counting today!  So sorry about the long wait, I know it’s not what we agreed on, so just for that, I’m bringing you an extra five grand!  See you next week?”

There’s a silence that stretches on a couple seconds too long, and near the end of it, Stan realizes the fact that Rico is calling Ford’s house is probably a very bad sign.

“Not a chance, Forrester,” Rico says, low and dangerous.  “Not a chance are you getting away from me again.  Your friends squealed on you.  Thought you would know better than to trust pigs.”

Friends, who does he…?

Stan’s gaze snaps back up to the window.  Dundgren and Lolph are long gone, but there can’t be anyone else he means.  No one else knows both that Stan is on the run from Rico, and that he’s here in Gravity Falls with Ford.

“You think I trusted cops?” Stan asks, putting a laugh into his voice.  “Rico, someone’s pulling the wool over your eyes, buddy.”

“Well, you wouldn’t have answered the phone then, would you?”

Stan pulls the phone far enough from his mouth that he can swear under his breath.

“No, I’d rather not take any chances,” Rico is saying as he puts the phone back to his ear.  “I’m sending some men up there to bring you back to me.  If you give me what you owe me, then we’re square.  If not…” he lets his voice trail off, doesn’t finish the threat, because he doesn’t need to.  Because Stan knows what happens to people who don’t pay him, he worked for Rico long enough to have been on the punisher side of that.

“You know,” Stan says weakly.  “If we were starving in the apocalypse together, I’d share my last squirrel meat with you.”

There’s a baffled pause from the other side of the phone.

“What the hell does that mean?” Rico asks after a second.

“Nothing.  Just, you know, thought I’d put it out there.”

Rico scoffs.  “I’ll see you soon, Forrester,” he says, and the line goes dead.

Stan presses the phone to his forehead and listens to the dial tone.

Fine.  It’s fine.  He’s not gonna worry about it, because it’s not going to matter.  He’s going to convince Ford the portal is dangerous way ahead of schedule, and they’ll deal with it and with Bill, and then he’s going to get Fiddleford out of the house without bothering Ford about it and he’s going to somehow deal with Dundgren and Lolph.  He’s going to do all of that in time to get out of Gravity Falls and meet Rico’s men whenever they make it to the edge of town.  He’ll then run from them just long enough to steer them far away from Ford and Shermie and anyone else that matters, and then he’ll drive off the nearest cliff and none of it will be his problem anymore.

All of it is going to happen exactly like that and Ford will be safe and alive and no will have any reason to want him dead anymore, including Fiddleford after Stan explains to him everything that’s been going on, and Stan will come up with something to say or do after the world is safe that will piss Ford off enough that he does hate him, that way he won’t be sad when Stan is dead, and Stan will finally be dead and he’ll get to rest and all of the running and hiding and fighting will be over and he’ll get to die knowing the world is safe and his brother is safe in it.  It’s fine.   It’s so fine.

It’s fine, except right now he might need a minute to be alone in the guest room with no one around, so he can pretend that Fiddleford isn’t there and get all of the panic out of his system, and go find wherever Ford has disappeared to and tell him that he’s known about Bill all along and yes he probably should have told him before now but can he please listen to him because Stan has to tell him something important.

…He’ll word it better when he goes to find Ford.

Stan opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and realizes he’s still holding the phone pressed against his forehead and the dial tone is still playing.  He sets the phone back on the hook with shaking hands and starts back over towards the guest room.

He makes his way through the living room, but as he starts down the hall and the guest room door comes into view, Ford also comes into view, standing just outside.  He’s hunched over and fiddling with the knob in a way that is very much not like Ford.

“Sixer?” Stan says, hoping he’s wrong.

Ford’s neck swings around 90 degrees with a crack that sounds painful, and Stan can see his grin and two bright yellow eyes.

“Hey, get away from there—” Stan snaps, and he starts running.  Bill laughs in delight and turns to finally pull the door open, letting it bang against the wall now that he no longer cares about silence.

Thankfully, Stan makes it to the room just in time to duck under Ford’s arm.  He shoves Ford backwards with all his might and flings the bathroom door open, then slams it shut and locks it just before Bill reaches it.

When Stan turns around, Fiddleford is pressing himself as far back as he can manage against the toilet, abject terror in his eyes.

Bill slams a fist on the door, and Fiddleford screams through the tape covering his mouth.

“Stanley, let me in, please!” Bill calls.

“Yeah, hard pass buddy!” Stan calls back.  “I’m not in a rush, I can wait here all night!”

Bill cackles.  “You’re not in a rush?  How about I head downstairs right now, prove us all wrong!”

Well… it is away from the bathroom…

“Stay out of there!” Stan screams, putting as much desperation in his voice as he can manage.

“You know, I don’t think I will!  I think I’ll head down there right now!  Who needs a safety bar anyway?”

Okay, that’s not great though.

“No!” Stan screams, in a hope to keep up the ruse.

Bill just laughs again, and after a second, Stan hears his footsteps stumbling away.

Stan turns back to Fiddleford, who at this point has tears pouring down his face, though the tape still over his mouth means he can’t exactly scream very loudly.

“Deep breaths,” Stan says.  “I got this.  You’ll be okay.”

He locks the bathroom door and closes it tightly after him.  It’ll keep Fiddleford safer for longer, and if worst comes to worst he can break the door down.

Bill has clearly already made it past the door scanner by the time Stan gets there, and as he pulls it open, the elevator doors at the base of the steps are closing.

Stan sprints down them, and hits the button several times, half sure he’ll break it.

Dammit, why didn’t Ford build a set of stairs?

After far, far too long, the elevator doors ding open, and Stan runs inside, hitting the button for the lowest floor and slamming the doors close button long after the doors actually close.

When the doors open again, Bill is hitting buttons on the console.

Stan runs at him full force, but Bill must have heard either him or the elevator, because he turns around and dodges out of the way just in time.  Stan lands splayed out on the console.

“Oooh, this’ll be fun!” Bill says.  He grabs Stan from behind and hurls him across the room with far more strength than Stan knows Ford has, even a Ford who’s ten years older and has been running around the woods.

He hits the ground hard, but is already jumping to his feet and slipping his knuckle dusters on as Bill runs at him again.

Stan swings hard at Bill’s face, apologizing to Ford for the headache he’ll have.

Unfortunately, Bill ducks just in time for Stan’s fist to sail over his head.  Before Stan can dart away again, he reaches up and grabs Stan’s left arm, then yanks it down.  He definitely doesn’t break it, but it sure doesn’t feel good.

Stan manages a right hook to the side of Bill’s head, now at arm height, but it doesn’t even seem to phase him.  In fact, he just laughs.

“Whoo!  Pain is hilarious!” he yells.  He yanks Stan’s arm forward hard enough for Stan to stumble right into him.

Stan raises his hands and shoves Ford backwards, while also shoving himself off of him.  Ford lands hard against the door to the other room, but he doesn’t turn and run through it, meaning he didn’t actually fully start up the portal yet, which is good news.

Instead, he kicks out at Stan’s feet, which is not so good news.

Stan reaches out to steady himself on a console, but Bill just kicks at his feet again.

Stan looks at Bill’s feet, counts in his head, and when Bill kicks out a third time, he stomps down hard on Ford’s foot.

Bill just laughs again, sits up, and grabs Stan’s right foot.  He yanks up, and Stan goes down on his back.  Before he can even try to get to his feet again, Bill pulls him towards him across the floor.

When Stan gets within range again, he swings a fist up at Bill’s face, but Bill catches it.

Stan aims a kick at Bill’s stomach, but Bill just slides backwards while pulling Stan forward by his hand.  Then, as Stan pushes himself up, Bill’s gaze lands on something over Stan’s shoulder, which can only mean great things.

Stan aims another fist at Bill’s jaw, but Bill just drops down below Stan, lifts his foot up, and shoves it right into Stan’s chest.

Stan is slammed back against the console behind him, and something starts to sizzle, and then his back starts to burn.

He screams.   He swings his fist out, aiming for Bill’s jaw.

This one actually connects, a loud clang that rings off the consoles in the room.  Ford goes down hard on the ground.

Stan falls forward off of the console he was pressed against just in time to watch Ford’s eyes roll back into his head and slip shut.  He doesn’t try to stop either Ford or himself from hitting the ground, just lets himself fall and lays there on his side, wheezing out pained breaths.

Ford doesn’t move, but Stan has to get up.  He has to take Ford upstairs and put him in his bed, come up with some kind of excuse as to why Ford’s head will be killing him tomorrow, look at whatever the hell it was that just burned his back and treat it.  It’s on his back, so it shouldn’t be too hard to hide it from Ford.  He can do this.

He has to get up first, though.  Stan puts his hands underneath him, tries to push himself up with shaking arms, but his back doesn’t let him get more than a couple feet off the ground before he collapses back onto his stomach.

Come on.  Get up.  You’ve run for your life in worse states than this.  Get up.

Across the room comes a weak groan, and Stan tries again to get his hands under him.  He can maybe knock Ford out and play the “wow that’s a weird dream you had Poindexter” card.  But not if he doesn’t get over to Ford right now and hit him in the face again.

His arms are still shaking.  His back and head are killing him, his stomach wants to hurl itself out of his throat, his breath is coming out as wheezes, and none of that matters Stanley you have to get up now.  You have to get up before—

“Stanley?”

Stan collapses back onto his stomach with a pained groan.

“Stanley!  Oh my goodness, are you— Stanley!   What is that, what happened?”

“Nothing,” Stan tries weakly, trying to push up with his hands again.  “Just— just tripped against the console thing—” his arms give out, and he lands on his stomach again— “over there.  Really not a big deal.”

“Not a big— what console thing—” Ford’s voice cuts off in the middle of his sentence, and Stan curses himself internally.

“Oh my god,” Ford says.  His voice shakes.  “Stanley, what— that shouldn’t even be on, what on earth— okay, okay, just— just hang on, Stanley, just hang on!”

Ford walks quickly around him, and Stan hears him hit a couple buttons on the main console.  There’s the sound of something distant powering down, and then Ford crouches down, his face appearing right next to Stan’s.

“Okay, I’m gonna help you up, alright?” he says, his voice still shaking.  “We’re gonna have to go upstairs, but I think I have a little bit of burn cream, and— and— oh my god, Stanley, I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, s’okay,” Stan mutters, trying to get his hands under him again.  “My fault.”

“Even still,” Ford says.  He grabs Stan under his armpit and helps him stand.  He pulls Stan’s arm over his shoulder, and keeps his stance as loose as he can, though Stan’s back still protests heavily.

Eventually, however, they make their way into the elevator and ride it upstairs.  Ford helps Stan slowly but surely climb the stairs, and if Stan fails to mention a couple times he almost blacks out from the pain, well, Ford doesn’t need to know that.

Somehow, they make it upstairs and into the bathroom.  Ford puts Stan down on the toilet and starts digging through the medicine cabinet, and Stan doesn’t have the energy to do anything other than sit there and let him.

“Okay,” Ford says after a second, turning around with some burn cream in hand.  “This is going to hurt, but I have to touch it to treat it.”

Stan nods and doesn’t say anything, just turns so his back is facing Ford.  There’s a longer pause than there really should be, and Stan hears Ford take a couple deep breaths.

“I’ll count to three,” he says finally.  And before Stan can say that if he’s counting for Stan’s sake, Ford should really just get on with it, he says, “One, two, three.”

Stan braces himself, and grits his teeth as Ford rubs the cream on.  If Ford says anything else, he doesn’t hear it, just waits until the rubbing stops and he can slump over, bracing his hands against his knees.

“Stanley,” Ford says quietly, in a tone that means nothing good.  “What happened?”

Shit.

“Told ya,” Stan mumbles.  “I tripped.”

“You don’t trip into the side of a console and get burned in the middle of your back as a result,” Ford says.  “Did— it really looks like someone pushed you, but we’re the only ones in the house.”

“Yeah,” Stan mumbles.  “Just weird, I guess.  Didn’t you say that stuff happens here?”

There’s a long pause.

“Stanley,” Ford says.  “Who pushed you?”

Stan pulls his head up, and manages to look over his shoulder.  He can’t read the expression on Ford’s face at all.

“Nobody,” Stan tries weakly.  “I fell.”

Ford gives him such an unamused look that Stan almost laughs.

“Come on, Stanley,” Ford insists.  “What happened to not being able to do this by yourself?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stan says, looking back down at his lap.  “I have to.”

“No, you don’t.  Tell me what’s going on, I can help you.  I’m already trying to, actually, right now.  Who pushed you?”

Stan squeezes his eyes shut, wondering if there’s still a way out of this one.

Well, he could try to make up a person who broke into the house, but that would definitely come with follow up questions, and using the actual person who broke into the house would just come with different follow up questions he’d have to make up an answer to.  And Stan doesn’t have the energy at this point to come up with any lies to follow up questions, much less to keep them all straight later.

Bill’s right.  He’s always been a failure, anyway.  Why start proving them wrong now.

So Stan turns back around, keeps his gaze on Ford’s, and says, “Bill Cipher.”

Ford’s eyes shoot wide open.  That’s clearly not what he was expecting to hear.

Stan doesn’t take it back, or move his gaze, just keeps looking at Ford, trying to see if this can still work at all.

Ford stares at him until he seems to realize what Stan said, and that he’s not joking.  He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says, “What?”

“It was Bill,” Stan repeats.  He turns on the toilet so he can face forward and still see Ford.

“You—” Ford takes a step back.  “Where did you hear that name?  Did you make it up?”

Stan snorts.  “Yeah.  Got it in one, Poindexter.  You asked me who pushed me into the hot machinery, in a house with a very limited number of living things who can get in, behind a crazy sci-fi door scanner that even fewer people can get into.  And I just happened to accidentally come up with the name of the demon who can take over your body when you fall asleep.”

Ford takes another step back, eyes going wider.  “But that’s not— you can’t know about— he wouldn’t,” Ford says weakly.  “He wouldn’t hurt you, he knows— I mean you’re my brother, he wouldn’t…” Ford trails off, his face running through too many emotions too quickly for Stan to make sense of any of them.

“How do you know Bill?” Ford whispers finally.

Stan laughs, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

“Stanley?” Ford asks.  There’s a note of fear in his voice.  “What aren’t you telling me?  What don’t I know?”

Stan takes a deep breath, and lets his arms slump, dropping his hands in his lap, which makes it just a little easier on his back.  If he’s doing this, he might as well do all of it.  If he tries to tell Ford half-truths, that just leaves room for Bill to manipulate him with whatever Stan hasn’t told him.  This is probably his best chance to lay everything out there and give Ford a chance to decide what he believes.  But if he leads with the apocalypse and portal stuff right off the bat, Ford’s going to shut down.  He’s gotta take this slow.  Or, as slow as he can, at least.

“I know Bill,” Stan says, looking hesitantly back up at Ford so he can watch his face, “because I’m from the future.”

Ford definitely seems surprised at that, but his face doesn’t close off, and he doesn’t immediately accuse Stan of being a liar, which is a great start.

In fact, he takes a step back towards Stan and asks, “Really?” with a decent amount of fascination in his voice.

Stan nods.  “Not that far,” he says.  “About two weeks in the future.  Or, wait, maybe closer to a week, now.  It was two weeks when I got here.”

“Here, like…” Ford points down, as if gesturing to the house.  Stan nods again.

“So… you didn’t come here to catch up, or whatever you said.”

Stan winces.  “Sorry.  I got found by some time travelers, who sent me back here to— uh, we’ll get to that.”

Ford walks across the bathroom to the sink, and leans back against the counter, looking a little dazed.

“Hey, you good?” Stan asks.

“What’s the future like?” Ford asks without looking back up at him.

“Uh… it’s been better.  We’re pretty… doing pretty bad, actually.”

Ford looks up, obvious worry in his face.  “What does that mean?”

Stan squeezes his hands into fists.  “We’re looking at a little bit of an apocalypse situation, Ford.”

Ford puts a hand over his mouth.  Stan holds his breath, but Ford doesn’t call him a liar.  In fact, he looks like he believes him, going by the fear in his eyes.

“They sent you back here to stop it?” Ford whispers.

Stan nods.

“How long do we have?”

“Three days,” Stan says quietly.  “Unless something changes.”

“Three— Stanley,” Ford buries his head in his hands.  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me?   We could have started doing something the second you got here!”

Stan shakes his head.  “No we couldn’t have.  When I got here you wouldn’t have believed me if I told you.”

“How do you know that?  If you showed up on my porch looking like you did and said ‘Ford, the world is in danger can you help me save it,’ I would have believed you!”

“No, Ford, you wouldn’t have,” Stan insists.

“Why not?”

Okay.  Biggest leap.

“Because of who caused the apocalypse,” Stan says, keeping his voice low and steady.

Ford looks at him, and doesn’t say anything.  He opens his mouth, looks at Stan’s face, and closes it again.  He very clearly doesn’t want to ask.

But if Stan’s telling him everything, he’s telling him everything.

“Ford, it was you,” Stan says quietly.

Ford reaches his hands behind him and grips the counter.  “No it wasn’t.”

“Sixer, I’m sorry, but—”

Ford shoves himself off of the counter and starts pacing back and forth across the bathroom.  Stan shuts up and lets him.  He keeps an eye in case Ford runs out of the bathroom, in which case he’ll have to ignore how much his back hurts and go after him, but otherwise he lets him continue to work some of it out of his system.

Ford stops, finally, facing the bathtub, his back to Stan.  “Are you lying to me?”

“God, I wish,” Stan whispers.

“This isn’t another horrible attempt at a prank?”

“Well, actually, that wasn’t—”

Ford turns to face him again, a slightly crazed look in his eye.

“…We’ll get to that.”

“What, this is you easing me into this?”

“Actually, yes.”

Ford’s eyes spark with a desperate panic, and Stan holds up his hands.  “Hey, it’s alright.”

“Well—” Ford gestures wildly.  “Evidently not.”

“I know, just— just take a deep breath, okay?”

Ford walks back over to the counter across from Stan and leans against it.  “Stop easing,” he says.  “Tell me what’s going on.  All of it.”

Stan looks at him for a second, tries to decide if he’s ready.

Maybe it doesn’t matter.  He’s run out of time.

He sighs, runs his hands over his face, and sits up as much as he can without his back protesting.  “You might want to sit down,” he says.

