Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Let me go, you insane, three-sided—!” Ford paused, taking in his surroundings. “What… what is this place?”

He didn’t have long to ponder before the sound of piano notes filled the room, accompanied by obnoxious humming. From the floor in front of him, a grand piano phased up into the room with none other than Bill Cipher sitting at its bench, playing a jaunty tune. The demon hummed along with a melody that could’ve been soothing if it weren’t for the fact that it sounded more like electrical buzzing.

Ford instinctually stepped back, only to stumble over chains that attached his ankles to the wall. The noise caught Bill’s attention, causing him to stop his humming, although his fingers continued dancing along the keys.

“Well, well, well, look who’s finally awake! Have a nice nap?”

“I wasn’t asleep, Cipher, you turned me into a statue,” Ford spit out the words as if they were made of acid, not wanting to play along with Bill’s games while also desperately needing to correct the demon. He changed the topic, letting his curiosity get the better of him, “Where are we?”

“Who says statues aren’t asleep?” the triangle shrugged. “But welcome to the penthouse suite, kid! C’mon, take a seat, relax, listen to me play!”

Bill summoned a third arm to snap while he spoke, lifting Ford with some invisible force and dragging him over to the couch that sat in front of the piano. The scientist tentatively sat on the furniture, unsettled by the warmth that radiated from within the cushions. Bill snapped again, a drink appearing in his hand alongside a matching one in Ford’s.

“Any requests, IQ?”

Ford scoffed. “You could let me go and take your ‘party’ back to your heinous dimension, for a start.”

“Oh don’t be a sourpuss, Fordsy,” Bill almost looked hurt as he spoke. “I meant song requests, silly! If you don’t have any, I’ll just play the couch’s favorite, it’s got good taste.”

“The couch…?” Ford looked down at the furniture, which opened an eye and looked right back at him. With an unmanly yelp, he scrambled off of the sofa, scanning it once more and realizing that it was fully made of skin and other body parts. “Is that thing alive?! ” he hissed.

“Psh, of course it is! Made it myself, y’know! It’s rude to talk about it like it can’t hear you though, didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?” 

“You have no right to speak about my mother, Cipher.”

Bill made a sound that seemed to be the equivalent to clicking his tongue disappointedly, though it sounded more like a CD skipping.

“Oh Fordsy, so dramatic. You should unwind a bit, relax, go with the flow more! Gasp! ” His eye widened in surprise as he spoke the word ‘gasp.’ “You should play with me! Put those extra fingers to use tickling the ol’ ivories, eh?”

“Can it, Cipher, as if I’d ever agree to that.”

Bill flashed red for all of half a second, pausing his playing. An unsettling silence fell over the room, and Ford immediately missed the ambient music. The demon stayed in his seat, eye staring blankly at his pet.

“You don’t get to tell me to ‘can it,’ Sixer,” Bill said in an unusually flat tone, unmoving. “You don’t get to choose, either.”

With a snap, the demon disappeared.

Ford let out a miniscule sigh of relief, allowing his muscles to untense ever so slightly. He looked around the room again, turning in a circle. When he turned back to the piano, Bill was right in front of him, staring intensely. Ford yelled out in surprise, stumbling backwards.

“I’ve figured it out, Fordsy!” Bill pulled back, eye curling into a smile. “You’re probably just a bit rusty at piano, huh? Or maybe too shy to sit next to wittle ol’ me? Either way, here ya go!” He snapped, a violin appearing in midair. “Custom made this just for you!”

The violin floated towards Ford, who eyed it warily. It seemed to be made of regular wood, but he knew better than to trust anything of Bill’s creation.

“Relax, it won’t bite, I made it outta boring ol’ spruce. You’ve got that in common, both made of Pines!” 

Bill chuckled at his own joke as he floated back to the piano bench, sitting down. Ford stayed standing, staring at the violin. He knew that he could still play one, his eidetic memory never failed him, but quite frankly, he’d rather deal with 500 volts through his system than playing a duet with Bill. He looked up to the demon, who was watching patiently.

“I’d rather die, Bill.”

Bill’s eye crinkled into a smirk that sent chills down Ford’s spine. He spoke in a low, measured voice, certain of what his pet’s reaction was going to be.

“Play a duet with me, and you’ll get to talk to Stanley.”

Ice shot through Ford’s veins, knocking the wind out of him as he stood still.

“I… I play one song with you, and you allow me to speak to my brother for as long as I wish, letting him go free afterwards and causing no further harm to him.”

“Whatever you say, Fordsy!” Bill stuck out a hand with no hesitation, blue flames bursting from his palm. “One song and Mac goes free!”

Ford reached out a hand, trying his best to suppress the tremors that shook through it. He clasped Bill’s hand, the flames lightly tickling his own. He looked Bill in the eye as he spoke.

“Deal.”

The room around them melted away in an instant, an empty auditorium taking its place. Bill and Ford stood in the middle of the stage, spotlights shining down on the pair.

“Well then Fordsy, Tartini sound good? Violin Sonata in G minor?”

“Whatever you say, Bill,” Ford sighed as he grabbed the violin out of the air, resting it beneath his chin while the bow appeared in his free hand. 

The two began playing simultaneously, Ford leading the way through the song. Bill’s gentle piano supported his melody, the instruments blending together into a beautiful tune. Ford found himself getting lost to the music, closing his eyes and swaying along to the softer parts of the sonata, gritting his teeth at the more intense moments.

Sweat dripped from his forehead as they reached the end of the duet, his fingers aching from the constant pressure against the neck of the violin. With the final drag of his bow across the strings, Ford released a breath he had been holding for far too long.

Applause filled the auditorium, shocking Ford into opening his eyes and seeing a sea of Bills filling the previously empty seats. Bill floated up from his seat and stood at the front of the stage, bowing as much as a triangle could while his clones threw teeth and viscera in celebration. 

Ford ignored the raucous audience as he stepped towards the demon on stage.

“I played. Let me speak to Stanley now.”

Bill sighed, turning to Ford with a bored look.

“You’re all work and no play, Sixer. You’re lucky I’m nice.”

With a snap, the audience disappeared, the walls of the auditorium melting away into the penthouse suite once more. Ford spun around, looking for his twin. Bill snapped once more and Stanley appeared in the middle of the room, immediately collapsing to his knees.

“ Stan! ” Ford gasped in relief, throwing the violin to the side before diving down to his brother’s level and grabbing his shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re alright, Stanley, you’ll get out of here unharmed, I made sure of it, but I need you to take the kids and get out of Gravity Falls as soon as you’re free from here. It’s not safe, please get out of town.”

Stan rested his hands on top of Ford’s, staring with wide, fearful eyes as he opened and closed his mouth over and over. No sound came out. 

“Stanley? Are you okay?”

Stan continued to open his mouth, his breathing becoming faster and faster as he grabbed at his throat, still completely silent. His eyes flicked between Ford and Bill as he started to scooch away from his brother, his face contorted in a scream.

“ What did you do?! ” Ford spun around to Bill, who casually lounged on the living couch. “We made a deal, Bill, you swore you would cause no harm to Stan.”

“Ah, ah, ah, Sixer, I swore I would cause no further harm to little Mac over there. What I did to him happened before our duet.”

“What. Did. You. Do, Bill. ” Ford practically snarled as he stepped closer to the demon, his hands twitching for a gun that was no longer at his side.

Bill rolled his eye, glancing at the discarded violin across the room.

“Y’know how hard it is to make a good instrument these days? It takes a lot outta someone to find all the right materials, especially if they wanna make something special. ”

Ford rushed to the instrument, picking it up and turning it over in an attempt to figure out what exactly Bill had done to it.

“You said it was made of spruce. Normal spruce.”

“Yeah, the body of it!” 

Running his hands along the strings of the instrument, Ford froze. 

“Did ya know that violin strings were originally made from cat guts? ‘Course you knew that, smart guy, but it makes a triangle wonder, what other creatures could be used for that kind of thing?”

High pitched ringing flooded Ford’s hearing as he looked between the violin and his brother, silently screaming as he clawed at his throat. Bill’s obnoxious voice scraped the inside of his skull as he continued blabbering on.

“So I was thinking. You guys call them vocal chords, right? And the whole thing about them is that they make noise, right? So when Spare came by and you were acting all bratty, I had this idea! Hey, are you even listening?”

Chapter Text

Stan knew he had fucked up.

He always fucked up, but this time he really fucked up. More than when he took that gold chain from the pawn shop as a kid, more than when he would cheat off of Ford during tests and would get detention, more than when he’d made fun of Crampelter knowing damn well that the brute could beat him to a pulp, more than when he fought back against Pa while being disciplined, more than anything.