…

He goes over all of it, as slowly as they can afford.  Since they’ve already touched on the future and apocalypse parts, Stan starts there, explaining about how he lived through the apocalypse for a week (while dodging, at first, how it happened and what he saw), running from Rico, finding and sharing the squirrel, then the fight to the death and getting saved by Dundgren and Lolph.

He treads carefully over what exactly they wanted Stan to do, but he does explain it.  He does his best to ignore Ford’s hands starting to shake in his lap, from where he’s sitting on the counter.

He goes over everything that happened after he got here next, along with how he did, stealing the time tape and what he understands about what the timeline merger thing did (Ford looks a little sick, there, and Stan’s not sure why), finding Gravity Falls and making his way to Ford’s house, the subsequent food poisoning.

Ford interrupts him there, and gives Stan an apology he wasn’t expecting.

“I didn’t… realize you were starving,” he says quietly.

“It’s not a big deal, Sixer,” Stan replies.  “I’ve been starving for a while.”

That does not seem to make Ford feel better.

Stan jumps cautiously back in with the grocery store trip and Dundgren and Lolph’s attempts to kill Ford.  Ford gives him a strange look when Stan explains all the times he had to fight them off, and makes a noise of concern when he explains the rooftop fight in detail and how he lost the journal.

And then comes the question Stan has been dreading.

“Wait,” Ford cuts him off.  “If that wasn’t a prank, then why did you try to grab the journal?”

Stan sighs.  “Okay,” he says.  “This is the part you’re really not gonna like.”

“Oh, as opposed to the rest of what you’ve told me so far, which has been just delightful?”

“No, I mean it,” Stan says, which seems to sober Ford enough that he looks back at Stan nervously.

“I stole the journal because I was trying to make a point about you being tricked,” Stan says.  “To show you that you can be.”

“Why?” Ford asks, sounding like he suspects the answer.

Stan crosses his arms over his chest.  “You’ve kinda been conned, Ford,” he says.

“Conned?   By who?  I don’t— I don’t know anyone.”

Stan gives him a pointed look.

“I— no, that’s not—” Ford holds his hands up.  “You’re not saying—”

“Yeah,” Stan says.  “I’m sorry.”

Ford looks at him for a moment.  Stan opens his mouth to say something else, and Ford looks quickly down at his lap.

“The portal causes the apocalypse,” Stan says quietly, just in case there’s any doubt.  “And… Bill knows that.  He always has.”

Ford doesn’t say anything.

“You okay, Sixer?”

“How?” Ford says.  “How does the portal— how does it do that?”

So Stan explains, finally, what he saw when the apocalypse started.  The giant yellow triangle, that he had no context for, which drew giant canyons on the continent and then took a bite out of the planet.  Stan trying to make his way towards that end of the world, to get Rico off his back.  All of his experiences with Bill during the time he was here, including the stabbing (Ford looks up at that, and seems to notice the bandage on Stan’s hand for the first time), the fight with Dundgren and Lolph, and then bringing it full circle with the fight that just happened.

Ford doesn’t look up throughout any of it, except the time he looks at Stan’s hand.  Stan can’t see his face, and as the time stretches out and Ford doesn’t say anything, Stan’s nerves start to rise.

“Sixer?” he asks.  “Do you believe me?”

He pictures Ford getting angry, kicking him out, Stan having three days to try desperately to convince him that he’s right and Ford getting more and more angry and cold and—

“Yes,” Ford says, and all of the images vanish.  There’s no life in his brother’s tone.

Stan debates if going over to Ford and trying to comfort him will be of any help at all.  In the end, he stays put.

“Ford, I’m really sorry,” he says.

Ford doesn’t say anything.

“Ford?”

“You need to get some sleep,” Ford says, without looking up.

“What?  I can’t—”

“Stanley,” Ford says.  “You’ve barely slept for almost three days.  Take my bed, go lay down.  On your stomach, so it won’t hurt your back.”

“Ford, I really can’t—”

“Now,” Ford says firmly.  “I’m going to go take Bill’s eye off the door scanner, so he can’t get to the portal.  I’ve gotten plenty of sleep, I can do one all-nighter, and we’ll go from there.”

“I… I don’t know if I can sleep if I don’t know where you are,” Stan mutters.  “Not—” he looks quickly at Ford, trying to catch his gaze.  But Ford doesn’t look up.

“It’s not because I don’t trust you,” Stan insists anyway.  “Just… so many people have tried to kill you in the past week.  I need to… know you’re safe.”

“Okay,” Ford says.  He still doesn’t look up.  “Go to my room, and I’ll meet you there when I’m done.  If I’m not back in half an hour, you can come look for me.”

“Ford, are you okay?” Stan asks.

“I’ll see you in a bit, Stanley,” Ford says dully.  He stands up, and still doesn’t meet Stan’s eyes.  He walks out of the bathroom before Stan can protest.

Well.  Stan has no idea if that went well or not.  But his back is killing him, and he doubts he’ll get any more out of Ford if he presses right now.  He’ll just have to try again tomorrow and hope for the best.

Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

“Way to go, Stan,” he mutters to himself.  “You screwed everything up again.”

He stands up and walks to Ford’s bedroom.  Ford kind of insisted, after all, and if he’s going to be responsible for dooming the world, he might as well do it on a full night’s sleep.

Chapter Text

Ford burned the Stan-O-War.

It had been a night not long after Stanley left— after Stanley got kicked out.   Ma and Pa had been fighting downstairs almost every night about it, and Ford had stayed out late to avoid it, and somehow found himself down at the docks.

He doesn’t remember, anymore, what possessed him to light it on fire.  He doesn’t remember the night very well at all.  The whole thing lives in his head as snapshots, images— staring up at the boat.  Looking down at a flaming piece of wood clenched in his fist.  Throwing it at the boat.  Watching the boat burn for far too long.  Then, suddenly, panic flaring up in his chest as he finally wakes up and realizes what he’s done.  Running for a bucket, for water, trying to put out the fire before it ruins half a decade’s worth of work— but it’s far too late for that.

Ford hadn’t until very recently matched the event up to the way he runs his relationship with Stanley, but it seems to fit far too well now.  Letting his brother’s life go up in flames while he stands idly by, realizing what’s happening far too late to stop any of it.

And now, despite the fact that the stakes are almost too high for him to focus on Stanley at all, that’s all his brain wants to focus on.

Well, that and the other obvious thing.

He still feels an instinctual disbelief when he thinks about what Stan accused Bill of.  Stanley says he’s talked to Bill, sure, but he hasn’t seen the way Bill speaks to Ford.  All of the compliments, and encouragement, and reassurances… like when he assured Ford that Stan was fine, and Ford didn’t need to check on him.  Or when he encouraged him to go through with the portal test, even though Fiddleford was scared.  Or when he complimented how good of a job he was doing, building the device that Bill gave him the idea of.

When Stan explained all the times he’d talked to Bill, and everything Bill had said to him, things had lined up in Ford’s head.  Bill had been so unhappy when he found out Stan was there.  He’d immediately jumped to all of the things Ford had told him about Stan, which had mostly just been everything Stan had done wrong.   All of the things about him that irritated Ford, like his clinginess, and his laziness, and his carelessness.  Like the time he ruined Ford’s life— which was apparently an accident.

When Bill first started pointing out everything Ford had said about Stan, Ford had listened, sure, but mostly he’d been thinking about how it was his fault Bill only knew the bad things about his brother.  Because that’s the only way he’d ever talked about him.

He’d said that to Bill, at first.  That Bill didn’t know what he was saying, and that it’s Ford’s fault.  But maybe that isn’t true.  Maybe every time Bill reminded Ford of something bad that Stanley had done, every time he insisted Stan would only mess things up, every time he told Ford how important the portal is, and that it can only be completed if Ford trusts no one… maybe he knew exactly what he was saying.

It’s not physically difficult to remove Bill’s eye from the scanner down to the portal room, but Ford’s hands shake while he does it.

His head is also aching badly, something Stan apologized for causing during a fight where Bill used Ford’s body to brand him in the middle of his back.

Ford feels sick every time he thinks about it.  He’d love to say that he can stand the pain stoically while he helps his brother recover, but his eyes are thumping like he pulled an all nighter studying for an exam.  Stan is apparently much better at gritting his teeth through pain than he is, because Ford wants nothing more than to lay down and sleep.

But he told Stan he’d be back, and he told Stan he wouldn’t sleep, and he’s pretty sure looking at the potential consequences of doing so burned onto his brother’s back will be enough to keep him awake.

He’s quiet when he walks back into his bedroom, and Stan is slumped almost face-down on the bed, but his eyes are still open, looking at Ford as he enters the room.

Ford pulls out a desk chair without a word and sets it down next to the bed.

“Okay,” he says to Stan, “go to sleep.”

Stan pushes himself up against the bed.  His arms start shaking badly.  “Are you sure?” he asks.  “Because I can really—”

“Goddammit, Stanley, go to sleep,” Ford snaps.  Stan winces, and Ford wants to take it back, but if he tries right now it would definitely come out wrong.

“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he mutters instead, looking down at his hands, clenched tightly in his lap.

Stan doesn’t say anything to that, and after a second Ford looks up.  Stan’s eyes are closed, and his breathing has slowed already.

Ford nods slightly to himself.  It doesn’t take much to knock a person out after days without sleep.  He knows from experience.  If one of his professors had snapped at him to get some sleep after an all nighter, Ford might have passed out then and there, slumped over a table in the lecture hall.

The mark on Stan’s back is burned through his jacket, and Ford stares at it, almost transfixed.  It’s going to scar.

He casts his gaze over at Stan’s hand, wrapped in bandages.  That’s going to scar too.  Apparently it already has.  Stan said he gave himself stitches.  If he had to do something like that, and he’s still got bandages days later, that means the first stabbing was bad.  And Bill did that with Ford’s body too.

But it’s the way Stan explained it, that Bill had been about to stab Ford’s hand, so Stan just shoved his own in front of the knife.  Without a thought.  The tone of his voice when he said it had been like he was explaining why he did a favor Ford asked him to.

Ford had not asked him to do this.

Ford grips his uninjured right hand in his left.  It doesn’t hurt.  It should hurt.  Stan should have just let Bill stab him.  It’s not his job to clean up Ford’s mess.

“I shouldn’t have tried to put my wants above yours,” Stan had said, when they were talking about the perpetual motion machine.  “That’s not how it works.”

Ford had thought, at the time, that he meant in that one specific instance.  That he should have been happy Ford got such a good opportunity and supported him that time.

Now Stan is laying on his bed with two wounds that should have been Ford’s problem, and he’s not so sure anymore.

Ford is the one who trusted the demon.  Ford is the one who built the portal.  Ford is the one who ended the world and forced his brother to live in it anyway.

Why the hell, when confronted with all of this, hadn’t Stan shook those time agents hands and said, “Sign me the hell up!  Just tell me where to point and shoot!”

Stan made a mistake that cost Ford his dream school, and he’d gotten ten years of too much punishment.  Ford made a mistake that ended the world, and he got his brother trying to fix all of his problems for him, with as little inconvenience to Ford as possible which causes Stan stress and danger and bodily harm, while Ford went on blissfully unaware?

Ford looks down at his hands, clenches them into fists until his nails dig into his palms, until they hurt.

He can’t believe his twin would try something like this.  The obvious solution is to put a gun to Ford’s head and pull the trigger, how can Stanley not see that?

Mistakes have consequences.  How dare Stanley try to shield him from the ones he’s rightfully due.

Ford hunches over his lap, trying to keep his breathing slow and quiet so as not to wake Stanley.

Ford’s not letting him do it anymore.  This is it, Stanley’s done.  He gets to be the one looked after for a change.  And there’s nothing he can do about it.

…

Stanley sleeps for over twelve hours.  Ford would let him sleep longer, but they’re on a very serious time crunch, so as they approach the end of hour 13 he’s forced to wake him up.

Stan is groggy and unhappy with being woken up, but he doesn’t argue.

He does start to protest, however, when the first thing that happens is that Ford drags him to the bathroom and insists on checking his injuries.

“Seriously, Sixer, this ain’t a hospital,” Stan says.  He starts to roll his eyes.  “You don’t need to—”

“Sit. down,” Ford snaps, pointing at the toilet.

Stan’s eyes go wide, and he does exactly that.

Ford gets out all of the medical supplies he has, which is a decent enough supply for what they need, as long as neither of them get badly hurt again.  He has gauze and tape, and though it’s probably less than he did a couple days ago, it’s still more than enough to make it through the next three days.  He also has regular band-aids and painkillers, and some disinfectant.  He used up the rest of the burn cream on Stan, so hopefully the burn will be doing a little better today than it was yesterday.

For now, Ford just grabs the gauze and tape and turns to Stan.

“Take off your bandages,” he says, gesturing to his hand.

Stan rolls his eyes, but does so.  “Really, Sixer, you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to accurately judge that,” Ford says, trying to keep his voice even.  “Let me see the stitches you did.”

Stan lets him.  Ford doesn’t have a medical degree as one of his PhDs, but from the knowledge he does have, the stitches look alright.  One of them is coming loose, but Ford doesn’t have the materials or skill to fix it.  It isn’t bleeding anymore, so it’s not as big a deal as it would have been otherwise, but he still doesn’t like it.

“We’re going to a hospital when this is over,” Ford says.

“I can’t afford a hospital, Sixer.”

“We’ll pretend you’re me and you can use my insurance.”

Stan barks out a startled laugh, and gives Ford a small grin.  “Sixer!  You want to commit insurance fraud?”

Ford huffs.  “If that’s what it takes to get you medical attention,” he says.  “Now let me look at the burn.”

Stan is still smiling a little, but he turns around and lets Ford look at it.

Ford frowns.  “It doesn’t look much better,” he says.

“It’s been like twelve hours, Sixer, give it a minute,” Stan says.  “Sheesh, I don’t remember you being this much of a mother hen.”

“You have a serious burn and a stab wound, Stanley,” Ford says in exasperation.  “I am not mothering henning, I should be worried.  Why aren’t you more worried?”

“I mean… same shit different day, really,” Stan says.  He shrugs, and seems to immediately regret it if the way he winces and hunches his back is anything to go by.

“What does that mean?” Ford asks, peering around to look at Stan’s face.

Stan gives him a look like he’s missed something obvious.  “I mean, it’s not exactly a piece of cake, living on the streets, Ford,” he says.  “You can end up a little worse for wear a lot of the time.  It’s fine, really.  Makes it easier to deal with.”

Ford looks down and clenches his hands.  “That’s not fine,” he mutters.

“Well, agree to disagree, then.”

“No, we can’t just—” Ford stops himself, turns around, takes a deep breath.  They don’t have time to argue about this right now.  It’s one of too many things he’ll have to kick down the road, to deal with if they survive the next couple of days.

“Ford, seriously, you don’t need to make a big deal out of this,” Stan says.  “I’ve been through way worse.”

“You understand that doesn’t exactly make it better, right?” Ford grumbles.  He turns around and picks up the disinfectant, and turns to look back at the burn.  It’s not ideal, but it’s the best they’ve got to make sure it doesn’t get infected.

“I have to clean this,” he says, turning to go get a washcloth.  “It’s going to sting badly.”

Stan nods.  “I know.”  He doesn’t sound particularly bothered.

Ford closes his eyes and takes another deep breath, then opens them and walks over to grab a washcloth from the shelf next to the bathtub.

He cleans the wound as quickly as he can.  Despite Stan’s insistence that he’s been through worse, he sits tensely the whole time, gritting his teeth.  He could have been screaming, Ford supposes, which is a stupid standard to judge against.

Gauze won’t work for the burn as well as they do for the stab wound, but they’re the best he’s got, so Ford tapes a square tightly down over the burn.  At least it’ll keep other things from rubbing up against it or irritating it.

“Okay,” Ford says, “we’re done.”

“Finally,” Stan says.  But as he turns back around and reaches for his jacket that had been set on the ground, Ford grabs his arm.

“Wait, what’s this?”  He nods at a very fresh looking scar on Stan’s forearm.

Stan looks down at his arm.  “What?”

“This,” Ford says, pointing directly at the scar.

“The— the little knife scratch from Rico?  You’re kidding, right?”

“Rico stabbed you too?” Ford exclaims, reaching immediately for the gauze again.  He grumbles irritably under his breath, and starts to turn around.

“Wait.  Shit, Ford,” Stan says.  Ford ignores him.

“When this is over, we’re having a serious talk about what constitutes a major injury, Stanley,” he snaps.

“Ford, wait, I forgot to—”

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?  Does anything hurt, even a little bit?”

“Ford,” Stan says.  There’s a firm and nervous tone in his voice that makes Ford finally stop and look at him.  Stan looks very alarmed.

Ford sets the gauze down.  “What?”

“I forgot to tell you something last night,” Stan says.  “We got into everything about the apocalypse and Bill, and I just— Rico is coming here.”

Ford blinks.  “What?  What are you talking about?  Rico was that guy you fought for a squirrel during the apocalypse, wasn’t he?”

“Rico is a loan shark,” Stan says.  He glances away, and his shoulders hunch.  He looks ashamed.  “A really dangerous one.  He… was on my plate long before the apocalypse rolled around.”

“You went to a loan shark,” Ford says slowly.

Stan ducks his head even further.  “Uh.  Less went to and more… worked for.”

Ford stares at him for a moment, lost for words.

“You can skip the lecture,” Stan tells the floor.  “I know it was stupid.  I just… I was desperate.  And I had to get away from… well.  Doesn’t matter.  The point is, Dundgren and Lolph know about him.  They told him I was here.  And he sent a bunch of his goons up here.  To try to, you know, kill you.  And me, obviously.  Don’t worry, I’ll lead ‘em away from you before then.”

Ford grits his teeth.  “You will do no such thing,” he forces out.

“Ford, you really don’t want to meet them,” Stan says.  He still doesn’t look back up at him.  “They… I mean I can’t… I can’t let them find out about you.  It would be very bad.”

“There’s a pretty good chance they already know about me,” Ford points out, keeping his voice level.  “If these time agents sent these people up here to kill me.  I doubt they were banking on a case of mistaken identity.”

“I know, okay, I— I’m gonna figure it out.  Look, these guys don’t work for Dundgren and Lolph, they work for Rico.  If I run, they’ll bail on you and go after me.”

Ford takes a deep breath, and blows it out long and slow.  “We’ll talk about it later,” he says.  He’s trying very hard to hold back the desire to punch Stanley, which would not help any of his injuries.  “But suffice to say, I am not letting you risk your life just to lead a loan shark away from me.”

“Ford, come on, it’s my problem,” Stan says.  He starts to fidget with his hands.  “I can handle my own problems.”

“Really, because you don’t seem to think I can handle mine,” Ford says coolly.

Stanley finally looks up at that.  “That’s different,” he says, surprised.  “You can’t handle something this big on your own.”

“Stanley, I am going to strangle you,” Ford grits out.

“What— wait,” Stan says, his eyes going wide.  “That’s not what I meant.  I just meant— I wasn’t trying to say you couldn’t handle it, I meant that you shouldn’t have to handle something like this on your own.  Because I know what it can do to someone, and—”

“Stop. Talking,” Ford says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “I really need you to stop talking about this right now.  Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

“I don’t think so,” Stan says quietly.  He sounds like he’s trying not to piss Ford off, which is just making it worse.  “I— oh, shit.”

“What now?” Ford asks in exasperation.

“No, just— I took care of it, okay?” Stan says, holding his hands up.  “It’s not important at all anymore, he’s not a threat.  But Dundgren and Lolph also kind of sent this guy into the house who tried to shoot me with this weird sci-fi gun?  I tied him up in the bathroom.”

Ford gapes at him.  “I— you— how is that not important— why didn’t you tell me— how did someone even do that?   The only people who can get past the crossbow and inside this house safely are me and you, and, well, I guess Fiddleford, but I doubt that’s who broke in!”

Stan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“What?” Ford snaps.

“Uh.  Hypothetically.  Who’s Fiddleford, exactly?”

“I told you that,” Ford says, rolling his eyes.  “My assistant, who I know from college?”

“…You did not tell me that.”

“What do you mean I didn’t tell you that?  Why does that matter?”

In the next second, Stan gets a very familiar look on his face.  The sheepish kind of ‘can’t we both agree I’m so funny and delightful’ look that he would give when someone was about to be really mad at him for something.

“Okay,” he says.  He folds his hands together.  “But you can’t be mad.”

…

“You kidnapped Fiddleford?!”

“He tried to shoot me in the face!  And I didn’t know who he was, I thought he was just a random crazy guy Dundgren and Lolph sent to kill you!”

“Okay, new rule, next time you kidnap someone and hold them for ransom in my bathroom, I want to know about it!”

Ford is currently heading as fast as he can for Stanley’s room and the attached bathroom.  Stanley is walking quickly after him, despite Ford’s insistence that he should stay and rest.  He said he should be there to help explain what had happened.  Ford is pretty sure he’ll do a better job talking to Fiddleford, though he supposes Stan does lend some credibility to the apocalyptic portions of this story.

“I didn’t know you knew the guy!” Stan exclaims as they round the living room corner and start down the hallway towards his room.  “And I’m not holding him for ransom!  There is no money involved!  I was gonna let him go if we all survived the apocalypse!”

“Oh, well in that case!” Ford slows to a stop outside the door of Stan’s room.  If Fiddleford’s been tied up for a couple days, bursting into the bathroom while angry and arguing with the guy who kidnapped him probably isn’t going to help, whatever Stan’s reasons.

So instead, he pauses, takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open as softly as he can.  Then he walks over to the bathroom and knocks on the door.

“Fiddleford?” he calls quietly.  “Are you in there?”

There’s some kind of muffled noise, and Ford reaches out to open the bathroom door— it jiggles uselessly in his hand.

“Stanley,” Ford says, turning back to him.  He keeps his voice as calm as he can.  “You tied him up and then locked him in the bathroom?”

“Shit,” Stan says.  He holds up his hands.  “Okay, this time I swear I have a good reason!”

Ford throws his hands up.

“Seriously!  Bill was trying to kill him, I thought a locked door might buy me a fraction of a second if I needed it!”

Ford winces, squeezes his eyes shut.  That actually is a good reason.  He takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes again.  “Well, we’re going to have to get him out of there now.  I really don’t think breaking the door down is going to help things.”

“We don’t need to do that,” Stan says.  He turns and walks over to his duffle bag, and starts digging around inside it.  He pulls out a paperclip.  “I can pick the lock.”

“Great to hear,” Ford mutters, though he lets Stan walk past him and start to fiddle with the lock.  Sure enough, after barely any time the lock clicks, and Stan pushes the bathroom door open, then steps back and lets Ford walk through.

Fiddleford is tied to the toilet alright, but that’s far from the only thing wrong with him.  His hair is frazzled, the robe he’s wearing is rumpled, his eyes look crazed, and as soon as he sees Ford and Stan in the doorway, he starts pressing himself as far away from them as he can get.

Ford gives him the best smile he can manage, which right now is not saying much.  “Greetings, Fiddleford,” he says, and immediately feels awkward.  It’s Fiddleford, for pete’s sake, not a classmate he’s failing to befriend.

Fiddleford, however, doesn’t glare at him, or roll his eyes, or do anything that Ford would expect him to do if Ford had really ticked him off.  Instead, he just leans further back, that same panicked animal look in his eyes.

“Fiddleford, it’s okay,” Ford says soothingly.  “It’s me.  I’m here to let you out.”

“Uh, he might not know who you are,” Stan says from behind him.

Ford turns around, dread pooling in his stomach.  “What do you mean?”  He really hopes Stanley doesn’t mean what Ford thinks he means.

“He’s got some weird memory problems,” Stan says, rubbing the back of his neck.  “And he didn’t seem to know who you were when I mentioned having a brother.  And we are, you know, identical.  Or identical enough.  So.”

Ford takes a deep breath, then turns back and glares at Fiddleford.  “You idiot.”

Fiddleford blinks, looking almost offended.

“You told me you destroyed it,” Ford snaps, and Fiddleford’s eyes widen in a new kind of panic.  He starts shaking his head.

Ford rolls his eyes, leans forward, and rips the tape off of his mouth.

“Don’t touch it,” Fiddleford says immediately.  “Don’t, I need it.”

Ford grits his teeth.  “You idiot.”

“Uh hey, anyone want to clue me in on what’s going on here?” Stan asks from behind him.

“Just untie him,” Ford snaps, standing up and walking back towards Stan’s bedroom.  “And where’s that sci fi gun you talked about?”

“Under the pillow,” Stan says, giving him a baffled look.  He walks over towards Fiddleford and starts to untie him, so Ford walks past him and over to the couch.

Sure enough, tucked under the pillow is Fiddleford’s memory gun.  Ford swears under his breath, and stomps back over to the bathroom.

Stan has untied Fiddleford and is now helping him climb to his feet.  Fiddleford’s legs are shaking, and he’s wincing in pain.  Probably a side effect of being tied up for several days.  Ford probably shouldn’t pile on.

He still wants to punch him.

Fiddleford looks up, and his gaze goes immediately to the gun in Ford’s hand.  Ford narrows his eyes.  “Don’t even think about it.”

“Hey, Ford, take it easy,” Stan says.

“He pointed this at you?” Ford says, glaring down at the gun.  “What did it say?”

“It just said my name, Sixer, would you calm down?”

Ford goes still.  “What.”

“What?” Fiddleford says, turning suddenly to Stan, with a look of horror on his face that makes Ford shift his plans from ‘murder him’ to ‘beat him to a pulp.’

“Stanley,” he says anyway, drawing Fiddleford’s gaze to him again.  “Tie him up again.”

“What?   Okay seriously, what is the big deal?  Why are you two being weird?” Stan asks, looking back and forth between them, while trying to keep Fiddleford propped up against his side.

“They didn’t tell me that was his name,” Fiddleford begs Ford, a panic entering his eyes.  “I didn’t— they said— please don’t tie me up again!”

Ford tightens his grip on the gun with a growl, and hefts it up over his head with intent to smash on the ground right in front of Fiddleford.

“Hey,” Stan reaches out with his free hand and catches it, gently, then pulls it out of Ford’s hands.  “Seriously, Sixer, chill the fuck out.  Whatever super bad thing that almost happened didn’t happen, okay?  There’s no reason to go smashing glass guns around or tying your friend up against a toilet.  Take a deep breath.”

“I will not— Stanley, that’s a memory gun,” Ford snaps.  “It erases the memory of whatever’s typed into the screen.  If that’s your name, then—” he gestures frantically around, hoping at least that Stanley can understand the gravity of what exactly Fiddleford tried to do to him.

“I didn’t know that was your name,” Fiddleford says again, turning to Stanley.  “That’s not what it’s for.   It’s not— I wouldn’t’ve—”

“Well, isn’t that just swell.”   Ford glares at Fiddleford until he looks down in clear shame.  “This is exactly why I told you to destroy it.  If it gets into the wrong hands—” he gestures wildly at Fiddleford himself— “too many things could go wrong!”

“Okay, sure,” Stan says, still infuriatingly calm.  “But it didn’t, right?  Still here, memories all intact.  Never got shot with that thing.  So let’s all just take a deep breath, sit down, and talk things out.”

Ford’s hands have started to shake at his sides, but when he glares at Stan, he just has that calm look on his face, like Ford is a wild animal he’s trying to tame.  Ford throws his hands up.  Pauses.  Tries to calm himself down by clenching his hands together in front of his face.  Then, before Stan can stop him, he reaches out, grabs Fiddleford by his freed arm, and shoves him over towards the couch.

“Ford!” Stan yells.

“Sit down,” Ford snaps at Fiddleford without turning around.

“Sixer, calm down,” Stan says.  He reaches forward and puts a hand on Ford’s shoulder.

Ford shoves it off and turns around to face Stan.  Then he shoves Stan, who stumbles back towards the bathroom door.

“Why are you so calm?” Ford says, clenching his hands back into fists at his side.  “You heard what he almost did to you, right?  Why aren’t you even more pissed off than I am?  Why are you just standing there?  Go yell at him!”   He points blindly behind himself to where he shoved Fiddleford.

Stan stares at him like he’s lost his mind.  “I think you’re taking care of that part just fine, Sixer,” he says, holding his hands up.  One of them still has the memory gun in it, and Ford turns his gaze to it.

“Woah, hey, nuh-uh,” Stan says.  He walks carefully past Ford and takes the memory gun over to his duffle bag, then puts it inside it.  “We’re gonna deal with that when you don’t look like you want to murder it and the guy who made it in one fell swoop.”

“I don’t want to murder him,” Ford says, turning around to face a terrified Fiddleford, pressed up against the side of the couch from the floor.  “I just want to break every bone he’s got.”

“Okay, that’s it.  Time out.”

Stan grabs Ford’s arm, and before Ford can protest, he pulls him, firm and unrelenting, from the room.

“Hey, let go of me, let me—”

Stan shuts the door behind them, turns and pushes Ford against the wall, and holds him there by his arms.  Ford struggles against Stan’s grip, and starts to make some headway on breaking free, likely only on account of his brother being starving, sick, and sleep deprived, which is really just pathetic on both their counts.

“You want to shove me off and potentially injure me again?” Stan says, in a tone that means he knows exactly how effective that will be at getting Ford to stop.  Because he’s a bastard who knows exactly how to push Ford’s buttons.

Still, Ford does stop, and glares murderously at him instead.

“Let me kill him,” he says lowly.

Stan shakes his head.  “Nah.”

“Asshole.”

“I’ve been called way worse than that, Sixer,” Stan says, rolling his eyes.  “We’re staying here until you calm down.”

Ford keeps glaring at him, but he knows he’s not getting back in that room right now.  After a second, Stan seems to see that he knows, because he lets go of Ford and walks over to lean right in front of the door to his bedroom.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets Ford stand there and fume, which makes it worse.

Stanley doesn’t even seem upset.   Fiddleford almost erased all of his memories and he doesn’t seem the slightest bit ticked off.  How can he not be bothered by this?  Why is he not angry?

…Actually, now that Ford thinks of it, Stanley hasn’t been angry about much of anything since he got here.  Ford remembers exactly one time when he pushed back with anger, when Stan had found the portal and Ford had asked him to be happy for him for once.

While Stan had been standing in front of the thing he knew would cause an apocalyptic event.  Great going, Stanford.

Is it just because he’s too focused on the apocalypse thing?  Because Ford’s dealing with that now too, and it hasn’t seemed to stop him .  If he was in Stan’s place, and someone said “hey go help your brother.  Remember the one who you think hates you, who got you kicked out, left you alone to struggle to survive for a decade?  You have to go help him or the world will end.”  Ford would go on a warpath.  He’d never let it go.  The world would never forget the injustice it did to him.

Why is Stan just taking the world’s insistence that this is his job, and not getting even a little bit angry about it?

“Do you even care?” Ford says.  His voice is a little softer, his anger having cooled just a little, but his hands are still clenched at his sides.

Stan gives him a confused look.  “What are you talking about?”

“That Fiddleford almost erased your memory.  You’re acting like you don’t even care.”

Stan stares at him.  “Do I care that two time assholes manipulated a clearly unstable man to try and erase my memory of everything that’s happening so they could either A, sneak past me and have no resistance, or B, say ‘hey amnesiac who has no clue what’s going on, there’s a guy upstairs who’s gonna end the world and who you don’t remember anything about, do us a favor and go kill him, would you?’  What kind of question is that, Sixer?  Of course I care.   I just figured it would be slightly more helpful if we limited the murderous rampage to only one of us at a time.”

Ford opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything.  He hadn’t gotten that far in his thought process, hadn’t even considered why they wanted Fiddleford to erase Stan’s memory.  Suddenly, the image of Stan, showing up in his room with a gun and no idea who he is, shoves its way into Ford’s head.  Ford slumps back against the wall and pulls in a shaky breath.  Would Ford have woken up, panicked and confused as to why Stanley is suddenly trying to kill him, and written off everything else he’d said and done in the past week?  Or worse, would Bill have woken up, seen the obvious opportunity and killed Stan, and explained it to Ford very sweetly and sympathetically the next morning?

“I don’t—” Ford starts, and then something else Stan had said registers, and he stops.  “Wait.  Clearly unstable?”

“I mean,” Stan rubs the back of his neck.  “Yeah.  Sorry, Sixer, but it didn’t look like he was doing too hot.    Even with the kidnapping stuff taken into account.  He didn’t know who you were, he didn’t even recognize me at first after I kidnapped him—”

“Shit.”  Ford pushes himself off the wall, and back over towards the door.  “Shit, Stanley, you put the memory gun in your bag.”

“Uh, yeah?  So?”

“So, we left Fiddleford alone with the gun.”

Stan’s eyes widen.  “Shit.”

They both immediately scramble for the door, and it slams open with a bang against the wall.  It startles Fiddleford into almost dropping the memory gun that he already has pressed up against his head.

Thankfully, that gives Ford enough time to run forward and yank it from his grasp.

Fiddleford cries out and immediately starts trying to grab it back, but Stan swoops in from the other side and pulls him back to the other side of the couch.  Ford takes several steps back, holding the gun far out of Fiddleford’s reach.

“Stop it, lemme—” Fiddleford starts, straining for the gun.  Stan just tightens his hold on him, though, and while Ford could potentially beat Stan in a fight right now, Fiddleford’s been tied up for three days.

“Fiddleford, you have to tell us what happened,” Ford insists.  “The world is in danger.”

Fiddleford makes some kind of pitiful noise and buries his head in his hands.

“Yeah, unfortunately they weren’t lyin’ about that part,” Stan says.  This does not make Fiddleford look up again.

“Fiddleford, please,” Ford says.  “I know you have no reason to want to help me, and I’ve been a terrible friend to you.  When this is over, you can get as far away from me as you want and I’ll never bother you again, okay?  But we’re trying to make sure you can do that.  We’re trying to save the world.  Think of your wife, and your son.”

Fiddleford presses his hands up against his head, and whimpers, but stops trying to fight Stan.  Stan doesn’t let go of him, but doesn’t try to talk to him immediately.  Ford doesn’t either, content to at least give him a moment.  Instead, he carries the memory gun back over to Stanley’s bag.  When he sets it down, he notices two other guns that Stan hadn’t mentioned before, but he doesn’t focus on them for more than a second before leaving the gun there and turning to face Fiddleford.

“Okay,” he says gently.  “Can you please tell us what happened?”

Fiddleford pries his eyes open, and looks up at Ford.  There’s a small spark of recognition in his eyes, which makes the knot in Ford’s chest loosen just a little.

“The— the men what with the weird clothes and fancy green eyepieces told me they were time travelers,” he says.  “They showed me their broken time machine and future gear to prove it.  They said you,” he nods at Ford, “are gonna end the world by messin’ with things you shouldn’t.”

Ford winces.

“And they said that they were tryin’ to stop it.  And that I could help by erasin’ his memory,” he jerks his head up towards Stan.  “Of whoever Stanley Pines is.  I— I never would’ve done it if I knew that was his name.”

“Don’t worry about it, bud,” Stan says.  “Water under the bridge.”

“No it’s not,” Ford forces out through gritted teeth.  Fiddleford looks nervously up at him, and Ford sighs.

“Why were you using the memory gun in the first place?” he asks.  “I thought I told you how dangerous it is.”

“Didn’t want to remember,” Fiddleford mutters, looking down.

Ford clenches his jaw.  “I don’t either.  You don’t see me hiding like a coward.”

“Ford,” Stan snaps.

Ford blows out a tight breath but doesn’t say anything else.

“Sorry about my brother,” Stan says, continuing to glare at him even as he talks to Fiddleford.  “He can put his foot in his mouth.”

Fiddleford laughs a little.  It’s weak and joyless.  “I know that,” he says.  “I think.”

Stan smiles a bit, clearly amused.

“Enough,” Ford snaps.  “None of it matters anyway.  At this point, you’re staying here, and we’re not letting you use the gun again.”

Fiddleford looks back at him in a panic.  “No, Ford, I— I need it.  You said I just had to tell you what happened, and I did, and—”

“Yes, well, I need you,” Ford says.  He doesn’t put a ton of compassion into his voice.  “You have to help me take the portal down.”

Fiddleford starts to shake.  “No, no, no, I can’t go near that thing, I can’t I can’t I—”

“Hey, easy buddy,” Stan says.  He shifts one of his hands that’s holding Fiddleford down and pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.  “Ford doesn’t mean right now.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Ford mutters.