But of course he had to have had detention that day and stayed late at school. Of course he had to go into the auditorium afterwards to check out whatever thing it was his brother made. Of course his stupid fucking emotions had to get the better of him in that moment. Of course he couldn’t just be a man and keep himself in check— he knew better than that.

He hadn’t meant to do anything, really. It was an accident, he swears! 

A little voice in the back of his mind that sounded uncannily like Pa said that everything he did was an accident, though, because he was an accident, and accidents never led to anything good. 

Usually he tried to shut that voice up, but as he laid there in the back of the Stanleymobile, eyes stinging and chest aching, he knew it was right.

He listened to it as it whispered to him, venom in its words, chastising him for everything he had ever done in his worthless, miserable excuse for a life.

You’re a failure of a son, failure of a brother, failure of a person. You’ve never been good for anything, and you never will be. Seventeen years in this world and yet the only joy you’ve ever brought to someone is Crampelter when you’re a crumpled, bruised, bloody mess on the floor of the locker room. 

He flinched as a car passed by, the sudden noise breaking his thoughts. He waited for a few moments, not daring to move in case the person noticed him curled up inside. He knew he wasn’t supposed to sleep in a parking lot, but there was no way he was waiting outside of the pawn shop like a kicked dog. He may be pathetic, sure, but he wouldn’t let himself be so vulnerable like that.

And yet you’re laying here sniffling like a goddamn pussy. Men don’t cry, they don’t surrender, they don’t act like prissy little fags and just take the beatings. They take what’s theirs and don’t let anyone push them around.

He let out a shuddering breath once he was sure the car was gone, relaxing ever so slightly. Stan sat up and moved to the front seat, starting up the car and pulling out onto the road.

He didn’t listen to the voice when it told him to drive off the pier, but he had to admit that it made some good points. He was gonna make something of himself— he wasn’t gonna be worthless for his whole life.

If the road was extra blurry and Stan kept sniffing every few minutes as he drove out of Glass Shard Beach, no it wasn’t.

Chapter Text

The Stan-O’-War II swayed unsteadily beneath Stan’s feet, throwing him off balance as he skidded through the cabin after his brother. He ran into their bedroom, keeping his stance low so as to not fall over. Ford was pressed against the corner of the room, eyes wide and panicked, breathing heavily. Blood trailed down one side of his face from an unseen wound somewhere along his hairline. 

“Hey bud… let’s calm down, huh?”

Stan spoke softly as he stepped forward, hands up in a submissive gesture. His steps were quickly halted by a low, warning growl rumbling through the air.

“Alright! Alright, I won’t get closer,” Stan took a small step back, if only to give a little bit of comfort to his twin. “I do gotta check out that cut on your head soon though, I don’t wanna leave that untreated for too long.”

Ford, unsurprisingly, showed no sign of understanding the words spoken to him, his eyes glazed over. The warning growl petered off, leaving the room in an uncomfortable silence.

“Gonna be honest, Six, I’m not really sure what to do if I can’t get closer to ya,” Stan shuffled his feet forwards ever so slightly, trying to get closer without Ford noticing. “Usually you aren’t that receptive to words when yer… like this.”

Ford stayed still, tense against the wall as he watched Stan like a hawk. A very scared and injured hawk, but the statement still stood.

“I promise I’m not gonna hurt ya, I just wanna make sure yer not gonna bleed out if I leave you alone in here to calm down.” He wasn’t going to leave Ford alone at all, really, but he wasn’t going to say that right now. He continued to shuffle forwards, keeping his body language submissive and small. “Is it alright if I get closer to ya? Just to look at whatever it is that got your face lookin’ like a horror movie?”

He slowly reached out a hand as he closed the distance between the two of them. Ford’s gaze flickered from Stan’s face to his hand for just a moment before he put on a strangled smile. Maybe that was the best he could manage at the moment, Stan didn’t know, he was just glad to have some sort of positive response.

“Cool, cool,” he sighed in relief. “Gonna keep moving slow so ya don’t freak out, kay? Gonna keep talking too since I think that helps sometimes…”

Their bedroom wasn’t particularly big— the Stan-O’-War was a fairly small boat— but crossing the floor felt like traversing miles of land as Stan ever so slowly shuffled forwards. Ford stayed staring at his brother, a few soft growls coming off of his exhales once Stan was about halfway.

Then, of course, because nothing can go right for Stanley Pines, the boat went over a harsh wave and threw him forwards. He had nothing to steady himself, leaving him stumbling over his own feet— not for long though, as he quickly found himself being thrown back onto the hard floor of their bedroom.

The air was knocked out of him as his back hit the ground, a knee shoved into the center of his chest and his arms held down. The warning growls from earlier were gone, replaced by furious snarling as Ford pinned his brother to the floor. 

“ H… hey… ” Stan forced the word out of his throat, his voice weak. 

Ford only pushed his knee further into his chest, the blood dripping from his face falling onto Stan’s as well. From this angle, Stan could clearly see the gash on Ford’s head— though he still had no idea where the injury could’ve come from— as well as his unnaturally sharp teeth. Stan vaguely recalled Ford mentioning the story behind them, but at the moment he was mostly aware of just how much damage those fangs could do to him.

“ F… Ford, ” he muttered, struggling against his brother’s grip. Stan had been pinned down before— plenty of times, really— but never had he felt so helpless while he was down. He knew that Ford had built up some muscle, sure, but he hadn’t realized that his nerdy twin had become this strong. It felt like he was being held down by iron bars that squeezed tighter the more he moved.

Ford’s snarling only grew louder as Stan struggled, his teeth bared in an animalistic grin. He started to lean down to Stan’s neck, giving the younger twin a prime opportunity to headbutt him as hard as he possibly could— a little extra head trauma never hurt anyone.

A dull clang rang out as their heads made contact, Ford’s grip faltering slightly. Stan took the slip in strength to push Ford back and scramble to his feet, ignoring the way his vision faintly swam. He steadied himself as best as he could, but was quickly thrown off guard by his brother lunging towards him with a growl.

“I don’t wanna hurt ya, Six!” Stan gritted out as the pair rolled on the floor, each trying to pin the other.

Ford snarled as he grabbed Stan’s jacket and slammed him on the ground, knocking the air out of him once more.

Well, if Ford was gonna be fighting on pure instinct, so was Stan.

He kicked Ford’s chest, throwing the scientist on his back. Stan threw himself on top of his brother, holding him down similarly to the pin he was held in moments ago. Ford hissed and thrashed, flailing his limbs as wildly as he could.

“Just calm down and everything will be fine! ” Stan yelled out, only further enraging his animal of a brother.

Ford grabbed ahold of Stan, gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he rolled with the motion of the boat, sending the two tumbling, Ford ending up on top again. Hands wrapped around Stan’s neck, squeezing with a single purpose in mind.

Rabid growls filled the air, Ford’s pupils pinpricks as he stared down his prey. Stan tried to pry the hands away, but Ford only tightened his grip. He swung out a fist, knocking Ford’s glasses off and sending them clattering across the room, but his grip stayed strong.

Stan felt the pressure building behind his eyes, an uncomfortable buzzing starting in the back of his skull. He swung at Ford again, and again, and again, only causing a tighter grip around his neck and a bloody nose.

The buzzing was stronger now, the edges of his vision blurring out as his body became harder to move. He stared Ford in the eyes, only to be met with an animalistic rage with no recognition in sight. 

As he laid there, pinned to the ground by his beloved twin, all Stan could hope was that Ford wouldn’t blame himself too much.

Chapter Text

Ford was exhausted.

His entire body ached with effort, his muscles straining to keep him on the move. He couldn’t afford to slow down, not until he found some sort of shelter he was sure the things behind him either couldn’t find him in or couldn’t fit into themselves. 

With no shelter in sight, though, Ford pressed on. 

He ignored the taste of blood in the back of his throat, the pounding of his heart that could be heard behind his ears, the sharp pains that shot through his joints with every step. He couldn’t tell if the beings chasing him were bounty hunters or just defending their territory, but he got the feeling that either way, it wouldn’t end up good for him.

After three years— give or take— you’d think a guy would get used to being on the run like this. And yet, Ford couldn’t help but wonder how bad it would really be if he let himself get caught just this once. It wasn’t like there was really anyone to miss him afterwards.

He hadn’t really spoken to his family for years even before the portal incident, and he’d vanished off the face of the Earth, so they probably assumed he was dead anyways. The only other person he had bonded with was Fiddleford, but Fidds had made his opinion of Ford clear.

If he were to be ripped to shreds by seven foot tall insect-like aliens, would that be so bad?

His thoughts were broken by a shrill screech behind him as he jumped over a small river— he glanced back as he ran, the creatures hissing as the water splashed at their legs.

He huffed out a weak laugh as his feet continued carrying him across the foreign ground. He didn’t want to wait around to see how long it took the creatures to figure out how to get across.

Legs burning with strain, Ford reminded himself of his mission:

1. Find Cipher. 
2. Kill him.

He couldn’t let himself get killed yet. He didn’t deserve that kind of release until his enemy was dead.

Ford pressed on. Maybe a safe cave would show up soon.

Chapter Text

It was a perfect summer’s day. The sun gently warmed the earth, a few puffy white clouds decorating the bright blue sky.

Birds cheerfully chirped as laughter filled the air outside the Mystery Shack. 

Soos had decided to keep the Shack closed that day, wanting to spend it with family and friends— Dipper and Mabel weren’t always there in Gravity Falls, of course, so they had to make the most of the time they had together, even if it meant losing out on a day’s worth of pay.

Out in the yard, the aforementioned Pines twins sat in soft green grass, chatting with Wendy, Candy, Grenda, and even Pacifica while their Grunkles sat on the worn sofa on the porch, talking with Soos, Melody, Fiddleford, and, of course, Soos’ Abuelita. Conversation easily flowed between them, jokes being cracked and causing the group to burst into giggles every so often.

To be put in the simplest of terms; it was everything Mabel had ever wanted.

Her family and friends all together, just enjoying each other’s company out in the warm summer sun. No worries or cares, no big mysteries to be solved, no life-ending threats looming over them. Just peace.

She leaned back, for once taking a break from the conversation and allowing herself to simply watch and take it all in. Waddles and Gompers were frolicking around the group, squealing and bleating with delight as they, too, rejoiced in the perfect day.

Everyone else continued their chat as Mabel laid down in the soft grass, letting her eyes slip shut while the conversation blurred into comforting background noise.

She let her mind drift, thinking over projects she wanted to complete, sweaters she wanted to make, parties she wanted to plan. A small trickle of confusion made its way into her thoughts when she realized that she was absolutely certain that she had all the materials and time needed to get everything done. Usually she’d have to plan some trips to the craft store and beg Stan to take her, (otherwise she wouldn’t be able to bring everything home— her arms can only carry so much!) but she just knew she had everything she needed.

She shrugged off the discomfort— if she had everything she needed, that was great! Why would she be worried? That just meant she could get everything done and start thinking about bigger, cooler projects!

The constant conversation around her lulled her back into a relaxed state, going back to thinking about everything she was going to get up to that summer with her friends and family. It was silly to get worked up over nothing, really, she had no reason to freak out over something so silly as just having supplies.

A sharp, nasal laugh broke Mabel out of her thoughts, causing her to sit up and look around with a gasp. The sun still hung high in the bright blue sky, the grass around her still soft and green. The crowd around her was laughing over Soos showing off his belly dancing abilities— impressive, Mabel had to admit— and the source of the nasal laugh that she had heard was nowhere to be seen.

Nobody seemed to notice her panicked state, everyone smiling and chatting without a care in the world. Her nerves must’ve gotten the better of her, though normally that kind of thing happened to Dipper.

But everything was fine, everyone was happy, and so Mabel forced herself to relax. She closed her eyes, reminded herself of where she was and who was around her, and took a deep breath— in through the nose, out through the mouth.

A foul, rotten smell filled her nostrils, stinging her throat with its rankness. Her eyes popped open as she coughed in a feeble attempt to rid her body of the terrible ick that made its way inside, though she was quickly met with the source of the stench.

The perfect summer’s day that surrounded her was nowhere to be seen, the girl instead surrounded by destruction and chaos. Where there had once been her friends and family, there were thousands upon thousands of bugs. She could hear their little legs skittering across the others’ chitin, an unwelcome change from the birdsong that once filled the air. 

The sky was stained red, the grass around her dead and decayed. She swore there were bright yellow eyes watching her from within the trees surrounding the Shack, which had become nothing more than a pile of rotted wood.

A hot breeze swept more of the putrid scent towards her, causing her to wince for just a split second. 

When Mabel opened her eyes again, everything was just as it was before.

The horrid stench was gone, replaced by the sweet earthy smell of grass and the comforting pine from the forest around her. The skittering sound of the bugs echoed in her ears as the ambient conversation continued, words too muddled for her to understand.

She blinked a few more times, rubbing her eyes, but the vision didn’t change.

It stayed peaceful, happy, perfect.

Anxiety trickled down her spine as she watched the scene in front of her, focusing on the little details.

Dipper wiped his hands on his shorts and flushed whenever Pacifica looked at him, Candy cleaned her glasses every few minutes, Wendy’s freckles stayed in the same position, Fiddleford’s teeth were just as crooked as always, Ford sighed fondly after every one of Stan’s jokes— it seemed… normal.

But what if that’s just what she was supposed to think? Had she become so used to these versions of her friends and family that she forgot what the original was like?

No, no. That couldn’t be right. Mabel shoved the thought far back in her mind— there was no way this was fake. She remembered getting out of Mabeland. She remembered what it felt like in Mabeland. This wasn’t Mabeland. This was real. They defeated Bill and everything was the normal amount of weird again, the good amount of weird.

Shaking her head to dispel the bad thoughts, Mabel joined the conversation again, cheerfully chatting with her loved ones. 

There were no eyes watching her from the woods. There were no bugs crawling over her legs. Everything was normal.

Mabel didn’t sleep that night.

She listened to Dipper’s soft breaths in the bed across the room from her, a light whistle coming off of each exhale. His dirty socks were strewn about the floor, along with stacks of books. Her posters were just as wrinkled as always, barely hanging onto the angled wooden ceiling. If this was Mabeland, those posters would be in pristine condition, right?

She closed her eyes and imagined making the posters smooth, willing away the socks that littered the floor of their shared bedroom.

It took a moment for her to open them again, afraid of the outcome. If this was Mabeland… what did that mean for everyone else? How long had it been? Was everyone okay? Was she the only real person?

…Why didn’t she realize it sooner?

She forced her eyes open, letting out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding when the same wrinkled posters and messy room greeted her. 

It wasn’t Mabeland. 

It couldn’t be Mabeland.

Certain Dipper was sleeping (for once), Mabel snuck out of her bed and tiptoed her way across the room, slowly making her way downstairs. 

For no reason, because this was all real and she didn’t need to check, she made sure to trail her eyes across every wall, taking in the details of every picture, noting every crack in the wood and stain in the ceiling. The stairs creaked in every place they usually did, because this was real, though the sound did nothing to comfort her unusually high anxiety levels.

She found herself in the kitchen, the fridge full of her favorite foods— and Dipper’s and Grunkle Stan’s and Soos’ and Melody’s too — though she ignored actual sustenance in favor of pulling out the pitcher of Mabel Juice that she had made just the other morning. She grabbed a cup, noting how all of them were mismatched and haphazardly shoved onto the shelf like normal, and sat at the table.

The obnoxiously sweet flavor did nothing to snap her out of her funk, thoughts still swirling around in a chaotic whirlwind— but in the bad way, not the usual creative, peppy chaos she dealt with.

Someone cleared their throat, startling a small squeak out of her.

“Having a hard time falling asleep?” Ford stood in the doorway with a sympathetic smile, still wearing the turtleneck he had on earlier (one Mabel made, of course), though he had swapped his slacks for sweatpants. That was the closest thing to pajamas he ever wore, it was normal. His glasses still had the small crack in one of the lenses, the bags under his eyes ever present, his socks patterned with atoms. Normal. Real.

Mabel gave a small smile in return, her gaze soon turning back to the cup in her hands to avoid staring at her Grunkle for too long. 

“...Yeah,” she murmured. 

“Do you… wish to talk about it?”

She glanced back up at him, softly laughing at his awkward body language before nodding. She let go of her cup and gestured towards the empty chairs around the table. He smiled wider before softly padding across the kitchen and chose the seat directly across from her.

“What has you worried, my dear?”

She sighed, staring at her hands to avoid making eye contact. 

“I know it’s silly, but I keep wondering if all of this is… real.”

Ford’s eyes widened slightly, surprised at her concern.

“Of course it’s real, my girl, whatever would make you think otherwise?”

“It’s just so… perfect. Everyone is here, and happy, and I can’t think of anything I want that I don’t already have and—” she cut herself off with a sharp breath, panic catching up with her. 

“...And?” Ford looked at her with kind eyes, the deep brown they always were, gently urging her to continue.

“...And I keep worrying that this might still be Mabeland.” Her voice came out small and weak as she looked away from her Grunkle, picking at her nails.