“No,” Stan says, with another glare.  “You don’t.   He needs a nap and some food and to stretch after being tied up so long.  We won’t let him near the gun, but we can also not be assholes, you know.”

Ford clenches his hands into fists until his nails dig into his palms, and still doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, you know what, you take a minute,” Stan says.  “I’ll take Fidds here to get some food.  Come out when you don’t want to strangle him.”

Ford glares daggers at them both, but doesn’t stop Stan as he helps Fiddleford limp out of the room, probably sore and weak after being tied up for three days.  Good.

It’s bad enough that Stan is trying to shield him from consequences, now he’s trying to shield Fiddleford too?  You would think that Stan would be perfectly aware of consequences, with all the mistakes he’s made—

Ford winces, cutting off his thought.  He walks over and shuts the door, and stomps back over to the couch.  He sits down on it and clenches his hands around his pant legs.  He can’t do this.  He can’t stay here with Fiddleford and just live with the fact that he ruined his own memories despite Ford’s warnings.  He can’t stay here with Stan, who keeps trying to act like Fiddleford shouldn’t have to deal with those consequences.  Like Ford shouldn’t have to deal with the consequences of making Fiddleford do something like that in the first place.  Or the consequences of ruining his life by trusting a demon.  Or ruining Stan’s life by trusting a demon.  Or ending the world by trusting a demon.

If anyone should be losing their mind as a result of their actions, it should be—

Ford unclenches his heads, his head snapping up.  He runs for the duffle bag and grabs the memory gun, then runs out of the room, following the sound of Stan’s voice and what he said he would do to make his way to the kitchen.

“Stanley!” he calls, stopping in the entryway to the kitchen.  Fiddleford looks immediately at the gun in his hands, but Ford doesn’t bother to hide it this time.  Stan turns from where he’s heating up leftover chicken noodle soup on the stove.

“Hey, are you doin’ okay now?”

“I’ve got it,” Ford says, ignoring Stan’s question.  “I know what we have to do!”

“Huh?” Stan asks, turning from where he’s heating up some leftover chicken noodle soup.  “About what?”

“About everything!  How to save the world, how to stop Bill!”

“Wait, seriously?  In like the past two minutes?”

“We use this,” Ford says, holding up the memory gun.  “Look, I go to sleep, and when Bill goes into my head to torment me for how much of an idiot I’ve been, you type my name in here and erase my mind while Bill’s trapped inside it!”  Ford can’t help but grin slightly as he finishes explaining, but as soon as he does, Stan’s eyes widen in horror.

“What?  Holy shit, Sixer, no!”

“Wh- what do you mean, no?” Ford asks, staring at him.  “It’s the best option we have, and Bill would be dead!”

“And so would you, Sixer!” Stan says.  “Or at least, close enough!  Even the guy who loves that thing doesn’t want to do something like that!”  He gestures wildly at Fiddleford, who nods at Ford in wide-eyed agreement.

“Fiddleford isn’t in his right mind!  Why are we listening to him?  Besides, I won’t be dead, I’ll just, you know, have amnesia!”

“Ford.”  Stan crosses his arms over his chest.  “I came here to prevent horrible things happening to you as a result of everything with Bill.  Maybe you aren’t technically dead, but it’s not much of a step up.  We’ll find another way.”

“What other way?  What brilliant plan do you have to stop a demon that lives in my head?  That I gave permission to live in my head?  He’s going to kill everyone, Stanley!”

“Uh, ‘scuse me?” Fiddleford says quietly.  He raises a hand up.

“What?” Ford snaps, and Fiddleford flinches back.  Ford tries to ignore the pinch of guilt in his chest.

“Well, I did build that thing,” Fiddleford says, nodding at the memory gun in Ford’s hand.  “I reckon if you give me a little bit I could figure out a way to make it target somethin’ in your head without wiping your whole slate clean.”

“What?  No,” Ford says, rolling his eyes.  “That won’t work.”

“Uh, why not?” Stan asks.  “I think that sounds like a great idea.  If you really think that gun will work against Bill, and Fiddleford could make it safe for you, that sounds like an ideal solution to me.”

“Of course it does to you,” Ford snaps.  “That’s not— I came in here with a solution and you’re not even listening to me!”

“We just came up with a better one,” Stan says, giving him a baffled look.  “What is wrong with you?  Look, I know you’ve just had a lot dumped on your plate, but it’s okay.  We can figure this out.”

“And if we run out of time?” Ford asks.  “Will you use the memory gun then?”

Stan looks at him quietly for a moment.  Ford thinks about the deal the time agents offered him and realizes the answer is no.

“Moses, those agents were right,” Ford snaps.  “You are going to get everyone killed.”

He turns and storms back out of the kitchen.

…

Sherman calls that evening to let them know he made it to New Jersey with Rachel and Ethan.  Ford hears about the call afterwards from Stan, and only realizes as he’s told that what the real reason is that Stan told Sherman to leave.

“You’re trying to save his life,” Ford says quietly, from his spot at his desk, in his room.  “For… however long he’d have.”

“If things go south,” Stan says quietly.  “Yeah.”

Ford glares down at a particularly interesting part of his desk.  He’d talked with Sherman about that.  He’d assumed it had something to do with Stan freaking out about the portal and wanting Sherman away from it— well, he’d been right.  But he’d also thought Stan had been wrong to want that.

If Ford had managed to successfully convince Sherman not to go, he would have ruined Stan’s attempts to save the rest of their family.  And Stan still thinks he should put energy into saving someone like him.

“Hey, so Fidds says he needs a night of sleep and then he can probably start figuring something out with the memory gun,” Stan says.  Ford grits his teeth, but Stan keeps talking.  “I was thinking one of us should probably watch him while he does that, just cause, you know.  But that’ll happen tomorrow, and I don’t want to ask you to do two all-nighters in a row.  I just did that, and it really sucked.”

“You did three,” Ford points out, clenching his hands into fists.  “And I’ll be fine.”

“You seriously need some sleep,” Stan says.  “You’ve been running on adrenaline all day.”

“Well, how am I supposed to do that without putting everyone in danger?” Ford snaps.  “You seem to have forgotten I was stupid enough to give a demon free access to my head.”

“Okay, first of all, stop calling yourself stupid.  Con victims aren’t stupid.  I should know, I’ve conned a lot of people.  Second, I have a plan for that.”

“Great, because your plans have been stellar so far.”

“Hey, I resent that.  I’ve only kidnapped one guy and gotten two injuries, and you’re the only one who calls the injuries serious.  Anyway, I’m gonna tie you to the toilet.”

Ford gives Stan a baffled look.  “What?”

“That way, if Bill takes over, he can’t hurt anyone, cause he’ll be tied up.  It worked for Fiddleford.”

“Bill is a lot stronger than Fiddleford,” Ford points out.  “And he’s a lot stronger than me, when he has my body.”

“True, but he’s not much stronger than like, a really strong person.  If I tie you in an awkward position and keep your hands far enough apart so he can’t break anything, it should work just fine.  Plus, I’ll be there to watch.”

Ford shakes his head, looking down at his desk.  “I don’t want to take that risk.”

Journal 3 is sitting at the top of his desk.  Maybe he should add a warning, about not trusting Bill.  It’s not like anyone’s going to read this anymore, but maybe if someone finds it…

“Sixer, we’ve got two days before the apocalypse is supposed to hit.  Maybe longer, since you’re not actively working on the portal anymore.  That would mean you pulling at least three all-nighters.”

“Well, turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?” Ford mutters.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Turnabout is bullshit, and you need to get some sleep.”

“Not while you and Fiddleford should be sleeping too,” Ford says.  “Too much risk.”

Stan sighs.  “Fine,” he says.  “Fair enough.  But you’ll take an epic nap tomorrow.  At least four hours.”

“Fine,” Ford mumbles, mostly to get Stan off his back.  He can keep arguing his point tomorrow.  “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got entries to add.  Still need to stay awake tonight.”  He pulls his journal to him and flips it open.

Stan looks at him for a long moment, but he doesn’t say anything.  Then, finally, he heads back out, leaving Ford alone.

Ford slumps back in his chair as soon as the door is shut.  He can’t believe this.  They’re going to waste time, which has never been a more precious resource, trying to come up with a way to get him out of this scot free.  The only people who are going to get hurt in all this are the brother Ford abandoned to a harsh world and then a harsher apocalypse, and his assistant and best friend whose life Ford ruined.   And they’re going to pour all their energy into helping him, who caused all of this in the first place.  Just because he couldn’t let go of the idea of himself as some lone genius who’s actually worth something for the world.

…Because Bill told him he was.  He told Ford that if he listened to him, did what he asked, that everyone would see him for the great genius he was, that he’d prove them all wrong.

Just like he told him that Stanley was fine.  Just like he told him that Fiddleford was a bad friend who wasn’t supportive enough.  That Sherman was being pushy, that Stan would mess everything up again, that he was the only one who had Ford’s best interests at heart, that Ford couldn’t trust anyone in the town because they were just out to get him, that Ford should come to Bill first if he was unsure about something, that—

Ford buries his head in his hands.  Who’s to say he wasn’t lying about the first part too?  He was lying about everything else.  Obviously the portal isn’t Ford’s chance to prove himself worthy.  What if nothing is, because he just isn’t?  Maybe Bill just picked the first trusting idiot he could find, and then realized he could string Ford along by promising to finally make him good enough for someone, and got Ford to end the world instead.

Why are Stanley and Fiddleford trying to save someone like that?  Why would anyone?  No one should.  No one should be allowed to.

Ford pulls his head up suddenly.

Of course.

No one should be allowed to.

So he just won’t allow them to.  He just has to take the decision out of their hands.

Ford walks quickly over to the bedroom door and presses his ear against it.  When he doesn’t hear anything, he eases it open, and creeps quietly down the stairs.

He hears two voices in the kitchen.  Good.  He walks silently down the rest of stairs, and slips around the corner before anyone can notice him.  Moves quickly through the living room, and towards Stanley’s bedroom.

The memory gun is nowhere to be seen, which is fine.  Maybe Stanley still has it, or he’s hidden it somewhere Fiddleford can’t find it, but either way they’d both notice it missing.

Instead, Ford goes for Stan’s duffle bag, and pulls out one of the two other guns in there.

It definitely belongs to those time agents, by the look of it.  He’s not sure exactly what it does.  Stan didn’t mention it during any of his explanations.  But a gun is a gun, and unless it blasts out soap bubbles, it’ll do the job.

Ford looks down at it and takes a deep breath.  His hands are shaking a little, but he doesn’t have to worry too much about aim if he just presses the barrel against the side of his head.

…And the last thing he said to Stan will be some meaningless dribble about staying awake that night.  Did he ever even say he was sorry?

What even would be the last thing he said to Fiddleford?  He sort of said he was sorry to him, but not really.  Not like he meant it.

And he’ll have no answers from Bill.

Okay.  Okay, he’ll take Stan up on that nap tomorrow.  Get some answers.  Give Stan and Fiddleford a real apology.  Wait for them to go to bed tomorrow night.  He’ll do it then.

Besides, he still needs to leave that warning in his journal about Bill.

Ford sets the gun back down as he left it in Stan’s duffle bag, and moves quietly and quickly for the door—

Only for it to open and Stan to walk in.

Ford’s heart punches him in the throat, and a sudden rush of panic runs over him, making him feel hot and sweaty.  He tries to keep his face blank.  He’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

Sure enough, Stan looks confused and a little suspicious.  “Uh, hey Ford,” he says.  “What are you doing in here?  Did you not hear me in the kitchen?”

“No,” Ford says.  “I mean yes, I mean— sorry.  I was just looking for— uh— something.”

Stan narrows his eyes.  “‘For uh something?’”

“Yep.  Well, goodnight!”  Ford rushes out the door before Stan can reply.  Stan calls after him, but Ford doesn’t slow down.  He makes it safely to the living room, and passes Fiddleford laying down on the couch without a word.

Ford should probably tell him he has an actual room upstairs, but he’s not sure he can deal with someone so close to him tonight.  So instead he ignores Fiddleford’s confused calls too and runs up the stairs to his room.  He shuts and locks the door.

It’s easier than he had planned on it being, not sleeping that night.

Chapter Text

The first indication of movement in the house the next morning is far below him, and Ford doesn’t go towards it, content to let whoever it is start the morning without him.  In fact, Fiddleford and Stan both seem to be up and moving for a while before either of them come to get him.  Ford’s pretty sure if he goes downstairs to look for them they’ll have questions about last night, so he doesn’t.

Well, the killer headache starting to develop after two nights of no sleep isn’t helping anything either.

He stays up in his room for as long as he can, but he’s expecting a knock eventually, and sure enough, after a while Stan shows up.

“Hey, if you’re not sleeping you definitely need to eat,” he calls through the door.  “And we’ve got a plan.”

Ford takes a brief moment to psych himself up, then pulls the door open.

“We?”

His voice comes across way flatter than he wants it to.  Hopefully Stan doesn’t notice.

“Fiddleford and I,” Stan says.  He’s holding the memory gun.  “It comes with good news and bad news.  Or, not bad, exactly?  Maybe just weird.”

“Weird how?” Ford asks.

“Fidds says he has an idea, but he doesn’t seem to think it’ll work.  He said one of the things he’d need is really hard to get, but he can’t remember why, so I said I’d ask you.  He needs unicorn hair?”

Ford groans, and drops his head in his hands.  “This is why you guys shouldn’t be wasting your time on this,” he mumbles.  “You run into impossible dead ends like unicorn hair.”

“What’s wrong with unicorn hair?” Stan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” Ford says.  “It’s just impossible to get.  It won’t work.”

He turns back to his desk and sits down, hoping Stan will walk back out and end the conversation.

“Uh, okay, you want to tell me why not, or do you just want to mope about it in your diary?”

Ford knows an attempt to rile him up when he sees it.  Maybe he’s doing a bad job of acting normal.

He glares at Stan as best he can.  “It’s not a diary.”

“Okay, journal, sure.  Whatever makes you tell me about the unicorn hair.”

Ford sighs, and turns back to face Stan.  “Unicorns only give their hair to those who are pure of heart.  Last time I asked one for some she laughed me out of their grove, and that was before I met Bill and built the portal.  Do you think you and Fiddleford have a better chance?”

Well, maybe they did.  Who knows.  It’s not like anyone could do much worse at being pure of heart than Ford has.

Rather than respond to that, though, Stan gets a thoughtful look on his face.

“What?” Ford asks.

“How do they tell?  They give you a test or something?”

“They can read it with their horns,” Ford says.  “Lying to them won’t work.”

Stan nods.  “Does the hair specifically need to be gotten through this ‘pure of heart’ test to work?”

“No,” Ford says, a little suspicious.  “What’s your point?”

“Well, they live on this planet too,” Stan says.  “Probably won’t be super jazzed about potentially dying tomorrow.  I’ll ask ‘em if they can throw us a bone.”

“And if they won’t?” Ford asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stan shrugs.  “I guess I’m beating up some unicorns.”

“Stan, they’re huge,” Ford says, crossing his arms.  “And horses.”

“True, but if I don’t give it a shot we’re all dead, so I think I’ll roll the dice.”

They aren’t all dead if he doesn’t give it a shot, because Ford is going to fix it.  But saying that to Stan doesn’t feel like it’ll stop him from trying.  If he wants to try and win a fight with a horse, that’s his problem.  Ford doesn’t have to put himself in danger protecting him.  It’s not like he ever has before.  Why start being a good brother now?

Instead, he turns back to his journal and picks up his pencil.  “Fine.”

There’s a pause.

“‘Fine’?” Stan repeats.  “What do you mean ‘fine’?”

“I mean fine, Stanley,” Ford says.  “Whatever.  Go do it.”

There’s another pause.

“Yesterday you were more pissed about this plan than I’ve ever seen you be about anything,” Stan says slowly.  “And I’m including the damn life-ruining machine from high school.  Did something happen?”

“Just realized how pointless it is to argue with the most stubborn person on the planet,” Ford says, trying to inject some anger into his voice.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“Are you doing this or not?” Ford snaps, and this time the anger isn’t hard.

Stan looks at him for another long moment.  “I’ll be back,” he says finally.  “I’ll bring the memory gun with me, so Fidds can’t get to it.  Go eat some breakfast.”

Ford grunts in acknowledgment and opens his journal.  His door closes a moment later.  Ford starts to write part of an entry about why Bill can’t be trusted, and stops when he hears the front door close.

He waits a minute more just so he can know if Stan’s really gone, and then he brings his journal with him and heads downstairs.

Fiddleford is in the kitchen, his back to Ford, pouring some cereal in a bowl.  The night of sleep on the couch doesn’t seem to have done him much good.  He’s got dark lines under his eyes and his hands shaking as he pours the cereal.  He’s wearing the same rumpled clothes that are starting to smell a little bit, clearly in need of a wash.  Any clothes Ford tries to loan him will swallow him whole, but maybe he should wear something else just until they can wash his clothes.

Ford clears his throat, and Fiddleford jumps so badly he almost spills the cereal all over the floor.  Ford’s hands go up as Fiddleford turns around.  “Sorry.”

“Fiddleford shakes his head.  “That’s okay,” he manages.  “I was just gonna bring this up to your room.”  He lifts up the bowl of cereal.  “Stan said you didn’t sleep.”

“There’s a demon in my head,” Ford snaps.

“Hey, I’m not arguin’ with ya,” Fiddleford says, narrowing his eyes.  “But then you need to eat some breakfast.”

Ford gives a frustrated sigh, but when Fiddleford sets the bowl of cereal down at the table, Ford stalks over to the silverware drawer and grabs a spoon.

Fiddleford sits at the seat across from him, and pulls some bolts and screws out of his pocket.  He starts to fidget with them, muttering to himself a little while also keeping an eye on Ford.

Ford, for his part, can’t stand it for very long before he instead decides to keep an eye on his cereal.  If he hadn’t been such a terrible friend, maybe Fiddleford would be okay.  Maybe he’d be home, with his wife and son, and not here trying to save his terrible friend who doesn’t deserve to be saved—

Ford pauses, takes a deep breath.  He wanted a chance to have a final conversation with Fiddleford.  Here’s that chance.

“Fiddleford,” Ford says, forcing himself to look back up at his friend— ex-friend, probably.  More accurately.  “I’m really sorry that I dragged you into all of this.  This isn’t your problem, it’s mine.  You shouldn’t have to waste your time trying to fix it.”