“Oh sweetheart,” Ford reached across the table and gently held her hands, his own rough and warm and comforting and not made of bugs. “I can assure you this is reality, Mabel. Bill was defeated, you’re out of Mabeland, and you are safe. I know it can be difficult to believe that sometimes, I really do, but we made it out of Weirdmageddon. We won. ”

Mabel forced herself to ignore the phantom feeling of little bug legs crawling across her hands, really trying to listen to Ford’s words. She wanted to believe him, she really did, but…

“When?”

She saw Ford tense ever so slightly, his grip tightening a miniscule amount.

“What do you mean, dear?” He replied after a beat, voice just as gentle as before.

“ When did we defeat Bill?”

Ford chuckled, a noise that made Mabel flinch a bit too much.

“Last summer, of course! Before your and Dipper’s thirteenth birthday— do you not remember?”

“No, I remember it, you had to, um… erase Grunkle Stan’s memory… and he didn’t remember anything for a bit and that was super scary but in a different way from Weirdmaggedon scary, but,” she swallowed, racking her brain. “If it was last summer, then that means Dipper and I went back to California for school, right?”

Ford nodded, confusion clear on his face.

“...Grunkle Ford, why don’t I remember going home? Why don’t I remember going through eighth grade? I— I know it happened, ‘cause it had to happen, but I just— I only remember my time in Gravity Falls after Weirdmaggedon, not anything else. Why don’t I remember it?” 

She tried to pull her hands away from her Grunkle’s, but he held on tight. Not enough to hurt, but the constriction did nothing to soothe her panic as her eyes started to sting.

“Mabel, sweetheart, please calm down, you likely don’t remember due to some sort of trauma you experienced, or perhaps your memory is spotty because you’re tired, but I can assure you that there is a logical explanation for this—”

“ When did this summer start, Grunkle Ford?! ” Mabel pulled her hands again, harder, this time, and Ford released them. His only response was a blank stare and a slightly open mouth. “When did Dipper and I get here? I don’t remember showing up again, I don’t remember the bus ride, I don’t remember packing— but we’re here! And I have all my things! And everyone says it’s next summer, but I can’t figure out how! ”

Tears blurred her vision, making it difficult to make out the details of her surroundings. She sniffed, trying her best to keep her composure, but to no avail.

“Mabel, I—”

“ ANSWER ME! ”

Mabel wiped at her face, her tears only increasing in severity as she hiccupped into her sleeve.

The only response she heard was the skittering of thousands of little legs across the dinner table.

Chapter Text

Symptoms of sleep deprivation include fatigue, headaches, irritability, forgetfulness, slowed reaction times, inability to focus, impaired judgement, trouble speaking clearly, drooping eyelids, hand tremors, uncontrollable eye movements, hallucinations, and more. Sleep deprivation can increase the risk of developing certain conditions or exacerbate existing ones such as anxiety, depression, psychosis, hypertension, strokes, or heart attacks.

Sleep deprivation occurs after just 24 hours of no sleep, though extreme sleep deprivation occurs after 48 hours. Many people believe that the longest someone has ever gone without sleeping on record is 11 days and 24 minutes, the record belonging to Randy Gardner in December 1963. However, the real record belongs to Toimi Soini, who went 276 hours with no sleep— 11.5 days. That was before Guinness World Records stopped recognizing sleep deprivation as something to be rewarded. They stopped in 1996 because they didn’t want to promote something as harmful as not sleeping for days on end.

And yet, even with all this knowledge, Dipper was approaching day five of no sleep.

He had gotten plenty of sleep after Mabel’s sock opera— his body was so exhausted that he really couldn’t do anything but sleep— but now he couldn’t sleep even if he tried.

He wasn’t going to test that theory though, in case he did fall asleep and started dreaming and Bill showed up and managed to take over his body again and — and that wasn’t happening, because he wasn’t going to sleep, so he didn’t have to think about that kind of thing. 

Instead, Dipper just had to think about some way to never sleep again ever. Or maybe some way to block his mind from Bill, in case he couldn’t evade sleep forever. 

Maybe he should figure out how to block his mind even if he does find a way to stay awake forever though, just as a precaution. Bill was a pretty powerful demon, after all, and scary enough that even the Author considered him a monster. Even the Gremloblin wasn’t considered a monster, just a creature, and it literally shows people their worst nightmares!

He hadn’t really understood how a triangle with a top hat was scarier than a massive beast that could rip you to shreds while showing you your worst fears when he had first read through the journal, and after dealing with both of them the first time around, he really hadn’t understood the Author’s feelings on Bill. All you had to do was imagine having the tools needed to force Bill out of someone’s brain, and he was gone! 

But after dealing with Bill a second time, he got it.

Watching his own body move unnaturally, shambling around the world like some terrible flesh marionette, seeing himself pour soda in his eyes and stab himself with forks while only feeling phantom pains, knowing he had no control over the situation was one of the most horrifying things Dipper had experienced. 

He had previously thought the worst part about it was that nobody even noticed, but when Mabel had approached him a couple days later with a crumpled piece of paper she found in the back of the Stanleymobile, he had to admit that the idea of his body dying without him in it was worse.

But that hadn’t happened, he got his body back in time, and he was fine, right? Bill didn’t have control over him anymore, right? It had been days since Bill first possessed him, and he didn’t ever try to do it again, so that meant he couldn’t do it again, right?

Wrong.

Dipper didn’t know everything about Bill, of course, but he knew that the demon was a lying conman (contriangle?) who probably tried to exploit any loophole he possibly could. The extent of their deal had no time limit on it— something Dipper regretted realizing— which meant that theoretically, whenever Bill needed a puppet, he could use Dipper’s body again.

He probably just didn’t need a puppet during the few days Dipper took to recover, and that’s why he was able to sleep those days. Besides, his body was in terrible condition and was not the best option for a puppet during that time period. 

Or, alternatively, Bill just wanted Dipper to think that he was safe. He was laying low for a few weeks, lulling the almost-teen into a false sense of security before he took his chance and played with his puppet once more.

Either way, Dipper wasn’t safe while he slept.

He had tried researching different ways to stay awake, but that ended up just leading him to a bunch of stupid articles talking about the “harmful” side effects of sleep deprivation. He already knew half that stuff anyways! 

The internet didn’t have any good information on supernatural stuff either, it was all a bunch of crackpot conspiracy theories, nothing like the real supernatural stuff that existed in Gravity Falls. 

Eventually he ended up going to the library after begging Stan to take him— he had memorized the journal a while ago and knew that there was no more information for him hidden in there. A few piles of books were scattered around his bed, some of them half-read, but the majority untouched. Even though the conspiracy stuff he had found was complete nonsense, Dipper had to admit that the videos were kinda entertaining.

But if the clock was right, he had been watching the videos for hours, and it was time to take a break.

He grabbed the top book of the stack and started to flip through the pages, just skimming the information. If anything caught his eye, then he’d actually try to read, but it was hard to focus on words for too long, so he didn’t feel the need to exert too much energy focusing at the moment.

The first book proved to be a dud, just mentioning harmful side effects of sleep deprivation again. Dipper sighed, putting the book to the side and grabbing another. And then another, and then another, and then another.

With a frustrated groan, he threw the book in his hands across the room— none of them had anything useful! It was all just the same stuff he had read earlier, or repeating vague details on anomalies that were already extensively researched in the journal. 

He flopped back on his bed, scanning the room for anything that could potentially help besides his useless stacks of books. His eyes caught the clock again, surprised that it had apparently only been a few minutes since he started looking through the books. It had felt like longer, but maybe he was just faster at skimming than he thought… or maybe he had skimmed too much and had to slow down a little bit, surely not all of the books had to be useless.

Sitting back up, Dipper grabbed one of the books he had previously set aside and opened it again. He took a little bit longer looking over the pages this time, not fully reading, but trying to get more information than he had before.

But of course, the book was still useless. He could’ve sworn that the thing just repeated snippets from the journal with how familiar the words inside were. He put it to the side again, his hand knocking against a stack of different books he didn’t quite remember making. 

He followed the same pattern as before, skimming books and becoming increasingly more frustrated as they all just repeated information he already knew. It’d probably help if he remembered the titles of all the books he checked out so he could make sure he didn’t grab the same one multiple times, but his brain could never seem to hold onto the names for very long, if at all.

Several hours later, according to the clock, Dipper was halfway through what must’ve been his twentieth book. He groaned as it did the same as the rest of the books— gave him no new information— but his curiosity was piqued when he noticed an illustration on the next page.

It… was an exact copy of the gnome that was in the journal.

He read the page in full, each word matching up exactly with what was in the journal. He checked the cover and was met with a plain blue book, definitely not the journal.

His breath picked up slightly as he flipped through the pages, only to be met with familiar pages. The whole book was just… the journal. A little out of order, missing the pages Dipper hadn’t yet fully memorized, but this plain blue book contained the majority of the journal.

Putting the book down, he grabbed another and started flipping through. It was the journal. And so was the next book, and the next book, and the next.

Dipper was near hyperventilating, hands shaking hard enough that they were a blur. 

Every. Single. Book. Was the journal.

All different orders, some of them with pages the others didn’t have, some of them with random pages from the DD&MD rules manual, but they were all full of information Dipper had already memorized— literally.

The room felt like it was closing in on him as he came to this realization, walls slowly but surely moving in as the ceiling lowered itself. The only thing that remained the same size was the clock, which was moving backwards now, and the large triangular window that looked over the attic.

Dipper reached for another book, freezing when he noticed his hand. He wasn’t shaking anymore (he didn’t think, at least) but they were still a blur. He blinked hard, rubbing at his eyes, but his hands remained a blurred, fleshy mass.

Holding one hand out, he held his breath as he tried to poke it with his other. 

The finger went through his palm without any resistance.

He screamed at the lack of sensation, flailing his uncanny hands around before they gripped his hair, pulling. 

He felt nothing.

His mind scrambled to put facts together as he curled up on his bed, surrounded by books that couldn’t exist.

The books only contained information he already knew. His hands weren’t right. Time wasn’t moving properly. He couldn’t feel pain. 

He realized he wasn’t breathing.

“Finally realized you’re not awake anymore, huh, Pine Tree?”

Chapter Text

Ford was happy for him. Really, he was! He had everything he had wanted— living his best life, renowned for his work as he deserved, a household name like Tesla and Einstein, happy.

There was no reason for Ford to be angry at this other version of him. Why would he be? After all, every alternate Stanford was still technically him, so really, this version of him was him. 

So Ford was happy for this “better world” Stanford. He was living his perfect life, living with his Fiddleford and running the Institute of Oddology. He wasn’t thrown out into the multiverse and forced to fight, forced to starve, forced to kill. He got to stay in a comfortable, high-tech home with soft blankets and plenty of food and no eldritch monstrosities chasing after him.

And Ford was happy for him.

He certainly tried to convince himself he was, at least, but he couldn’t silence the little voice in the back of his head that kept repeating that it just wasn’t fair.

Why did this Stanford get to have everything handed to him on a silver platter? From what Ford had learned from this version of Fiddleford, Stanford had still followed Bill and built the portal. He still created the doorway for the entire apocalypse, still treated Fiddleford like a tool during their time in Gravity Falls, still did terrible, irredeemable things, and yet got to live a perfect life. All because his Stanley had listened.

Ford had been forced to live through fourteen years (and counting) of multiverse hopping, being chased by bounty hunters of unimaginable species and sleeping in cold, hard caves every few days just because his Stan didn’t listen. Not even anything Ford could control. Just Stan.

It wasn’t fair.

He knew he sounded like a child, a forty-six year old man complaining about fairness, but he still felt the anger bubbling inside of him every time he learned something new and incredible about this world. 

Apparently this Stanford was out of town for a physics convention, and that’s why Ford hadn’t encountered him yet. Fiddleford hadn’t gone because it was his week with Tate, but that meant that Ford at least had a familiar-ish friendly face to chat with.

Honestly, Ford was a little afraid of what would’ve happened if Fiddleford wasn’t there— he probably would’ve been stuck in one of the cages he saw anomalies crammed in until Stanford and Fiddleford got back from the convention. 

At least Fiddleford was aware of the multiverse and alternate selves, quickly ordering the guards who had locked Ford up to undo his bindings and having a proper conversation with him before deciding what to do. Ever the Southern gentleman, of course Fiddleford decided to help Ford out, even letting him use the spare room in his and Stanford’s home.

Being in the house, though, meant that Ford got to see how Stanford’s personal life was, rather than just learning about his business life through the Institute. 

And boy, if Ford wasn’t already jealous in the Institute, the house he was staying in really hammered in the horrible feeling.

It was his cabin, still cozy and secluded in the middle of the forest, but better in every way imaginable. It had been expanded somewhat, adding in a few bedrooms for family and friends as well as an extra lab (there’s never too many). The inside was decorated with the perfect mix of his and Fiddleford’s tastes, altogether geeky and nerdy and a little bit sentimental and just— perfect.

Pictures hung on the walls showed Stanford and Fiddleford throughout the years, some of them including Tate or Emma-May or even Stanley. 

No matter the picture, where or when it was taken or who was in it, everyone was smiling. Real, genuine smiles.

There was no sign of Bill in the house— in fact, there wasn’t a single triangle in sight besides the angles of the roof. Triangular windows were replaced by diamonds, keeping the unique look to the cabin while removing the image of the demon. The decorations and furniture were colorful, but never yellow. 

It was a far cry from the version of the cabin that Ford had been living in all those years ago; a messy, inhospitable house filled with more demon-worshipping paraphernalia than Ford would like to admit.

Fiddleford made food every night, even invited Ford to sit at the table and eat with him and Tate, but Ford couldn’t bring himself to cross that boundary yet. He saw the pitying look Fiddleford would give him every time they were in the same room together, he knew Fidds just saw him as a sad, pathetic version of his partner who needed to be fixed, and he wasn’t going to prolong their time together if he didn’t have to.

Although… he had to admit that the thought of staying there, really staying there long term, had crossed his mind more times than he could count on both hands.

Obviously, he couldn’t do that. There was already a Stanford in this world, and a well known one at that. He couldn’t just take over Stanford’s life and pretend to be him for the rest of his life— someone would be sure to notice. Besides, he had to continue his journey to kill Bill! 

Quitting his mission to save the multiverse by vanquishing his mortal enemy just so he could curl up next to Fiddleford each night, eat home cooked meals every day, give lectures on his favorite subjects, and actually help advance the world of science like he’d always wanted would be silly. Only a fool who followed his emotions more than logic would do that.

And yet, it was oh so tempting.

He had fallen into a universe where his counterpart was the same age as him— he had verified his age with Fiddleford— so they already looked mostly the same. Of course they did, they were the same person, but in the pictures Ford had seen they both had a gray band of hair stretching around their head from their temples and wrinkles forming (though Stanford’s smile lines were slightly more defined). 

The only major difference Ford could see was that Stanford was a little more on the heavier side— and the way his clothes hung loosely across Ford’s toned, malnourished body only further proved the point. And the cane, of course, but anyone can learn how to use a cane. There was bound to be a slight difference in personality as well, Ford assumed, but there’s such a thing as people changing… or he could just act.  

If Ford stayed there long enough, though, he was sure he could gain enough weight to look more similar to Stanford, as well as learn more about the world so he could blend in better. 

But he was already on a time limit. He kicked his past self on telling Fiddleford he wanted to get out of there and back to the multiverse as soon as possible. At the time, he hadn’t known the extent of how well Stanford had it.

Fiddleford swore that he’d work as hard as possible on not only figuring out a safe way for Ford to leave the dimension, but also on creating a new weapon for him. He’d given an estimate of 3–4 days. 

It was day four when Fiddleford knocked on Ford’s door and apologized for delaying his journey. He said that he really was trying to get everything done as soon as he could, but things just kept on breaking on him and setting back his progress.

Ford gently smiled and assured him he didn’t mind. He was just glad that his late night “adjustments” to Fiddleford’s projects weren’t obvious enough to be considered man made.

A week had passed before Ford knew it, and he was roused by the already familiar knocks on his door. It was the day Stanford was going to get back. Fiddleford had awkwardly explained that since he was planning on having Ford gone by that point, he hadn’t actually told Stanford about his multiversal doppelganger that had been living in his home.

Ford ignored the sharp pang that shot through his heart as he heard that, but he made no move to get out of the cabin. Instead, he simply said that he was excited to meet the other him, and he was sure that Stanford felt the same. After all, they were the same person.

Their meeting was awkward and stilted and Ford could hear Stanford and Fiddleford yelling at each other that night.

Ford made sure to join them for all their meals after that. It made Fiddleford happy, at least.

Eventually, Fiddleford became so frustrated with his lack of progress that he stopped making proper meals and corralling the Fords to a table, opting to instead make quick sandwiches and eat them at his desk while he worked. He worked long hours, though Ford knew it wouldn’t be for much longer.

With Fiddleford barely leaving his lab, Ford lost his opportunities to undo the work the engineer got done. In another few days, Ford knew that he’d be forced out of this version of his world, this version of his cabin, this version of his life.

His plan was falling apart at the seams. He knew he couldn’t pass for Stanford, not yet, at least, and he couldn’t just tell Fiddleford to stop working on his projects. 

But luckily for him, Ford had a plan B that practically fell into his lap.

There was one night where he had been in Fiddleford’s lab, rummaging around the room for both supplies and information. In the far back of one of the cabinets, a small, dusty box sat innocently. It had been taped shut and opened many times over, but it seemed that the last time it had been touched was years ago— so it was clear that it was no longer cared about.