Fiddleford keeps fidgeting with the bolts and screws, but he stops muttering to himself and looks at Ford, seeming to really be listening.  It gives Ford the encouragement he needs to keep going.

“And I’m really sorry about how I treated you, too,” Ford says.  “Especially with the portal test.  Stan and I talked about it a little, and I— I should have listened to you.  I mean,” he gestures aimlessly, “That’s obvious now, but… I should have listened to you even if everything had been fine.  Because you were my friend, and you were scared, and I just… brushed all of it off.  So I’m sorry.  Really.”

Fiddleford doesn’t say anything for a couple moments.  Finally, just as Ford’s about to look away because he can’t force himself to stay still anymore, Fiddleford nods.

“I appreciate that,” he says.  “I don’t… remember much of what you’re sayin,’ but… thank you.  You seem like a real good friend.”

Guilt curdles in Ford’s chest, and he looks back down at his cereal.

“But I really don’t mind helpin’ you out,” Fiddleford adds.  “Workin’ on the memory gun ain’t scary.  And it’s not meant to be used to wipe a whole person’s memory, like almost happened with your brother.  I understand why you thought of it for this situation, but it’s still dangerous.  It’s not what you should use it for.”

“But you wiped me from your memory,” Ford says before he can think about it.

“I… that’s different,” Fiddleford says.  He sounds uncomfortable.

“Sure,” Ford mutters.  “Okay.”  He hates that thing.  If Stan didn’t have it with him, and if it wouldn’t make his plan more obvious and things infinitely worse with Stan and Fiddleford both, he’d smash it to pieces and be done with it.

Instead, he takes a bite of cereal and tries to convince himself that this is a good place to leave things with Fiddleford.  Maybe if he doesn’t remember him he’ll try less to get Ford to stop.  Maybe he’ll be less upset when Ford is gone.  Maybe that’s a good thing.

Maybe he’ll just keep using that stupid gun until he tears his own mind apart and there’s nothing Ford will be able to do about it.

It doesn’t matter.  Fiddleford will have to deal with it.  Sure, most of this is Ford’s fault, but he did warn him about that gun.  And Fiddleford still made his own choices, he has to live with the consequences just like Ford does.  There’s nothing he can do.  He’ll just have to come to terms with that.

…

Stan gets back early in the afternoon with a small smile and a fistful of unicorn hair.  Ford’s down in the living room at this point, so he sees Stan as soon as he walks in.  He turns and gapes at it.

“They agreed?” he asks in bafflement.

“Not exactly,” Stan says with a shrug.  “More like I called them out on their stupid con.”

Ford blinks.  “What?”

“Yeah, you know that whole pure of heart thing?  It’s bullshit.”

“What?”

“It’s bullshit.  They just don’t like giving their hair away.”

“I don’t— seriously?”

Stan smiles a little wider and holds up the unicorn hair.  “Seriously.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some unicorn hair to deliver and a crazy engineer to supervise.”

He walks out of the room and leaves Ford sitting there, stunned.

It was a con?   Is Ford just doomed to fall for every one of those he comes across?

He’d forgotten how good Stanley is at reading people.  But then, he had been the one to explain any number of social situations to Ford when they were growing up.  (Though Ford still thinks some of them are just silly.  How is he supposed to know when Carla asks Stan if he wants to see a movie that she’s not also inviting Ford?  They’d all done things as a group before!)  It would make sense, he supposes, if ten years on the streets had heightened those skills.  They’d gone from something he was good at to something he needed in order to survive.  And if he meant it when he said he’d conned a bunch of people, it follows that he would be able to recognize when someone tries to pull one on him.

If Stan had been here when Ford first met Bill, would he have been able to convince Ford not to listen to him?  Could they have avoided all of this?  Would Ford have been able to live to see his thirties?

Ford shakes himself.  It doesn’t matter now.

Stan’s voice sounds from back near Stan’s bedroom, a note of excitement to it.  Despite himself, Ford stands, and walks just far enough down the hallway so that he can hear what they’re saying.

“Yeah, this should work!” Fiddleford replies to whatever Stan just said.  “It’s uh, not gonna be perfect mind you.  He may be a little foggy for a bit, I’d recommend keepin’ a close eye on him for a day at least.  But we should be able to avoid any of that nasty ‘erase his entire brain’ business.”

“Great,” Stan says, obviously relieved.  “Heh, guess Ford was on to somethin’ after all with usin’ this thing.  Doesn’t mean I’m leaving your side while you work on this, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fiddleford grumbles.  He sounds irritated, but doesn’t object.

Ford leans back against the wall, and wishes he could object instead.  “He may be a little foggy for a bit.”  Oh, sure, what a perfectly fair punishment for almost ending the world.

He can’t let them go through with this, but he can’t try and stop them or they’d get suspicious.

Well.  Fine then.

If Stan and Fiddleford are going to spend Ford’s last hours alive trying to save him, Ford’s going to spend his last hours alive trying to save them right back.  Heaven knows he owes it to them.

He makes his way as quickly and quietly as he can upstairs, back to his bedroom.  He then sets his journal aside and digs around in his desk drawer until he finds the deed for his house.

It’s straightforward enough, but he doesn’t see a way that he can just give it to Stan.  Stan can no doubt figure out a way to give it to himself, though.  Even if that way is fraudulent and illegal, Ford won’t be alive to care.  Stan would probably just need to know he has permission.

Ford’s gaze lands on his journal, open to the partially finished Bill warning.  He takes a deep breath, flips to the back of his journal, spends a brief moment apologizing to it, and then tears a page out.

How on earth is he supposed to start this?  He’s not good at this kind of writing.

He holds his pen up to the page for a second, then pauses when his hands start to shake.  He scoffs down at them, irritated.  If he could get himself under control, that’d be great.   There’s no way out of this one, and it’d be lovely if he didn’t just know that intellectually, so he could calm down.

He forces his hands to steady and holds the pen up to the page again.

Stanley,

I’m sorry for

This isn’t your

I wish I didn’t have to

This is the only way for this to be fair

Keep the house.  It’s yours.  Do whatever you need to do to make it so, legally and as a home.  If I can ask you one thing in return, could you please help Fiddleford?  He needs it, and I hate that I have to leave him like this.  I know that’s not fair to ask, and I’m sorry.  But he’s important to me.  If you don’t think you can, you can call his wife Emma-May.  She lives in Palo Alto California.  Her number is in my address book.

I’m sorry I’m abandoning you again

Ford

Ford looks at the page for two seconds, then tucks it back into his journal.  He’ll grab it again tonight, just before… events.

He’s not good at letter writing.  Hopefully Stan can forgive its poor quality.  Not that eloquence has ever mattered to Stan.

He’d write one for Fiddleford too.  He should write one for Fiddleford too.  But he doesn’t have the slightest clue what to say.  Even with how monumentally he’s failed Stanley, it’s easier when there’s screwups on both sides.  Even if the amount of screwup is… uneven.

With Fiddleford, though, there’s no one to blame but him.  He may not be at fault for the gun itself, but he caused everything leading up to it.  How is he supposed to fix any of that?

Well.  Trying is probably a good start.

Ford, feeling foolish, pulls the page back out of the journal, puts his pen to the bottom empty half of the page, and writes,

Fiddleford,

I’m sorry

His pen lands on the space just after sorry, but nothing comes out.  There’s nothing he can say that will make any difference.  Fiddleford probably won’t even remember what Ford’s saying sorry for.

He shoves the page back inside the journal.  As if the world is mocking him for being a complete and utter failure, the bottom corner tears off as he does.

…

There’s enough food in the fridge to last a couple days, even after Ford makes a huge batch of chicken noodle soup, enough that neither Stan nor Fiddleford will have to cook for a week.  He does all of the dishes in the sink and puts them away, then labels the cabinets.  A little conspicuous, but hopefully not enough to tip them off.  He folds all of the laundry into piles based on which will fit Stan better, and the few that will fit Fiddleford better.  He ignores the way his hands shake while he does all of it, and blames the ache behind his eyes and the lump in his throat on the lack of sleep.

He’s about to go downstairs to start on the laundry in the laundry room itself, because there’s definitely a lot, when someone behind him clears his throat.

Ford whirls around with a startled yelp, clutching the BMU sweatshirt to his chest, and finds Stan in the doorway to his room.  He’s holding the memory gun, which thankfully means Fiddleford doesn’t have it, and they’re both doing a good job at not leaving him alone with it again.

“You’re… doing laundry?” Stan says, a suspicious glint to his eyes.

“I have to do something,” Ford murmurs, and hopes Stan takes the nerves as related to the plan that’s happening tomorrow instead of the fact that Ford won’t be here to see it.

“So you picked chores?   On purpose?”

“Hey,” Ford says, giving Stan a slightly irritated glare.  “This place hasn’t fallen apart yet, you know.”

“I’m just saying, I can’t remember the last time you voluntarily did laundry,” Stan says, raising an eyebrow.

“Did you need something, or did you just come here to insult me?” Ford asks.  He tries to sound irritated and not nervous.

“Yeah,” Stan says.  He holds up a rope that’s clutched in his hand, that Ford hadn’t noticed before now.  “It’s naptime.”

Ford scowls down at the floor.  “Have I mentioned yet that this is a horrible idea?”

“You have.  Come on, then.”

Ford spends another half-hearted second trying to come up with a counterargument, but he can’t help it.  He wants answers.  He doesn’t want to die without talking to Bill one last time.  So he sighs, pushes himself up off the desk, and starts over to follow Stan.

Stan doesn’t move right away, instead gives him another surprised and suspicious look, like he was expecting a longer fight.  But he does turn after a second, and start leading Ford down the hall.  Ford can’t help but feel a tiny bit grateful when Stan leads them both to the bathroom up here, instead of leading him down past Fiddleford again.  If he’s going to be tied to a toilet to take a nap, he’d rather not have to talk a walk of shame before he does it.

Instead, they go into the bathroom on this floor, and Ford stops in the doorway as Stan continues on over to the toilet.

He just stares at it for a moment, trying to push past the utter humiliation of this enough to walk over to the toilet and sit down on top of it.

“Hey,” Stan says, drawing his attention.  “I’ve slept in way worse places.”

“Well that just makes me feel awful for a different reason,” Ford mutters.

“It’s okay,” Stan insists.  “No one’s gonna mock you, is what I’m saying.  Well, unless you do something really stupid, and then it’s my job as your brother.”

Ford smiles, just a little.

“But not when you need some way to sleep,” Stan continues.  “And I’ll be right here making sure Bill doesn’t pull anything.”

“You want to watch me sleep?  That’s kinda weird, Stanley,” Ford says, smiling just a little more.

“Hey, who knows what stalker habits I’ve picked up over years on the streets,” Stan says, grinning at him.  “I could be a bigger freak than you now, Ford.”

“I think I still have you beat with the demon in my head who’s been manipulating me for months,” Ford says.

“Nah, just wait until we survive all this crap and I wake up from nightmares about an apocalypse that never happened.  I’ll win then.”

Ford laughs around the lump in his throat.  “We are so screwed up.”

“Since when has that not been the case?” Stan says, smirking at Ford.

Ford smiles back at him.  Then he remembers that he’s not going to be around twelve hours from now and his smile slumps, melting into a shaky mess.  He looks down so Stan can’t keep looking at his face, but not fast enough to avoid seeing Stan’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

If you’d told him, two weeks ago, that what he’d miss the most would be the stupid teasing with his twin brother, he would have given the very concept a disgusted frown.

But then, if you’d told him a lot of this two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it.  Like a lot of things, he can’t run from it anymore.

“Okay,” he says.  He clenches his hands at his sides.  “I’m ready.”

Despite the statement, his hands are shaking a little bit as he sits on the ground in front of the toilet.  Stan thankfully doesn’t comment on it.  He ties one of Ford’s hands to one side, and one to the other.  Ford tries for about half a minute, but he can’t shake his bonds and his hands can’t reach each other.

Stan sits on top of the counter across the room, out of reach of Ford’s feet.

“I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he says.  “No matter what.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Ford can’t help but mutter.  Stan doesn’t reply.

…

Ford’s mindscape looks… worse, than he remembers it.  To put it lightly.

The stars that are usually shining in the background are gone.  Ford’s chair, where he usually sits to talk or play chess with Bill, is sitting ruined; the fluff inside is scattered through the air around it, and one of the legs is broken off.  Ford’s journals, floating through the air, are either torn to shreds or twisted versions of themselves, floating open on pages of varying versions of the apocalypse Stan described.  In the distance floats the Stan-O-War, burning, filling the air with smoke.

Bill hasn’t arrived yet, but Ford’s in his mindscape, so it can’t be long.  Ford walks forward, using the books as stepping stools, and sits in the falling-apart chair.

He hears Bill before he sees him.

“Hey there, Sixer,” he starts, and Ford immediately tenses.  “I love what you’ve done with the place!  Really screams ‘mental breakdown!’  Is there something we need to talk about?”

Ford squeezes his eyes shut, trying to figure out where Bill’s voice is coming from by focusing more without the help of his eyes.

“You alright there, IQ?  You look kinda—” a rough pair of hands grabs Ford from behind.  Ford shrieks, but before he can try to pull away, he’s shaken him roughly up and down.

“Shaken!” Bill calls in delight, that Ford barely hears over the pounding in his head.

Bill tosses him back into the chair to end his statement, sending the chair spinning.  Ford grabs onto one of the arms for dear life while the chair spins like a teacup at a carnival game.

Finally, it slows to a stop, revealing Bill floating in front of him, cackling with delight.

“Sorry, sorry, it’s just sometimes you make the puns too obvious!” Bill says.  He’s looking bright-eyed at Ford, like he’d be grinning if he had a mouth.  “Hey, I haven’t seen you in days, what gives?  You normally sleep more than this!  Are you just too excited about being almost done with the portal?”

Ford stares at Bill for a minute.  He doesn’t say anything.

He’d had so many ideas of how Bill would act when he saw him again.  Ford knows everything.  And maybe Bill doesn’t seem to realize that he does, not yet.  But that doesn’t change the fact that everything’s changed.  He knows Bill for what he is.  Would he be able to see the monster who ended the world?  Would he be selfish about it, and only be able to see the monster who manipulated him?  Would all the cracks in Bill’s story suddenly fall into place, and Ford would be able to see Bill for the liar he is?

Turns out, the answer is no.

Ford just sees Bill, exactly the same as he’s always seen him.

And that’s a million times worse.

Maybe Stanley’s wrong, says a voice in Ford’s head that he can’t afford to listen to.  Maybe Bill isn’t actually going to end the world.  He’s not acting like someone who wants to end the world.  He’s not acting like someone who threatened and stabbed and burned your brother.  Stanley’s never seen how nice he is to you, maybe because he’s only ever seen Bill as someone who hurts him, he doesn’t get that Bill is Ford’s only friend, the only relationship Ford hasn’t somehow managed to ruin beyond repair—

“Should I take your silence as a yes?” Bill says, drawing Ford’s terrified, shaky gaze back to him.

Or maybe, when he told you he fell down the stairs because he’s not good with human bodies, he was lying.  Maybe he just wanted to hurt you and you were too trusting to see it.  Or maybe you did see it, maybe it’s just that no one normal wants you, and you ruined things with Fiddleford already and who on earth knows why Stanley is still here—

“Hey bud, you’re not saying anything,” Bill says.  He sounds mostly confused, but there’s another layer under his voice, a tone Ford only hears when he’s angry, when Ford has seriously messed up and Bill has to threaten to leave to scare him straight.

Maybe you don’t deserve Bill anyway.  Maybe he should have left and found another brilliant mind to inspire— no wait, you can’t say that do you want him to manipulate someone else?   You can’t do that to someone!  Besides, Bill is exactly what you deserve, you brought this on yourself by trusting someone just because he told you that you were special— but no one else ever says that, and if you can’t be good enough for ordinary people then you have to be better than all of them, you have to be good enough for an extraordinary being like Bill because that’s the only chance you have of ever being good enough for Pa to be proud and for Fiddleford to come back and for Stanley to never have left—

Answers.  He needs answers.   None of that stuff matters.

“Sixer,” Bill says.  The confusion is gone from his voice.  Instead it’s a sing-song gentle coaxing, the kind he uses when he needs Ford to just shut up and do something because he’s better and smarter and Ford’s only chance of ever making anything of himself—

“You hurt my brother,” Ford says.  He wants to growl it, but it comes out soft and unsure instead.

Bill looks at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.  “Stop it, IQ,” he says finally.  “You’re beginning to sound like your lesser half.”

“Stop calling him that,” Ford says.  It still comes out hesitant and lost.

Bill scoffs.  “Why do you care?” he asks.  “You’ve said way worse than that, Sixer.”

“Stop— stop calling me that,” Ford says, looking down.

There’s a pause.  Ford doesn’t like the tension in it.

“What’s going on, Stanford?” Bill says, and for all Ford hated the nickname, his full name is worse.

“Stanley told me what you did,” Ford says.  He takes a deep breath, and grips the armrests of his chair.  They’re rougher than they used to be, covered in splinters.  “He told me that you stabbed him, and that you fought him and branded him.”

He forces his gaze up to meet Bill’s, and finds him with a calm expression.

“Ford,” Bill says slowly, and maybe Ford has learned something after all, because he can recognize the caution in his tone.  “I didn’t want to have to tell you.  Your brother… he was sent here to kill you.”

Ford grits his teeth.  Maybe the worst part is the fact that it’s true.   But only in a technical way, with far too much context that Bill is leaving out.  Ford can’t help wondering how many of their other conversations have been like that.

“He also told me,” Ford says, and he hates himself for the audible shake in his voice.  “That’s he’s from the future.  A future where you caused the end of the world, to be exact.”

Bill laughs.  “Sixer, come on,” he says.  “And you believe him?”

Ford swallows.  “Yes,” he tries.  It comes out as a whisper, just so he can hate himself a little more.  “I do.”

Bill doesn’t laugh again.  Instead, he goes quiet.  Ford tightens his grip on the armrests.

“Well that doesn’t sound like a very smart decision, Stanford,” Bill says quietly.  “Did you miss the part where I said he’s trying to kill you?”

“He isn’t,” Ford says.  “Even if maybe he should, he’s not.”

“Then why do you sound so unsure right now?” Bill asks, like he’s caught him.  But he’s misdiagnosed Ford’s current uncertainty.