Ford carefully opened it, making sure to disturb the dust as little as possible. He held back a small gasp when he looked inside.

Fiddleford’s memory gun.

The sight of the invention stirred up an uncomfortable mix of emotions in Ford’s chest; a blend of hurt, anger, excitement, inspiration.

If worse came to worst, Ford could simply… get rid of Stanford and erase Fiddleford’s memory of him. Himself, not the Stanford that belonged to this world, that memory would stay. Maybe a few weeks could be shaved off as well, just as a precaution. Ford could easily take Stanford’s place that way, make up some incident that explained Fiddleford’s confusion, and get rid of the projects Fiddleford had been working on.

He didn’t want things to come to that, really, but it was a good backup plan. He’d much rather stage a conflict with a “shapeshifter” and ultimately have Fiddleford dispose of Stanford— no blood on his hands, and a lower chance of space-time ripping apart due to parallel selves interacting too much.

But it seemed to be the only way.

Stanford didn’t deserve this life. He hadn’t suffered the way Ford had, hadn’t atoned for his actions, hadn’t lived a life terrible enough for him to truly appreciate what was in front of him. Ford wouldn’t have yelled at Fiddleford like that. He wouldn’t give his partner the cold shoulder for days simply because of a multiversal anomaly like that. He would’ve supported his partner, complimented his cooking a hundred times over, and offered to help with the work.

Fiddleford deserved better. 

Ford deserved better.

And so he figured it was time to finally put things in order. 

Fiddleford was down in his lab, leaving Ford and Stanford alone in the homier parts of the cabin. Stanford was clearly avoiding his multiversal copy, but Ford was alert enough to still know where he was located. Stanford’s odd gait— a slight limp, favoring his left leg— would be difficult to copy most of the time, but it made it incredibly easy to pick out his footsteps around the house.

Ford had already been wearing Stanford’s clothes during his stay, courtesy of Fiddleford, so he already looked the part. He set his blaster to disintegrate, not wanting to make a mess or have a body to deal with (he wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to touch his parallel self’s corpse without damaging the multiverse).

Stanford was hunched over his desk, scribbling away in a notebook and muttering to himself. In other words, he was distracted. Not that Ford needed his mark to be distracted in order to sneak up on them, of course, but it certainly helped. He crept across the study, stopping just far enough from Stanford’s chair to fully extend his arms, blaster in hand.

“It’s nothing personal,” he spoke, causing Stanford to jump before he turned around in his chair. “Well, it is, actually, but that doesn’t matter now, does it?”

He didn’t wait for Stanford to fully react to the sight of his alternate self pointing a gun at him before he pulled the trigger, a sharp crack breaking through the air.

Stanford folded in on himself, drifting apart into dust that covered his chair and the floor around him. What a shame that it disintegrated the clothes too, Ford really liked that sweater.

With the easy part done, Ford grabbed the vacuum out of the closet he had seen Fidds use and cleaned up his mess. He placed the memory gun in the top drawer of Stanford’s his desk, sitting down in the chair and looking through the journal that his alternate self was working on, continuing where he had left off.

Hurried footsteps thumped out of Fiddleford’s lab, the engineer yelling excitedly.

“Stanferd! I finished the projects, where ya at?”

Ford couldn’t hide the smile in his voice as he responded, fingers twitching.

“In my study, Fidds!”

Chapter Text

Stan always knew he’d go out in some terrible, sad, unheroic way. 

He never wanted to, that was for sure— except for the times where he would stare at the ocean on the edge of a pier and wonder if jumping off really would be so bad, or when he would see train tracks going across the road and fantasize about the train barreling past at just the right time, or when he’d hold a gun and really think about how easy it could be— but he knew that the chances of his death being pathetic were pretty damn high.

He hated that he was right though. That everyone was right. All the times he’d been told that he was going to die a worthless failure, bleeding out in some dingy alleyway, and he brushed it off like it was just some morbid joke.

And yet, here he was, twenty-four years old, beaten to a pulp and shanked more times than he was able to count, laying on the filthy ground next to a dumpster in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, Colorado.

As long as he didn’t look at the pool of blood that was slowly growing larger beneath him, it was actually pretty peaceful. He could just close his eyes and pretend everything was fine. He didn’t have to think about the money he owed people, the jobs he had to finish, the food he’d had to scrounge for, the millions he had to make.

He let his mind drift away from his worries, they didn’t matter anymore, and found himself thinking of New Jersey. Of his family. 

Would they even notice? If they did, would they even care?

Stan wasn’t sure if he had any real identification on him, and he was hundreds of miles away from anyone who would know him as Stanley Pines, so he couldn’t even be sure if his family would be notified once he was found.

It didn’t really matter anyways. He might’ve been raised Jewish, but Stan had long stopped believing in any God that would welcome him to heaven. There was no afterlife where he could watch what happened to his corpse once his soul had left it. He was just going to die. And stay dead. And not exist anymore.

His head spun, stomach churning as he laid there. Thinking.

He should’ve never existed in the first place, really, but he was just lucky enough to be able to experience such a terrible life.

He wondered how Ford was doing.

Ma had said he had been staying in Oregon for the past few years, living off of some fancy research grants. Stan didn’t remember when she had said that, though, so the information could’ve been outdated.

He liked to imagine Ford was happy there. Doing nerdy stuff, having nerdy friends, not dealing with knucklehead brutes. 

He hissed with pain as he inhaled, the breaths coming slow and labored. He might’ve been sweating, he couldn’t tell, but he was so cold.

Oregon was cold. Jersey was colder, but Ford never liked winter. He wore jackets in the middle of summer, complaining that it was too cold, so of course he hated the frigid winds that would blow through Glass Shard Beach. Hopefully he had built up some cold tolerance. Oregon got more snow than Jersey, Stan was pretty sure.

Maybe Ford had a girlfriend up there. 

The thought got a weak laugh, which only led to Stan’s headache getting worse, his stomach lurching as his ears started ringing.

Ma would’ve told him. But also, Ford never really showed any interest in girls until he was told to. Even then, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t into them, at least to Stan. Sometimes he wondered if Ford was a queer, but they never had a conversation about it. Pa would’ve beaten them black and blue if he found out.

Not that Stan was doing much better at this point. Despite the ringing in his ears growing louder and louder, he could still hear his heart pounding against his chest, trying its damndest to keep his body working. The little thing just wouldn’t give up. It would, soon.

Maybe Ford had a boyfriend up there, then. Ma wouldn’t know about that, so of course she wouldn’t tell Stan. The thought of them both ending up queers left a small smile on Stan’s face. It was nice to not be alone, even if it was just his imagination. They’d probably invent some way to have a kid together, if Ford had changed his opinion on babies in the years that had passed. 

Stan being an uncle, that’d be nice. He was, technically. He’d been an uncle since he was seventeen, what with Shermie being so much older. But the idea of being an uncle to Ford’s kid was different. It was special.

Would Ford’s kid even know about Stan? It wasn’t like they were close anymore. What a story to tell your kid, your twin brother sabotaging your life for some stupid dream about sailing around the world. 

Now Ford could tell his potential child the story about his twin brother sabotaging his life and ending up a pathetic excuse for a human being, bleeding out in an alley thanks to yet another gang he had gotten himself mixed up in.

Maybe it was a good thing Stan was unaware of Ford’s relationship status.

Even with his eyes closed, Stan could see the edges of his vision going out. His clothes were soaked, both with blood and sweat. He sat unsteadily on the cold, damp concrete, feeling like his body was swaying back and forth despite knowing he hadn’t moved an inch in the past… however long he’d been sitting there.

If his stomach was full, he would’ve emptied its contents by now with how nauseous he felt. Mixed with his unsteadiness, he almost felt seasick.

He missed the sea.

It’d been too long since he’d last been near the ocean. It was a bittersweet sight, but he missed it nonetheless. He could almost hear the waves crashing against the sand through the ringing in his ears. If there was an afterlife, he hoped it had an ocean.

It was a nice last thought.

Chapter Text

Fiddleford told him it was a bad idea. But of course Stanford Pines had to be too damn stubborn to listen to his friend and go off to be Victor fuckin’ Frankenstien. 

When he had been invited to stay in Gravity Falls and help out with Ford’s work, Fiddleford was delighted. He hadn’t seen his friend in quite some time, and the monthly calls were never enough. Ford never shared details about his work, just mentioning that it was going well and he was making extraordinary progress. Fiddleford had to admit, he was curious to see what his old friend was up to.

If he knew that the “extraordinary progress” was reanimating corpses, though, he wouldn’t have made the journey over.

And yet, he stayed. For some blasphemous, godforsaken reason, Fiddleford stayed.

With the first attempt, he could convince himself that it wasn’t that bad. The body was someone who had donated themselves to science— though how Ford got access to them was a question Fidds couldn’t dare to ask. But Ford had sworn that he knew exactly how to bring them back without any issues thanks to extensive testing on forest creatures he had done before calling Fidds over (much to the engineer’s simultaneous relief and distress).

To Ford’s credit, it worked! A blend of sciences both mechanical and biological, along with necromancy— since apparently magic was real and could bring people back from the dead— had come together and managed to bring their poor subject back to life. Electricity going into their system while their body was pumped with fluids with the added deep chanting and candle circles had made for an interesting scene, but the subject convulsed for just a few moments before their eyes shot open.

The bright yellow, slitted eyes sent a chill down Fiddleford’s spine when they peered around the room. He may not have known their subject in life, but he was certain that their eyes didn’t look like that before.

Ford, of course, was delighted, and couldn’t hold back from excitedly chatting with their… patient(?) like the two were old friends. Fiddleford stood in the corner of the room, silently watching the scene while praying over and over that God would understand. 

His prayers were broken by the sharp, nasally voice of their patient referring to him by name. It was then, and only then, that Fiddleford was made fully aware of why Ford was so invested in reanimation.

That night he yelled at Ford until his voice was hoarse and he tasted iron in the back of his throat.

And yet, he stayed. For some blasphemous, godforsaken reason, Fiddleford stayed.

Their patient hadn’t truly been reanimated in the way Fiddleford thought— they had just primed the body for a demon to inhabit. Bill, as his name turned out to be, could technically possess fully dead corpses as well, but he found them annoying to pilot. He also wanted to help Ford out with a different project, one that would require a close eye, and so he suggested that he get a vessel that wasn’t actively decomposing. 

Fiddleford had to admit that he, too, also preferred Bill having a vessel that wasn’t rotting. Though really, he’d prefer if the demon didn’t have a vessel at all.

A few weeks had gone by, a new routine slipping into place as Bill directed Ford and Ford directed Fiddleford. (Bill had tried to give Fiddleford tasks to do, but he refused to listen to the demon. Ford brought him into the world, so it was Ford’s problem.) They were still in the drafting phase of Bill’s new project, but Fiddleford already felt uneasy at the mention of the thing. He felt sick to his stomach every time Bill so much as walked by, really.

But maybe that was because of the sickly sweet smell of rot that emanated from him.

Bill brought it up over dinner one night, casually mentioning that he could feel the decay running through his system growing stronger each day, that his limbs were growing stiff with rigor and that his blood would pool at the bottom of his limbs when he didn’t move enough.

Fiddleford decided he wasn’t hungry anymore. Ford hummed in thought, coming up with an idea. They’d have to continue treating Bill’s body with the same techniques as they used to revive it to keep it going. 

So that’s what they did. Once a week, they would redo the entire ritual— with Bill outside of the body— to keep it fresh. Electricity, fluids, and necromancy. Glowing yellow eyes opening in a sallow body.

It seemed to work, for a bit, until one day when Bill smacked Ford on the shoulder and his skin slipped off like a glove, releasing a putrid scent into the air.

Bill simply tutted like a disappointed parent, folding his arms and looking down at Ford. 

“Looks like your plan didn’t work, Fordsy. This body is still falling apart at its nonexistent seams! Gonna have to figure out something soon to fix this meatsack, unless you want more of its skin laying around the house.”

With that, the demon left the room and Ford started muttering to himself. Fiddleford couldn’t be bothered to listen in to his friend’s incomprehensible whispers, his mind too busy comprehending the loose skin that had sloughed off onto the shoulder of the trench coat and was still there.

The next day, Fiddleford awoke to a very disheveled Ford excitedly blabbering away, holding a bag of… something, gesturing wildly with it. Before he knew what was happening, Fidds found himself back in the lab helping his friend reanimate an arm from the elbow down. 

The arm twitched with life as Bill’s empty vessel lay next to it, its own arm removed. Fiddleford’s mind was blank as he hooked the vessel up to the familiar heinous machine. Ford sewed the arm on while Fiddleford started powering the thing, chanting as his needle pierced flesh.

Bill’s infernal eyes shot open once more, and the routine continued. Bill commanded Ford, Ford commanded Fiddleford, and Fiddleford wondered what the hell he got himself mixed up in.

Only, a week later, Bill was complaining about his vessel again. Parts of the body were still slowly rotting away, causing awkward bloating and a foul smell following the demon again. A wild look appeared in Ford’s eyes as he started muttering, trying to figure out a plan. Bill leaned back in a chair with a smirk, admiring his new arm while his pet scribbled out increasingly worrying ideas.

Fiddleford once again woke up to a sleep-deprived Ford, holding much larger bags than before. Down in the lab, the engineer begrudgingly hooking up a leg and another arm up to their machines. The body parts only barely matched in length, looking out of place when attached to Bill’s vessel.

The demon was pleased, giving Ford a pat on the head with his new arm when he woke. A few days later and Bill was muttering about the freshness of his new parts.

That morning Fiddleford was woken by Ford holding bags again, splattered with blood. The parts were noticeably softer, more pliable, more fresh. It unsettled Fiddleford that everything was matching, somehow comforted by the jumbled mix of limbs his friend had brought home before.

And yet, he stayed. For some blasphemous, godforsaken reason, Fiddleford stayed.

Bill didn’t complain for weeks. The demon complimented Ford on his work almost daily, purring over his new parts, saying no one else could’ve done what he did. Ford soaked up the praise like a bone-dry sponge. Fiddleford ignored the thick drops of blood that would fall on their desk and blueprints when Bill would lean over for too long.

Ford grew jumpy in those few weeks, flinching at every outside noise, installing extra locks on all the doors, going so far as to build a fence around the cabin. Fiddleford refused to think about the implications of his actions. 

Ford woke him up one morning, drenched with cold sweat and quickly muttering to himself as he loomed over Fiddleford’s bed. All Fidds was able to pick out were multiple apologies and Bill needing new parts again. The engineer’s eyes shot to his friend’s hands. He was holding a large, empty bag and a loaded crossbow.

And yet, he stayed. For some blasphemous, godforsaken reason, Fiddleford stayed.

Chapter Text

Ford’s brain felt fuzzy as his senses came back to him, gold melting away from his body. His body was stiff, joints creaking as his muscles got used to movement again after being frozen for who knows how long.

The cotton in his mind quickly dissipated as he became aware of the excruciating pain he was in, immediately falling to his knees and curling in on himself in a feeble attempt to soothe the red-hot burns across his body. His clothes chafed against his ankles and wrists, agitating the worst of the damage. He swallowed back a hiss of pain, his breath stuttering as he felt his Adam’s apple knock against something wrapped tightly around his throat.

He slowly raised a hand to his neck, his fingers brushing what seemed to be a leather choker. In the front, though, there was a metal D-ring with a triangular tag attached.

It wasn’t a choker. Bill had him fucking collared.

Just as he came to that conclusion, a cartoonish pop broke the silence, Bill appearing in the middle of the room.

“Hiya sport!” The demon stretched out an arm, ruffling Ford’s hair. “Glad to see ya up and moving! Even if that moving is just falling to the floor— but really, you’re being dramatic, I didn’t rough you up that bad.”

“You sent hundreds of volts of electricity through my body, Cipher,” he growled, pushing himself out from under Bill’s hand. “I’d say that’s pretty damn bad. ”

“Ooh! Someone’s feeling feisty! That’s not a very good pet, now is it?”

Ford scoffed, unable to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “I’m not your pet, Bill.”

“Really?” The triangle feigned surprise, eye widening as he put a hand to his bowtie. “You seem pretty pet-like to me, Sixer, just look around you!”

Ford hesitated for a moment, not wanting to look away from his enemy, but his curiosity got the better of him. He scanned the room, and found himself to be in a fairly spacious place— about the size of his bedroom in his cabin. There were bookshelves full of familiar texts and new ones, a television, a desk with a notebook and quill, a box full of sand of some sort, a large cushion, and two bowls, one full of what appeared to be water and the other with a mysterious meat.

“What is this?”

“Don’t be silly, Fordsy! This is your bedroom!”

“My—” Ford sputtered, pulling himself to his feet despite the aches going through his body. “You’re insane if you think I’m so compliant as to live in a room of your making!”

Bill made a noise similar to that of a skipping CD, closing his eye and pinching the lid. “Looks like we’re gonna have to do some training,” he muttered to himself before looking back at Ford. “I’m insane either way IQ— You’re gonna be staying in a place of my making no matter what, just take the comfy room and be grateful for once in your life!”