“Don’t change the subject.” Ford’s voice manages to be a little firmer.  “I’m not asking about Stan, I’m asking about you.”

Bill’s eye darkens, turns red around the edges.  “Don’t make me mad, Sixer.”

“Why did you lie to me?  Where does that portal really lead?”

Bill narrows his eye further.  “You sure you want to ask me that?”

Ford swallows.  “Tell me.”

There’s a long moment of silence.  Ford tries to force his gaze to stay locked on Bill’s.

Finally, Bill closes his eye and laughs.  But rather than a fond chuckle, like he sometimes does at Ford’s lack of understanding, or a delighted laugh, like he does when Ford beats him at interdimensional chess, this one is loud and deranged.  Ford leans back, and one of the splinters in the armrest stabs itself into his hand.  He looks down at it, yanks it off the armrest with a wince.

“That useless idiot,” Bill says, drawing Ford’s gaze back to him.  “I should have known he’d ruin everything for me eventually.”

“What?” Ford asks weakly.

“See, this is why I tried to warn you about him!” Bill says.  He opens his eye.  The iris is bright red as he looks back at Ford, the surrounding sclera pitch black.  “I promised him I’d save you, and your older brother, and he wouldn’t even bite!  I was gonna give you front row seats to the new world I’m building!”

Ford pushes off against the armrests, trying to stand.  Instead, Bill extends a hand out in the space between them both, and shoves Ford hard against the back of the seat.  He holds him there despite Ford’s attempts to struggle.

“I was so close!” Bill cries, pushing harder.  Ford feels one of his ribs crack.  “So close to getting a physical form!  To showing you flesh bags what true potential looks like!  I will not have it ruined by a— by the likes of Stanley Pines!”

“He won’t ruin anything,” Ford forces out, ignoring the pain from Bill pressing on his chest.  It’s not real.  He’s sleeping.  “I’m gonna do it.”

Bill cackles.  “ You?   What are you gonna do, brainiac?  On four hours of sleep and a fresh heap of despair?  You’re nothing without me!”

Ford lifts his chin.  “I know.”

That seems to catch Bill off guard.  He doesn’t loosen his grip, but a bit of the red in his eye fades, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its dangerous undertone.

“You know?” he says, sounding genuinely confused for the first time.  “Well then what are you—” he stops.

Ford recognizes, with some irritation, the feeling of Bill starting to sift through his memories.  And Ford has neither the time nor patience for this, so he rolls his eyes and shoves what Bill is looking for to the forefront of his mind, thinking about it plainly enough that Bill can see without looking.  Shows Bill what he plans to do and exactly what it means, though he’s not sure how good a grasp someone like Bill has on human mortality.

A second after Bill seems to process what Ford means, his grip loosens, which startles Ford so much that for a second he doesn’t even know what to do about it.

“Sixer,” Bill says, “don’t do that.”

Ford scoffs.  “What, am I robbing you of the pleasure of doing it yourself?  Sorry Bill, but you don’t get to have a human puppet any more.  I’m not letting you over here again.”

“You think you can stop me?  I’ll go over there right now,” Bill says.  “I’ll tell everyone what you’re thinking, I won’t let you—”

The space around them goes fuzzy.

“No!” Bill shrieks.  Ford smiles at him triumphantly.

“Bye, Bill,” he says.  “I regret ever having met you.”

Ford wakes seconds later to Stanley shaking his shoulder.

“Hey,” he’s saying.  “It’s been a couple hours.  Fidds is making dinner.”

“Bill show up?” Ford mumbles before he even pries his eyes open.

“Nope.  Weird.  He didn’t seem to waste any time the last couple times we talked.  Was he talking to you?”

Ford opens his eyes.  Stanley looks at him for a couple seconds, clearly looking for the telltale yellow eyes and slitted pupils.  When he doesn’t see anything, he starts untying Ford’s hands.

“Yes,” Ford says in response to his question.

Stan gives him a transparently worried look.  “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ford mutters.  “Just ready to get all this over with.”

Stan drops Ford’s second hand, now untied.  “Hm.  Tell me about it.  Come on, dinner first, and then I’ll tie you up again in case you fall asleep tonight.”

“No,” Ford says quickly.  Stan turns back to him.  “I mean uh, I won’t fall asleep.  I’ve got important journaling to do.”

Ford can tell by the look in Stan’s eyes that he doesn’t believe that for a second.  But after a pause, all he does is nod once, and then turn and head out of the bathroom.  “You coming?” he calls over his shoulder.

Ford takes the win and follows him.

…

Ford spends the rest of the night trying to come up with anything else he can do to make things easier for his brother and his friend after he’s gone.  But the list he comes up with is sorely limited.  He puts the notes out on his desk and makes sure the laundry is set up.  He knows there’s food in the fridge so they won’t have to make any themselves.  The bill’s are paid for as long as he’s currently capable, so they’ll have heating and water.  Is that really the extent of what he’s capable of?  How had he never realized he was this bad at taking care of people?  He just left it to be everyone else’s job, he supposes.  And now he’s run out of time to ever learn.

Well.  It’s too late to dwell on it now.

Ford waits until everyone is definitely asleep before he goes downstairs.  He moves as quietly as he can manage down the steps, and makes it while only having to pause once due to squeaking.  The downstairs is dark and silent, and Ford can at least acknowledge the appropriate atmosphere for someone walking towards their own grave.

When he stops in the doorway to the living room, Fiddleford is asleep on the couch.  He’s twitching and muttering in his sleep, clearly in the throes of a nightmare.  Ford swallows down his guilt and walks past without waking him.  It’s too late to be a good friend to him.

To his surprise, when he walks down the hallway towards Stanley’s room, his door is open.  When he steps into the room, he doesn’t see Stan on the couch, but the bathroom door is open too.  Stan isn’t there.  But how could Ford have missed him on the way in?

Ford shakes himself.  It doesn’t matter.  Stan’s duffle bag is in the same place it was before, over at the end of the couch.  All he needs is to find one of the guns and—

“Lookin’ for somethin’?”

Ford shrieks and spins around.  Stan, leaning against the doorframe, doesn’t react beyond a raised eyebrow and a, “You’re gonna wake up Fidds.”

“What— how did you—”

“Sneak up on you?  Turns out I’m capable of being quiet.  Who knew.”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

Ford blinks.  “I can’t sleep?”

“You want someone to talk to, then?  I can understand that.”

Before Ford can say that’s not what he wants, and come up with some plan to get Stan out of here again, Stan walks over and plops down on the couch.  He sits very intentionally in front of the pillow, though Ford’s not quite sure why.

“That’s not really what I—” Ford starts, but he can tell by the look on Stan’s face and the firmness in his stance that he’s not leaving.  His options are wait him out until he falls asleep, or try and go for the duffle bag and shoot himself in front of Stan.

And while this past week has thoroughly acquainted him with how bad of a brother he is, he’s not that terrible.  So instead, he takes a few cautious steps forward and sits on the couch next to Stan.

“Fidds says he thinks he can finish the gun tomorrow morning,” Stan says, glancing over at him.  “Says you might be a little foggy afterwards, so I guess I’m stuck here just until you’re back to normal.  Sorry about that.”

Ford grits his teeth.  “You guys realize this is stupid, right?”

“Sure, I usually am.  What’s your point?”

“That’s not what I— ugh, you’re impossible,” Ford snaps, dropping his head into his hands.  “You can’t just— just brush it aside like that!”

“Brush what aside?”

“Everything I screwed up!” Ford exclaims, lifting his head to glare back at Stan.  “Everything I’ve done!  I let a demon into this dimension!  I let him inside my head, and then I just casually built him a doomsday device!  The world is going to end because of me, and you guys are just acting like it’s— like it’s no big deal!”

“What are you talking about?” Stan asks, giving him a baffled look.  “I’ve been trying to stop it since I got here.”

“No you haven’t, you’ve just been trying to— to let me off the hook, like I don’t have to make any sacrifices to fix my mistakes!”

“Is this about the memory gun again?” Stan asks, crossing his arms.  “Ford, if we can do it in a way that’s safe for you and doesn’t get rid of all your memories, that’s the obvious choice.”

“No it’s not, you— you don’t even understand— ugh!” Ford throws his hands up and glares away.  Of course Stan doesn’t understand, when has he ever tried to fix his mistakes—

Ford winces, cuts off his thoughts.  That’s not fair.  Stan has tried to fix his mistakes, it’s just that he can’t make that the priority when Ford has so massively fucked things up for both of them.  And anyway, what should Ford expect of him at this point anyway?  Is he going to look at everything Stan’s been through the past ten years, including the apocalypse that Ford made him go through, and still say he hasn’t suffered enough?  Besides, it’s not comparable.  Stan’s mistakes are nothing compared to Ford’s.  It’s just that the biggest mistake Stan is making right now is prioritizing Ford above everything, like somehow he’s the important one in all of this.

“Sixer, seriously,” Stan says, and Ford stiffens.  “I don’t know why you’re insisting we ignore the chance for a good outcome here, but—”

“I burned the Stan-O-War.”

Stan stops talking.

“To ash.   Stood there and watched while it went up in flames.”  Ford doesn’t look at Stan, just clenches his hands together in his lap.  “It was fun.”

“Stop,” Stan says.

“No, really.  It felt good.  I hated that thing at that point, and I mean by the end of building it I already thought it was stupid, and I was just humoring you anyway so—”

“Stop it,” Stan snaps.

“And destroying your life’s work really seemed fair after you destroyed something I worked on that was much less important and took much less time, so I just stood there and laughed while it burned—”

“Goddammit Ford, stop talking.   Do you think I don’t know what it sounds like when you’re trying to get someone to hate you?”

“Well if it’s true—”

“No,” Stan cuts him off.  “Seriously.  I mean it.  Shut up.  You already told me the Stan-O-War was gone, dumbass.  And I knew a long time ago that I was never going to get to sail it.  Stop dragging up old wounds.”

“You can’t really call them that old,” Ford mutters.

“They’re old enough.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.  Finally, Ford steels himself and looks up at Stan.  “I did burn it.”

“You didn’t stand there and laugh while it burned.”

Ford looks down again.  “No.”

There’s another moment of silence.  This time Stan speaks first.

“Why do you want me to hate you, then?”

“Why don’t you?” Ford asks, baffled.  He turns to face Stan again.  He finds him looking much calmer than Ford feels.  “After everything you’ve gone through?  After everything I put you through?  You should.”

Stan rolls his eyes.  “Sixer, come on.  I’m the stupid one here.  Don’t try to steal my—”

“You’re not stupid!”

Ford snaps it loud enough that it startles them both into silence.  Stan mostly just looks confused, which Ford doesn’t like.

“You’re not stupid,” he mutters, looking down at his hands.  “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

“What do you—”

“You would have seen Bill for what he was,” Ford says.  “Immediately.”

“Sure, but that’s just because—”

“Because you’re so much better with people than I am,” Ford finishes.  “And you know how to handle a dangerous situation and I don’t, and you know me, and you know how to convince me that I’m being an idiot.  I mean for fuck’s sake, if you were stupid you couldn’t have kept everything from me for six days, Stanley.  And still actually made progress on convincing me I’d messed up.  You’re not stupid.  Stop calling yourself stupid.”

“It’s just… it’s just what I am, Sixer,” Stan says, still sounding confused.  “It’s not a big deal.”

Ford clenches his hands into fists.  “You’re not.   If I don’t get to say stuff to make you hate me then you don’t get to call yourself stupid.”

Stan rolls his eyes.  “Okay, that’s hardly the same, but fine.  Whatever.  Can we get back to the point of this argument, please?”

“What argument?  The argument about how you should hate me?  That’s not an argument, that’s just a fact.”

“Sixer, if someone forcing me to live through an apocalypse caused by you doesn’t make me hate you, I’m pretty sure nothing’s gonna do the job.”

“Well why didn’t it?” Ford snaps.  “You’re saying I can’t make you hate me by killing everyone and forcing you to live in the aftermath?  Then what the hell would it take?”

“Okay, one, it’s not like you did it knowingly and on purpose.  And two, I didn’t say you were the one who forced me to live through an apocalypse.”

“I caused it!” Ford exclaims, throwing up his hands.  “Who else could you mean?”

Stan gives him a look like he’s missing something obvious.  “Ford, I was rescued by two time travelers.   They didn’t have to wait until I was about to die.  But they left me there as long as they could afford.  Because they were trying to get me to hate you.”

“You—” Ford stops, trying to come up with something to say to that.

“Ford,” Stan says, crossing his arms.  “If nothing I did made you hate me, what makes you think anything you could do would make me hate you?”

“But I—” Ford swallows past a sudden lump in his throat.  “It’s not the same— you— you should.”

“Why?” Stan asks, baffled.  “What the hell did you do?”

“I— I can’t believe you’re asking me that question,” Ford says weakly.  “That’s not— it’s just how the world works!  I’m a poor kid from New Jersey who went to a terrible college.  I got a research grant that I squandered on that machine down in the basement that has to be destroyed.   I haven’t published any of the research I’ve done, not that I have enough evidence for anyone to believe me anyway.  I don’t have any awards, or any recognition for anything I’ve ever done, I— I failed.   You don’t love the scientists who fail to make anything of their life.  Everyone else Bill helped— or— he didn’t— argh!”   Ford buries his head in his hands.  “I’m not a successful scientist, Stanley.  I won’t be remembered for any achievements.  I’m not extraordinary.  I’m not a genius, I’m just a six-fingered freak who never did anything good enough.  I ruined every good relationship I’ve ever had.  Fiddleford’s life is ruined and it’s my fault.  Your life is ruined and it’s my fault.  Pa doesn’t want me going home if I can’t pay him, Shermie can’t take time off of his life and his family to help me be worth something, and— and you were always Ma’s favorite anyway!  Who will remember me if my life turns out to be such a failure?”  He hunches over on himself, trying to hold back the tears building up in his eyes.  He’s not going to cry.   Not in front of Stanley.

“I did.”

Ford hadn’t been expecting any kind of response, so it takes him a minute to process what Stanley said.

“Grammar,” he mutters, despite himself.

“No,” Stan says firmly.  “Not grammar.  I did.  I remembered you.  Why do you think I’m here?”

Ford doesn’t say anything.  After a moment, he feels something poke the side of his head.  He still doesn’t move.

“Ford.”

Ford drags his head up just far enough to see Stanley holding out the photograph from his car, the one that got torn up somehow, when it was left out in the snow.

“What?” he asks, taking it from Stan’s outstretched hand.  “Why are you giving me this?”

“I didn’t leave this out in the snow, Ford,” Stan says.  “I dragged it through an apocalypse.”

Ford blinks up at Stan.  Great.  His eyesight is tear-blurry.  “Why would you…?”

“Because I don’t care if you’re a successful scientist, dumbass,” Stan says, rolling his eyes.  “You’re my brother.  You think I hang out with you because you’re impressive?”

“I— but I ruined everything,” Ford manages.  “I fell for all of Bill’s flattery, and I did all the dirty work to allow him over here, and I didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.”

“Yeah,” Stan agrees.  “So you fell for a con.  That’s not exactly new, Sixer.”

Ford swallows.  “What?” he croaks.

“I mean, the only difference between this and that time you believed that new kid wasn’t a spy for Crampelter is that the stakes here are a bit higher.”

“A bit?”

“Eh,” Stan waves his hand dismissively.

Ford looks down at the photo still in his hand.  Now that Stan mentions it, it looks like it’s been through an apocalypse.  Just like Stanley.

“You should have just killed me,” Ford mutters.

There’s a pause.

“Uh, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I left you behind,” Ford says.  He sets the picture on the couch and buries his head in his hands again.  “We were supposed to get out of New Jersey together.   I just stood by and let your life fall apart.  And then, because that wasn’t enough, I ruined the lives of every human on the planet, now and in the future.  You should have just killed me, Stanley.  Or just waited a little longer to find me so I could do it myself.”

There’s another, longer pause.

“…You weren’t coming in here for the memory gun, were you.”

Ford doesn’t say anything.  He sits there, trying hard not to cry, and waits for Stan to yell, or call him an idiot, or any other number of things.  That’s what Ford would have done, if Stan admitted to what Ford had been planning to do.

Instead, Stan slams against his side, and when he almost knocks Ford over, changes gears and pulls him tight against him.

And, well, that does it.  Ford breaks, and starts officially crying.  In front of Stanley.  Goddammit.

“Please don’t do that,” Stan says quietly.  “I’ve worked way too hard to keep you alive this past week.”  He doesn’t sound desperate, or panicked, just firm.  Firm enough that for a moment Ford doesn’t even know how to respond.

“But I— I screwed up,” he finally manages.  His voice is shaking badly, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Stan couldn’t even make that out.  He drops his head onto Stan’s shoulder.  He’s definitely getting his jacket wet.  “Screw-ups ha— have consequences.”

“Not death.   That’s not an okay consequence.  That’s not fair.”

“It is fair!  It’s what— what I did to everyone!”

“It’s not—”

“Yes it is!”

“Fine.  Then I don’t care about fair.  How about that?”

Ford shakes his head.  “I can’t just— just get off scot-free, Stanley.”

“Yes you can.”

“But—”

“Life isn’t fair, Ford, and turnabout is bullshit.  And there is no way on God’s green earth I am letting you off yourself.  Understand?”

He still sounds firm, and calm, somehow.  Like he’s not arguing, just stating a fact.  Maybe he is.  He’s certainly proved himself capable of keeping Ford alive this past week.

“But I— I burned our boat,” Ford says against Stan’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Stan murmurs.  “I forgive you.”

Ford takes a scattered breath.  “And I think I fell for a con,” he whispers.

“S’okay.  Happens to the best of us.”

Ford sniffs.  “Really?”

“Oh yeah.  Did I ever tell you about this time I tricked a licensed engineer into buying one of my shitty vacuum cleaners?”

Ford slumps further against Stan.  “No.”

“Took three months, but I did it.  Had him convinced I invented vacuum cleaners by the end.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Pretty close.”

Ford manages half a chuckle, then goes quiet again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles after a second.

“For what?”

“Making you look out for me again.”

Stan chuckles.  “Come on, Six,” he says warmly.  “That’s my job.”

No it’s not, Ford wants to say.  But it’s not like Stan will believe him now, after this.

So instead he lets himself stay slumped over in Stan’s arms, and forces his eyes to stay open as Stan starts to talk about the engineer and the vacuum cleaner.

Ford still has to fix this.  He has to fix a lot of things.  But maybe… maybe he doesn’t have to die, to do it.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Ford doesn’t feel great when he pries his eyes open.  He doesn’t feel that much better than he did before he crashed, actually, but now the fogginess feels different.  Rather than just being hard to think about what’s going on, now he’s finding it hard to remember what was going on.  Something had happened before he collapsed, hadn’t it?  Something he needed to be worried about?

There’s a loud crash near the front door, and Ford tries to turn his head in that direction.  Someone screams something— Pal?  Gal?

Someone next to him stumbles back a step.  He looks really familiar.  Looks really similar to Ford, actually.  Ford blinks at him a couple times, trying to place where he knows him from.

A nervous sound comes from the other side of the room, and Ford turns to see a tall, skinny man with a strange looking gun.  As Ford watches, he presses the gun to his head.

A spike of alarm stabs Ford in the chest.  But before he can tell the man not to shoot himself, the first man runs over and wrests the gun from the second man’s hand.

“Later,” he says to the man.  Ford also isn’t a fan of that idea, but the man just pulls the second man back towards him.  He grabs Ford’s arm on the way too, and pulls both of them back towards another part of the house.

“What’s going on?” Ford asks.  It doesn’t come out clearly, and he doesn’t really feel like moving very fast either.

“Fiddleford, you better not have fucked up my brother’s head long-term,” the first man snaps without turning around.

“No no, this is expected!” the second man (Fiddleford?) calls.  “I’m not sure how long it’ll last, but it’s normal!  Or, well, relatively speakin.’”

“HAL!” yells someone outside, which must have been what Ford heard before.  The first man’s grip tightens around Ford’s arm, but he otherwise ignores this, and pulls them all towards the back of the house.

“Okay, okay,” the first man says, seemingly to himself.  “It’s gonna be okay.  You can play this.”  He stops in front of a door and pulls it open.  Inside is a couch, a boarded up window, and another door to a bathroom.

“You two stay here,” he says, turning back to Ford and Fiddleford.  “I’ll be back.  Probably.”

Fiddleford slips inside the room easily, but as the man starts to step away from Ford, Ford shifts his grip so he can hold onto his arm.

The man stops and turns back to him.  “Ford, come on.”

“I don’t… want to do that… I think,” Ford says slowly, trying to piece the words together in his head.

“Ford, no,” the man says.  “We don’t have time for this.”

He pulls his grip from Ford’s, and Ford doesn’t have the presence of mind to stop him from pushing him back into the room.  He shuts the door, and Ford hears the sound of footsteps receding back towards the front of the house.

Ford pulls the door back open.  Fiddleford makes a surprised and concerned noise, but Ford is running after the first man before Fiddleford can catch him.

He reaches the living room as the front door is slammed open, and three men with guns run through.  Ford runs forward and plants himself right in front of the first man, arms spread wide.

“Ford!” the man screams.  “No!”

Ford feels the man trying to pull him behind him, but Ford stands firm, grabs the man’s hand to stop him.  He squeezes it tightly.

“Get away from him,” Ford says to the man currently pointing a gun at his face.  He’s got some kind of arrow in his arm, but he doesn’t seem to care much about it.

The man with the gun laughs.  “Hal, you didn’t tell us you had a clone.”

The man behind Ford tightens his grip on Ford’s hand and tries to pull him back again.

“You idiot, stop,” he says.

“No,” Ford says.  “Stay there.”  He’s still not sure what exactly is happening, but he knows he’s not letting those men get to the person behind him.

“What are you, crazy?” the man snaps.  “This isn’t your fight!”

“Don’t tell me what’s not my fight!  I’m not letting them hurt you!” Ford snaps, though he’s not really sure where that comes from, or who exactly he’s protecting, or why.  He just knows what he said— he’s not letting them hurt him.

The man behind him manages to pull Ford back, so they’re standing side by side.  “Listen,” he says, “you—”

Before the man can finish, a gun is fired.  The man screams and throws himself in front of Ford.  Something in Ford’s brain clicks, and he thinks, Stanley.

Ford grabs Stanley by the arms and yanks him down, out of the path of the bullet.  Stanley screams again, but just as the bullet’s about to hit Ford in the chest, it freezes in midair.

Ford stares at it.  The man who fired the gun stares at it too.  On top of being frozen, it’s glowing, surrounded by a light green aura.  For a moment, no one moves.

“Are you insane?” breaks the silence.  Ford looks down just in time for Stanley to leap to his feat, and shoves Ford behind him again.  He glares at him over his shoulder, but keeps looking back and forth between him and the man who fired the gun.  “Do not jump into the path of a bullet, you moron!”

“You did it first!” Ford snaps, his brain still working overtime to try to fill in the missing pieces.

Stanley.  Brother.  Twin.  Idiot who puts Ford above everything.

“Only because you were putting yourself in between me and very dangerous men with guns!  Have you somehow missed the fact that everyone has been trying to kill you this week?”

“They’ve been trying to kill you just as much!” Ford snaps.  He’s not a hundred percent sure how true it is, just that it feels right to say.

“No, they actually haven’t, because they need me alive to kill you!”

Whoops, Ford guessed wrong on that one apparently.

“Well—” he stammers, and takes another chance, still not quite sure what’s going on.  He waves wildly at the three men in front of them.  “Well these people are trying to kill you!”

“Uh, sorry, what— what’s happening?” the man who fired the gun asks.  He’s looking at the bullet that’s still hovering in the air right in front of Ford and Stanley.

“Not now, Jorge!” Stanley snaps.  “Look—”

“Who has changed the timeline?” booms a very loud voice, and okay it’s official, Ford has absolutely no clue what’s going on.

Then suddenly, the men with the guns start glowing green as well, and so do Stanley and Ford.  In fact, no one is able to move as a giant baby, sitting in some kind of futuristic baby swing, appears in the room in front of all of them.

There’s a long second of baffled silence.

“So that’s a time baby,” Stanley mutters, yet another thing that makes no sense.

The giant baby turns right to Ford, and the aura around him grows brighter before he’s yanked forward, right in front of the giant baby’s face.

“Ford!” Stanley yells from below him.  “Hey, let him go!”

“You are the one who ended the timeline prematurely,” the baby says.

“Uh,” Ford says weakly, “sorry?  We fixed it?”

“I would not be here if you had not,” the giant baby agrees with a nod.  “Who was it that did so?”

Ford looks back down at Stanley.  The giant baby follows his gaze.

“My brother,” Ford says, so the giant angry baby isn’t left in any doubt as to what he means and doesn’t decide to kill Stanley or something.

“What?” Stanley asks.  “I didn’t—”

“Time Baby!” comes a new voice.  Two new men run through the front door that’s still sitting wide open.  They have the same futuristic vibe as the giant baby.  Ford is not sure why, but instantly he does not like them.

The giant baby— Time Baby?  Is that what Stan meant?— turns to face them.

“Agents,” he says, which does not clear things up, “you have been working to fix things, correct?”

One of the agents, whose nametag on his shirt says “Lolph”, opens his mouth.

“Oh, fuck no!” Stanley snaps.  “These assholes did nothing but get in my damn way!  Well, they did save my life I guess.  But they made everything so much harder than it had to be!”

The two agents started glowing the same shade of green, and were dragged up in front of Time Baby.  “Is this true?”

Lolph, however, is just staring at Ford.  “You’re still alive?” he asks.

The agent with “Dundgren” on his chest looks in the next moment like he wants to strangle the Lolph one.

“Yeah,” Stan snaps from down below them.  “Almost like you didn’t have to try to force me to kill him to fix everything!”

“But,” says the man with “Dundgren” on his chest.  “I don’t understand.  We tried so many times to…” he trails off, looking lost.

“You worked directly against the one who fixed the timestream?” Time Baby says.  His eyes are starting to glow red.  Ford, though he still doesn’t know why, does not like that.   “In a scenario with high stakes, rather than let him try his own methods or come around to your viewpoint first?”

Dundgren shifts until he’s standing in front of Lolph.  “Your Timeliness, we were very—” he starts.

“Enough,” Time Baby says.  “I will deal with you later.”   He waves his hand, and the two agents disappear.  He then looks down at the men below them.  From what Ford can tell without being able to move his neck, they’re all staring up at the giant baby as much as they can while not being able to move their necks.

“Who are these?” Time Baby asks.

“Uh,” Ford says.  “People who want to kill my brother?  You know, the one who fixed the timestream.”

“Wait,” the first man, Jorge, says.  “We don’t—”

Time Baby waves his hand again, and all of them disappear too.  Stan gives a slightly hysterical laugh.

“Um, Your uh, Your Timeliness?” Ford says.  “Is that correct?”

“You can also address me as Time Baby,” Time Baby says.  “Or, the cutest little boy, yes I am.”

“Noted,” Ford says with a weak smile.  “Can we possibly be on the ground while we talk?  And I need to go get my friend, Fiddleford.  He helped too, I— I think.  You’ll have to excuse me, my brain is a bit foggy at the moment.”

“I will excuse what it pleases me to excuse,” Time Baby says.  “But you may go get your friend.”   He lowers Ford to the ground, and then the green aura around him fades.  Stan’s does not.

“I’ll be right back,” Ford tells him.  He walks as quickly as he can while being polite, out of the room and back towards the bedroom from before.  He’s pretty sure it’s Stanley’s bedroom, now that he remembers Stanley.

Fiddleford is pacing back and forth across the room when Ford walks inside, rubbing his hands together nervously and muttering to himself.

“Fiddleford,” Ford whispers, gesturing at him.

Fiddleford startles and whirls to face him.

“Stanford!” he exclaims.  He runs over, and before Ford can react, throws his arms around him.  “I heard gunfire!  I wanted to run out and check on you but I couldn’t get myself to move and I— I’m sorry, because you’re my friend, and I should’ve—”

“It’s— it’s okay,” Ford says, hugging Fiddleford back.  He’s not sure why he does.  It’s a little strange to be hugged by him, actually.  He’s still not sure who exactly he is.  But he did describe him to Time Baby as his friend, and it sounds like he needs some reassurance.

“It’s okay,” Ford says.  “Everything’s safe now.  Well, there’s a giant baby, but I think he’s mostly benevolent?  To us, at least.  He seems pretty grateful that Stanley fixed the timeline.  Come on, I told him I was coming to get you.”

Fiddleford doesn’t seem to like that idea.  But after a moment, he steels himself, and when Ford starts walking them both out and back towards the living room, Fiddleford follows.

“Is your head alright?” Fiddleford asks as they walk.

“Er, no,” Ford says.  “I’m not really sure what’s going on.  But I don’t want to leave Stanley alone right now.  He’s my brother.  And I need to be here if those men come back.”

“Your brain feel foggy or glitchy?” Fiddleford asks.

“Foggy,” Ford says, surprised.

Fiddleford nods.  “Good,” he says quietly.  “That’s what you’re usually like after.”

Ford doesn’t have time to ask what that means, because they both arrive at the living room in that second.  Stanley’s not being held in place by Time Baby anymore, and instead he’s sitting on the couch, looking very unsure about everything going on.  Time Baby is hovering in front of him, looking very impatient.

“Finally,” he says, turning to face Ford and Fiddleford as they show up.  “Being erased from existence takes a lot out of a Chrono-Giant my age, I would very much like to get to the nap I had planned.”

“I apologize, Your Timeliness,” Ford says.  “I know we— I, caused a lot of inconvenience.  I take full responsibility.”

“No he doesn’t,” Stan snaps, standing up from the couch.  “This was not just him.”

“Fine, that’s true, someone tricked me,” Ford says, mostly just to stop Stan in case he was about to do something stupid like try and take some of the blame himself.  “But my brother and Fiddleford both helped me realize his treachery, and they helped me stop him.  He’s gone.”

At least, it feels like that’s what happened.  He’s pretty sure.  Judging by the look on Stan’s face right now, he knows that Ford is sort of making things up as he goes along.  But Stan is smart enough not to directly contradict him too much to the giant magical baby.

Sure enough, he just continues to glare at Ford and doesn’t say anything.

“And you have learned your lesson?” Time Baby says.  “I could throw you in Time Jail for this, you know.”

“I understand,” Ford says, despite the nerves that spark at the idea.  “I sincerely apologize.”

“Hey, leave my brother alone,” Stan says.  He stands and walks over to stand next to Ford.  Which is good, because if he tried to shield him again, Ford would have had some words, Time Baby be damned.  “It’s my wish as the uh, timeline fixer, or whatever.”

“That is a poor use of a time wish,” says Time Baby.

Stan blinks.  “Uh, what?”  He looks at Ford, as if he’ll have an explanation.  Ford shrugs.  He glances over at Fiddleford, who holds up his hands.

“Oh, did I forget to mention that part?” Time Baby says.  “Well, I don’t have the best memory when I’m late for my nap.  Which is why I wanted this to go quickly.”   He clears his throat.  “Stanley Pines!  For fixing the timeline and saving the planet, you have been awarded one time wish!”

An hourglass symbol on his head starts to glow, and suddenly, in front of them is a glowing sphere with the same symbol on it.

“You have been granted the power to alter time paradox free in any way you like,” Time Baby says.  “One time.”

“Uh,” Stan says.  “Okay.  Cool.  And is this like, a monkey’s paw situation, or…”

“The wish will be granted as you intend it to be,” Time Baby says.  “As long as you hurry this along and don’t keep me from my nap.”

“Right,” Stan says.  “Time wish.  Okay.”  He turns to face Ford and Fiddleford.  “Either of you want a time wish?”

Fiddleford blinks, seeming surprised.  “You don’t want a time wish?”

“Hey, my goal this week has been ‘fix the world,’” Stan says.  “I don’t have plans for what to do next.  What the heck would I use this thing for?”

“You don’t have anything you want to change?” Fiddleford asks.  “Nothin’ you want to fix?”  He says it with a tone that makes it sound like he has plenty of ideas for things he could use it for.

“I don’t know,” Stan mutters.  “I mean, there’s the obvious.  But it just… sounds too good to be true.”

After a second, he looks up at Ford.

Ford blinks.  “What?”

“You remember your perpetual motion machine?” Stan asks.

Ford looks down, trying to come up with any kind of idea what Stan is talking about.  “Not really?” he admits, looking back up.  “But if I can’t, it’s probably not that important.”

“No, it was,” Stan says.  “You were going to get into the best college in the country, but I broke it, so they wouldn’t accept you.”  He stops, but Ford keeps looking at him.  It takes him a long moment to realize he’s expecting Stan to continue, for there to be more to the story.

“Okay?” Ford says finally.

“I can fix it,” Stan says, looking back at the glowing time wish.  “Make it so that it never happened, and you never had to go to Backupsmore.”

“Wait,” Ford says, confused.  “But I don’t even care about that.”

“Only because you don’t remember right now,” Stan says, turning back and giving him a reassuring smile.  “Don’t worry, you’ll appreciate it later.”

“I don’t,” Ford starts, but stops, because he’s not sure.  Maybe Stan is right, but something in the back of his head is bugging him, like there’s something else Stan should be doing instead.  He saved the world, didn’t he?  He’s not really going to spend a reward for all that work just on Ford, is he?  That doesn’t sound very fair.

Stan turns to face the time wish, and takes a step towards it, and suddenly, a voice in the back of Ford’s head starts screaming in protest.  He has no idea why, but he decides to roll with it.

So when Ford sees Stan reach out towards the time wish, he moves his arm forward and latches on to Stan’s wrist.

“No,” he says, as Stan turns around in surprise.  “No no no, that’s not what’s going to happen.  That’s not what you’re doing.  Here’s what you’re going to do.”

Stan raises an eyebrow.  “Uh, excuse me?  Are you really trying to lay out the terms of how I fix—”

“You are going to stop thinking about me for ten seconds,” Ford cuts him off, and Stan’s eyes widen.  “And you are going to go over there, and use that thing to get those three people who want to kill you to go away.  Jorge and the other two of them and whoever else you can think of that I don’t remember right now.  You’re going to get rid of any criminal record whatevers that you have—”

“Criminal record whatevers?” Stan mutters in bafflement.

“—and any outstanding warrants, and anything else you can think of or need or want in order to give yourself a real honest fresh start.  Okay?  That’s what you’re doing.”

Stan gives him an amused smile, like Ford’s being ridiculous.  “Sixer, come on.  You can’t want me to be that selfish—”

“It’s not selfish!” Ford screams, pulling Stan forward by the arm so he can yell right in his face.  “And I don’t want you to fix whatever it is you messed up because I don’t need you to prove yourself to me and I don’t want you to think that— that I only ever want you around if— if—” Ford pulls in a shaky breath and yanks Stan further away from the time wish, because he’s pretty sure he hasn’t convinced him yet and he can’t let Stan use it on whatever stupid mistake he’s talking about that can’t even matter anymore, that Ford definitely should have forgiven him for a long time ago no matter what it is, that Stanley was punished far too harshly for.

“You saved the whole world and me too even if it would have been smarter to not,” Ford says weakly.  There’s terrible grammar in that sentence and he’s still not entirely sure what he’s talking about, but he can’t bring himself to care right now.  He’ll use terrible grammar and instinct if it convinces Stanley to listen.  “It’s not fair if you don’t— if you don’t get anything in return.  You deserve something.   It’s not fair.”

“Poindexter, come on,” Stan says, his voice soft and attempting to be reassuring.  He pulls his hands from Ford’s grip.  “Life’s never fair.”

“You can make it fair right now,” Ford protests, pointing towards the time wish.  “You can, and— and I want you to.”

“You don’t—” Stan says, his voice starting to shake.

“I do,” Ford insists.  “If you can’t do it for you, then do it for me.”

“Do something for me, for you?” Stan says weakly.

“If that’s what it takes,” Ford says, looking firmly into Stan’s face.  “Look, I— I don’t remember what a perpetual motion machine has to do with anything, but it can’t possibly matter anymore.  There were people in here trying to kill you ten minutes ago.  That matters.  I don’t want you to get hurt anymore.  Fix that, for yourself.  For me, okay?”

Stan doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stares at Ford.  His hand is shaking a little bit in Ford’s grasp.  “You— were you actually going to take a bullet for me?” he whispers.

“You’d do it for me,” Ford says firmly.

Stan swallows.  He looks at Ford for another second.  He nods.

Ford lets out a sigh of relief, and pulls Stanley forward into a tight hug.  Stan is still shaking.

“Alright,” comes Time Baby’s voice.  Ford had honestly forgotten he was still here.  “Are you two done then?  I am becoming more in need of a nap by the second.”

“Oh, sorry Your Timeliness!” Ford calls, taking a step back from Stanley.

“Hey, lay off a second, would ya?” Stan snaps at Time Baby, wiping not-very-discreetly at his eyes.  Ford’s going to have to have a talk with him later about interacting with powerful beings.  Though for some reason, he doesn’t feel like he can be one to talk.

Stan takes a couple steps towards the time wish, pauses and seems to think something over, and then reaches out and slaps his hand on top of it.

It sparks and flashes, and then disappears.

“It is done,” Time Baby says.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Uh, hey,” Stan cuts him off, and Time Baby groans.

“Listen, I know I can travel through time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get tired—”

“Last thing, I promise!” Stan calls, holding up his hands.  “Just go easy on Dundgren and Lolph, okay?  Like, don’t kill them or anything.  I’m not saying I ever want to see them again, but they were desperate.  And I know what it’s like to be desperate.”

“Very well.  If it will get you to leave me alone, I will go easy on them.  Now goodbye, all of you!”

And with that, Time Baby vanishes.

For a second, Ford, Stan, and Fiddleford just stare at the place he was.

Then Fiddleford walks over and shuts the front door.

…

Immediately following Time Baby leaving, all three of them take a nap.  Ford, for his part, sleeps for almost twelve hours, until he’s woken up by Stan who’s telling him he’s made food, and both him and Fiddleford need to come eat it.

Ford feels a little less out of it, memory-wise, than he did before he fell asleep.  He remembers who Stanley and Fiddleford are, as well as Ma and Pa and Sherman.  He also remembers Bill Cipher, and everything that happened just before he woke up outside the mindscape.

He doesn’t mention that part to Stanley.  It’s too fresh.  Instead, he follows him into the kitchen, and they all eat the pasta that Stan has made.  Both of them ask Ford questions about his memory, and seem relieved when it’s better than it was earlier.  According to Fiddleford, he should be back to normal sometime tomorrow.

If Ford hadn’t been looking at Stan when Fiddleford said that, he would have missed the expression on his face.

Even looking, he’s not sure he got it right.  He used to be able to read his brother, but it’s been a while since then, and even longer since he could do it well.  The look was also quick enough that he can’t be certain he even saw it.

That doesn’t stop where he ends up, however, which is heading towards Stanley’s bedroom after dark, holding a set of car keys.

Fiddleford is upstairs, finally in his actual bedroom, so Ford doesn’t have to worry about waking him.  The day has had too much napping and trying to figure out how to proceed from here for Fiddleford to ask for the memory gun yet, but Ford knows it won’t be long.  He’s going to have to come up with a way to talk to him about it.

For now, though, Ford instead walks to the entrance of Stan’s bedroom and leans against the doorway while Stan digs around in a duffle bag.

“Looking for something?” Ford asks.

Stan jumps and spins around.  Ford lifts up the keys to the Stanleymobile so they’re dangling off one of his fingers.

Stan blinks, then narrows his eyes.  “Hey.”  There’s irritation, but also a slight bit of pride in his voice, like he’s impressed that Ford actually managed to steal them and he didn’t notice.

“What are you doing, Stanley?” Ford asks.  “Because it better not be driving off through several feet of snow on roads that haven’t been cleared yet.  While also still being hurt, by the way, because you still need to go to the hospital.”

Stan rolls his eyes.  “Come on, Sixer, I went through worse than this in my first winter in Jersey.  I’ll be fine.”

“What was the point of getting rid of everyone on your tail if you’re just going to go right back out there and be homeless all over again?”

“I’m not banned from any states now,” Stan says, hefting the duffle bag onto his shoulder.  “Plus I’ve got a lot more experience than I did the first time around.  There’s no one trying to kill me anymore, so I won’t have to get ahead of them by doing it first.”

“Wait, what—”

“So I’ll be fine.  Gimme the keys.”

Ford grits his teeth and stuffs the car keys in his pocket.

Stan crosses his arms.  “Ford.”

“Stanley, stay here with me,” Ford says plainly.

Stan’s eyes widen.

Please,” Ford adds.

Suddenly, Stan looks uncomfortable.  “Ford, come on, you don’t want me here,” he says, looking down.  “I’ll just get in the way of your research stuff.”

“Actually it’s because of you that I can still do that ‘research stuff’ in a world that exists,” Ford says.

“Yeah, but—”

“Stanley, you saved the world.   And now, what, you’re gonna go right back to letting it treat you like garbage?  You’re the reason it’s all still here.”

“It doesn’t know that,” Stan says.

“I know that,” Ford insists.  “But even if that wasn’t the case, you’re my brother and I don’t want you to leave if you don’t have anywhere to stay.  I was going to ask you even before you told me everything that was going on.”

“Oh come on,” Stan rolls his eyes.  “No you weren’t.”

“Yes I was.   I talked to Sherman about it.  I was just trying to figure out how to make it work, because I was still—” he looks down, ashamed.  “I was still angry at you,” he mutters.  “But now I’m not even that, so there’s no problem.  And Sherman was going to ask you to stay too, if I couldn’t.”

“That’s not— I can’t just ride on your—” Stan stops.

“…If it’s a handout feeling, we can figure something out,” Ford says quietly.  “You could help me with my research, or with taking down the portal.  I’m going to need it.  Stanley I… I don’t want you to ki—” he takes a shaky breath.  “I don’t want you dead any more than you wanted me dead.  And I don’t… I don’t want to stay here alone anymore.  It was good, having you here.  You know, apocalypse stuff aside.”  He looks down, clenches his fists, and mutters, “I missed you.”

There’s a long pause.  Ford has a feeling Stan isn’t going to say anything.

“It also doesn’t have to be forever,” he adds, in the hopes that it helps.  He looks back up.  “You could probably find a job in town, and get your own place eventually, if you want.  Just… don’t go back to living in your car.  Please.  That didn’t go very well the first time.”

“I was fine,” Stan mutters.

Ford sets his jaw.  They both know Stan’s lying, but instead of that, he says, “I wasn’t.”

Stan goes still.

“I needed you here.  I got into way more trouble than I would have if you’d been here.”

Stan opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“I’m not going to force you to stay here,” Ford says quietly.  He holds out the car keys for Stan to take.  “But you don’t have to go.  I want you to stay.”

Stan takes the keys from Ford’s hand.  “Maybe just for a bit,” he mumbles.  “Until we’re both back on our feet.”

Ford nods, ignoring the lump in his throat.  “Okay,” he says.  “Good.  I— thank you, Stanley.”

Stan gives a short nod.  “I’m— I’m gonna get some sleep,” he says.

“Me too,” Ford says, hoping the relief doesn’t come through in his voice.  “I’ll see you for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Stan agrees.  “You will.”

That’s not the end of the conversation.  Stan’s “just for a bit” means he’s definitely not ready to make a decision on what they’ll do long-term, which is fine.  They can ignore it for now.  Heaven knows they’ve both earned it.  They’ll figure out long-term plans sometime in the next couple months, and they don’t have to rush to figure it out either.  Not Stan’s living situation, not Fiddleford and how to help him, not what on Earth Ford is going to do now that his grant money has been spent on the useless thing in the basement, not how Ford really feels about Bill.

It’s okay.  They don’t have a deadline anymore.

Unlike the end of the world, some things can take their time.

Chapter Text

Twenty Years Later

“I’m tellin’ you, it’s left!”

“And I’m tellin’ you this damn thing has been broken for months!  Every time I try to use it to locate fairy dust it takes me straight to one of the portal potties!”

“Stanley, I’ve told you that the portal potties can lead to—”

“Just turn left gosh dangit, you’re gonna miss it and we’ll have to turn back around!”

Stan groans and swings the wheel to the left, and causing several cars that he did not give enough room to honk and swerve.

“For Christ’s sake, Stanley!  Why did we let you drive!” Fiddleford screams, grabbing hold of the handle on the side of the car.

“Because if anyone can get us there in time when we’re running this late, it’s Stanley,” Ford says with a both amused and slightly terrified smile.

“It ain’t like this is the kind of thing that can be predicted,” Fiddleford points out, fairly enough.  “And I’m serious that you both need to watch out for Emma-May when we first get home.  She ain’t gonna like having to run the shack for a week by herself on such short notice.”

The Mystery Shack had been Stanley’s idea.  Ford wasn’t exactly surprised when his second grant proposal didn’t go through, but it did mean he had to find another way to support himself rather quickly.  Stan had suggested using the house as its own source of income, and while Ford had shot down his original idea of a tourist trap, a museum displaying some of his research (with a lucratively priced gift shop) had been more appealing.  And after Stanley had turned out to be far more adept at showmanship than Ford, to the surprise of no one, the idea also solved both the Stanley living situation problem and the handout feeling problem in one fell swoop.

Sherman and their mother had both come down for the grand opening, equally thrilled to see them both together.  If Pa decided to stay behind, that was entirely his loss.  Ford was done listening to him.

The Shack had ended up helping Fiddleford too.  For some of the creatures Ford wanted to show off, it was possible to pay them to give up an afternoon and let the visitors ask questions.  Plenty of them had spoken to gnomes or the Multibear, for example, with no danger (though the gnomes did have a tendency to propose to a large number of guests).

But this wasn’t possible for everything, and for creatures like the Gremloblin or ghosts, Stanley had thought up asking Fiddleford to build safe automatons or robot alternatives, that wouldn’t be a threat to life.  (Not that Fiddleford’s robots were safe, but they were safer than the real thing.)

Ford had worried at first about asking Fiddleford to deal so directly with things that had traumatized him.  But in the end, creating something he could control out of the things that scared him, and that he could use to cause havoc he wanted to cause, had turned out to be helpful for Fiddleford.

That didn’t mean the memory gun cravings had gone away.  That had taken a while to even start to happen.  But he seemed less convinced at the invention’s good, after seeing the state it left Ford in after a modified use, and after considering what it could have done to Stanley if he hit him with it.  It had been a start, and he was much better off than he could have been.

Reconnecting with his family had helped, too, though Emma-May had been none too thrilled at his extended disappearance.  Maybe Fiddleford had a point about dropping the shack on her so suddenly.

“We’ll bring her pictures,” Ford says.  “And maybe a gift or two.”

“That’ll help,” Fiddleford says.  “And so will an explanation that isn’t a frantically scribbled vague note.”

“Look, I can’t help it if I’m excited!” Stan says, jerking the wheel to the right again and making Ford question if his childhood motion sickness really had completely faded.  “I haven’t been to one of these since Ethan was born!”

Before Ford can make a teasing comment that he sounds more excited than Sherman had on the phone, their destination finally comes into view ahead of them.  Stan speeds into the hospital parking lot, getting more honks, and steals the spot from a family that Ford really hopes isn’t here for something serious and life-threatening.

He can’t bring himself to complain, though, when all three of them make it into the hospital less than a minute later.

“Pines?” Ford says to the man at the front desk.  He nods, and after a search where Ford can tell Stanley is getting antsy behind him, they’re given a room number and directions.

Before they make it to the actual room, however, they find Sherman in the hallway outside it.

“Shermie!” Stan yells, and is immediately shushed by several people, both nurses and Ford.

Sherman, however, has too large of a smile on his face to mind, and accepts the bone-crushing hug Stanley gives him with one of his own.  Ford tries to stay far enough back, but he never really expected to succeed, and it isn’t long before he’s dragged into the bear hug too.  Before long Stan drags Fiddleford in as well, who makes a slightly pained squeak.

“I still don’t think I prefer your style of hugs,” he says as they all pull back.

“Sorry Fidds, you’ve been around us long enough, you’re subject to Pines family hugs.”

Ford shakes his head with a fond smile and turns back to his older brother.  “Congratulations, Sherman.”

“I can’t believe you won the grandparenthood competition,” Stan says, turning back around.

“Well, that’s my job as an older brother,” Sherman says with a smirk.  “To be better than you at everything.  And hello, Fiddleford.”

“Ha ha,” Ford says, rolling his eyes as Fiddleford nods in greetings.  “Is everything alright?  This is a little earlier than we expected.”

“A little bit,” Sherman agrees.  “But thankfully there weren’t any complications.  Well, almost none, that is.”

“Almost?” Stan says, a worried tone immediately obvious in his voice.  “What’s ‘almost’ mean?  The kid’s okay, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherman says, his smile widening.  “They both are.”

“Both?” Ford asks, eyes widening.

Sherman chuckles, and pushes the door to the room open, and sure enough, reveals Ethan along with his wife Sarah, with each of them holding a fast-asleep baby.

Stanley’s mouth falls open for only a brief second before he starts beaming, and Ford puts a hand to his mouth, swallowing past a lump in his throat.

“You jerk,” he says, elbowing Sherman as Stanley rushes into the room.  “You could have told us.”

“And miss exactly this?” Sherman says with a grin at him.  “Come on in.”

So they do, all three of them.  Stanley is already holding the young boy by the time Ford makes his way up to the bed, so he’s handed the girl.  He smiles up at both of the exhausted looking parents, and offers a warm, “Congratulations, then.”

“Thank you,” Ethan says, seeming unable to fight the smile off his face.  “The one you’ve got there is Mabel, and Uncle Stan, that’s Mason.”

“Oh well aren’t they just the most precious things you’ve ever seen,” Fiddleford says, coming forward and smiling at the girl in Ford’s arms.

Mason squirms slightly in Stan’s arms and makes a little coo noise.  Stan looks up at Ford with blatant tears in his eyes, and Ford knows the kid has already utterly won him over.

He looks down at Mabel, who seems to have heard her brother and starts shifting too.  When Ford has to shift his own grip so she doesn’t fall out of his arms, she starts to cry.

“Oh Moses,” Ford says, panic setting in.  “Stanley.  Stanley, she doesn’t like me.”

“Oh hush,” Fiddleford says, nudging Ford in the side.  “She’s a baby, Stanford, she cries.  Rock her back and forth a little.”

Ford tries just that, and amazingly, after a couple seconds of this, Mabel settles down.  Ford offers her his hand as an apology for making her cry, and she grabs his extra finger.

Ford suddenly deeply empathizes with Stanley’s tears.

They both stick around for far longer than they probably should, given the fact that the parents mention there’s a limit to people allowed in the room, and someone has to go call Emma-May.

But, in a brilliant solution, Stan and Ford both give Fiddleford a turn to hold the babies before he leaves to do just that, lessening the people and allowing the two of them to stay and hold their great-niece and nephew for a little longer.

Ford gets a turn with Mason as well, but eventually he and Stan switch back again.  After a while, Ethan and Sarah both start asking Sherman a dozen questions about what to expect, so Stan and Ford both end up in the chairs on the other side of the room, holding their niblings.

Mabel, Sherman had told him, came first, and Ford finds himself reflecting on this similarity of theirs as they sit there, not saying much.

For the first half of his life, Stanley had been the one looking out for him, despite technically being the younger twin.  And though Ford likes to hold it over his head teasingly (and Stan likes to tease back that technically, he’s two weeks older than Ford), he likes that they’ve reached a point where it’s more even, and they can both look out for each other.  He finds himself hoping that’s more the case for the two newest Pines twins.  With any luck, they’ll be able to avoid his and Stanley’s mistakes.

He isn’t imagining, looking down at Mabel that day, that he’ll ever tell her any of those mistakes directly.  In fact, he doesn’t really plan on sharing any of the story of the apocalypse, and Bill, and the ten awful years that came before it.  Not many people do know.  Fiddleford does, of course, and the two of them.  And Ford and Stan had explained it all to Sherman at one point, who had seemed to at least believe them.  But they hadn’t told Ma or Pa, and they still haven’t told Ethan or Sarah, so why on earth would Ford explain it to Mabel or Dipper (as he would soon come to be called)?

But this is before, twelve years in the future, the two come to Gravity Falls for a summer.  Dipper becomes as fascinated with the supernatural and paranormal as Ford, and when he’s not pestering Ford with questions about museum exhibits, he’s off discovering his own.  It’s after one of these adventures, which Ford chaperones for obvious reasons, that Mabel will tentatively ask him what makes Dipper so special, and is always talking to him about cryptid stuff but not her.

Ford will express his surprise, as he hadn’t thought her interested in it, and Mabel will then agree that she isn’t, not really, but she does sometimes wish she could like the things Dipper is interested in, because sometimes it makes her feel like she isn’t as smart, or as capable.

In response, Ford will spend the entire next day with his great-niece, showing her fairies and magic and all the parts of the supernatural she would be more interested in (though he does gently steer her away from the unicorns).  And somewhere in between all this, he will tell Mabel about the time the world almost ended.

Not in detail, of course.  She’s 12, she doesn’t need all the graphic details about the stabbings, and the homelessness, and the manipulative dream demon.  Ford doesn’t tell her about Stan’s fight to the death with a loan shark for a squirrel, or his near falling off an ice-slick roof while tangling with time travelers trying to murder his brother.  He doesn’t tell her about his own near-suicide, or the years he spent untangling the damage Bill’s manipulation did to himself and his self-worth.  He doesn’t mention the nightmares Stan still sometimes has about a week spent in a dying world.

But he does tell her how the world was saved, not by a genius who understands the supernatural, but by a person with a big heart and a refusal to hurt their brother.  Someone who put family and caring about their twin above themself.  Someone like her.

(This is also where he will pause and stress how Stan had needed to learn about taking care of himself, too, and realize just how many ways the two of them used to be screwed up, but he won’t linger long on that.)

He’ll tell her all the things about her that he thinks make her special.  Her kindness and her creativity, her strangeness and her delight for life.  He’ll promise to make her a sweater if she makes him one too.  And he’ll end it with a reminder that if she ever does want to come on an adventure with him and her brother, they would both be thrilled to have her.

But this is for later.  It’s also a moment of needed support that doesn’t come from a deep-seated problem, but rather a passing moment of insecurity and uncertainty.  It comes after a decade of family reunions and Hanukkahs, of visits and the joy of watching two of their great-niblings grow up.

For now, Ford simply sits in a hospital room, next to his brother, and basks in the joy of two new family members, two new twins, at that.  He enjoys the warmth that comes with many good years having been lived together, and many more still left to come.