“Why would I ever be grateful for anything you give me? You ruined my life, Bill! You call this my bedroom? There’s not even a bed in here!”

“No bed? Whaddya think that is then?” Bill somehow raised an eyebrow as he gestured towards the large cushion pressed against one of the walls. Ford could see that there was a raised edge that went around the cushion, making it like a plush bowl.

“That’s a dog bed, Bill,” Ford stated, his voice flat.

“No duh, you’re my pet, smart guy! You’ve got the collar to prove it!” The demon spoke cheerily, reaching his arm out again, though Ford ducked out of the way.

“I’m not your pet! I’m your prisoner! ”

“You humans are so finicky with that kind of thing— morals, ugh. Pet, prisoner, what’s the difference? Some fur and a tail?”

“Pets are treated well, first of all, and they’re often unable to take care of themselves in the wild, while prisoners are held against their will–” Ford cut himself off as Bill raised a hand and mimed a mouth, rolling his eye. He sighed, “If a tail and fur are the only differences you’re able to make out, then yes, that’s what separates a pet from a prisoner. I have no fur, I have no tail, and I am your prisoner. ”

Bill chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down Ford’s spine. “Well if that’s all it takes, then why don’t we make some alterations?”

Before Ford could comprehend Bill’s words the demon snapped his fingers, sending a wave of unbearable pain through Ford’s body. He immediately fell to the floor again, unable to keep his legs stable.

The volts of electricity that were sent through his system were nothing compared to the feeling of his bones shifting, his limbs cracking loudly as they stretched into unnatural shapes. His legs burned as they changed proportions, his boots breaking open as bones grew too large for them. 

It felt as though there was something within him pushing at his ribcage, stretching it further and further against his skin. His nail beds ached as his fingers were pushed into a new shape, the odd pressure causing him to clench his fists. Sharp nails dug into his flesh, blending in with the pain consuming him. Something itched at the base of his spine and at his shoulders, the sensation growing worse and worse in a matter of seconds until it became a new source of pain, new bones shifting beneath his skin and pressing against muscle.

His body had been dunked in frigid ice water and magma a thousand times over, simultaneously numb and in white-hot agony. His screams couldn’t cover the sound of bone cracking into something wrong, skin ripping and mending itself almost too quickly to register. A throbbing sensation overcame his gums, unfamiliar teeth stabbing his tongue. Blood filled his mouth as his tongue became too big for his jaw to hold, the muscle forcing itself out and spilling onto the floor.

The pressure building in his spine became the only thing he could think of, his skin stretched too far over the new limbs inside him. His muscles itched, an unwelcome sensation he had never wanted to experience before. The limbs inside of him needed to get out, and they apparently felt the same, sharp pain shooting up his back as he heard and felt skin rip away at the end of his spine. He hissed, blood and spittle flying on the floor as he flexed his back, desperately trying to get the last things out.

With a loud wet squelch, the skin across his back tore open, blood raining down as his new limbs freed themselves and sending a final shock of pure agony through his system.

Ford’s mind was fuzzy when he woke up again. Everything ached all over, and he was hot. He expected himself to be drenched with sweat, but he felt fairly dry. That didn’t stop him from panting a bit to try and cool himself off— it was like he was under a dozen quilts as he laid on a soft, plush cushion. He slowly cracked his eyes open, just to peek at the time. He was exhausted, but if it was any later than 8 he knew Stanley would come in and get him soon.

The sight of the room around him snapped him back to reality as he realized where he was. He went to stand, to get out of the ridiculous “bed” Bill had put him in, but his efforts were thwarted by muscles straining in unfamiliar ways, keeping him on all fours. The heavy blankets on his back weren’t coming off either, and when he tried to reach for them he found that his arms didn’t move properly anymore.

Ford sighed, his tail twitching irritably. 

Wait… that wasn’t right…

Slowly, he turned his head to get a better look at himself and was met with an unfamiliar body. Golden and gray fur covered his body, a tufted tail swishing from side to side as he analyzed the sight. Scraps of clothing hung off of feline legs, giant paws sticking awkwardly out of ruined boots. The most interesting part, though, were the enormous wings that laid flat against his body. They were feathered, unlike the rest of his new form. He couldn’t see the full things, but he was able to note the yellow, white, and black designs decorating them.

He sat, body knowing exactly what to do despite the pose being one he was never capable of before. Lifting his arm— front leg? — arm, Ford examined his hand-paws. They still had six fingers, and they were shaped differently than his feet-paws. He had never studied feline anatomy, but he knew that something was wrong with the shape of his hand-paws. The fingers were still… fingers, despite having large digital pads at the tips of each one. 

His ears swiveled as he looked around the room, keeping his breaths slow and steady. Everything looked the same, though it smelled awful. The scents of burnt rubber and flesh permeated the air, impossibly strong. The only different thing in the room was a large mirror built into one of the walls. 

Bill probably wanted Ford to examine his “handiwork.” Though Ford didn’t want to be that predictable, he had to admit that he desperately wanted to see himself. Looking back at his body could only show him so much, and he needed to know if there was still anything left of himself besides the six fingers that had haunted him all his life.

Ford stood, using the wall to slowly pull himself upright. Even with an animal’s body, he wasn’t going to just resign himself to walking on all fours. He still had the mental capacity of a human, thank Tesla, and so he still was a human. The weight of his wings made it difficult to stand on his hind legs, though the most unfortunate parts were the sharp pains that shot through his joints as they protested against bipedalism.

Eventually, he found himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall and incredibly thankful for the counterbalance his wings and tail provided him. He huffed out a small laugh of triumph, ignoring how breathless the noise was.

He turned his sights to the mirror on the other side of the room and groaned as he realized just how far away it was. A shaky leg shuffled forwards a few inches before he lost his balance again, falling back onto all fours. Ford grumbled, a little startled by how animalistic the noise was.

Nevertheless, he persisted, slowly pulling himself back on two legs. He gradually made his way across the room, always keeping a hand against the walls. He approached the mirror from the side, half out of fear of what he would be greeted with, half because he needed to be pressed against the wall if he didn’t want to fall on fours again.

He hesitated as he saw his paw’s reflection, movement stuttering to a stop. He had to see. Inhaling deeply, Ford closed his eyes and stepped in front of the mirror. He exhaled, then allowed himself to look.

A large, grizzled lion looked back at him. The golden fur was streaked with gray and white, scars leaving hairless patches in various places— including around his wrists and ankles. Coarse, fluffy gray mane sat in an unnatural pattern, more reminiscent of Ford’s human haircut than a normal mane. Rounded, furred ears poked out of the mane, swiveling of their own volition. 

His face was… uncanny. It was clearly inhuman, his nose and jaw protruding into a muzzle with whiskers twitching in the air, but it certainly wasn’t fully feline either. The rest of his face was human in shape, and only parts of it were furred. He grinned, the expression quickly becoming a grimace when he was met with long, sharp teeth. His eyes had no visible whites unless he strained them to the side, an orangey-brown iris with slitted pupils taking up the majority of his eyes. Why he was given slitted pupils when lions had round, Ford could only chalk up to Bill’s narcissism.

Then again, it wasn’t like he was turned into a normal lion, face aside. He turned, trying to get a better angle to see the giant wings that hung off of his back. Folded, they were fairly plain. They were mostly the color of his fur, the tips of feathers colored black, white, and yellow. He focused on spreading them out to get a better look at the design since it didn’t appear to be like any bird he had encountered before. As they started to unfurl, though, the shift in weight threw him off balance.

A loud rumble sounded off as he fell to the floor— one that certainly couldn’t have been caused by him falling down. Ford scrambled to his feet, remaining on all fours and crouching low in favor of focusing on the source of the sound. 

The ground shook as the rumbles grew louder outside one of the walls. Ford’s tail twitched with agitation as he found himself pacing. A loud, grating scream that could only ever belong to Bill had his hackles raising, an inhuman growl filling the air. One more rumble thundered outside, even closer this time, before something came careening through the walls of his room.

The noise of bricks crumbling rang in his ears, dust filling the air and obscuring the features of figures walking in, clambering over the mess. Ford stopped his pacing, his eyes frozen on the pile of rubble in front of him. Even through the ringing he could hear the figures yelling to each other— they hadn’t seemed to notice him yet. Perfect.

Just as the largest figure turned in his direction, Ford lunged towards the intruders with a snarl. He pinned them down with one of his massive paws, prepared to defend himself should the intruders try to fight back.

What he wasn’t expecting was a high, trembling voice to come from one of the smaller figures, breaking the tense air.

“... Grunkle Ford? ”

Chapter Text

Having shared a bedroom their whole lives, Mabel and Dipper had grown used to the sounds of sleep. Snoring, sleep talking, shuffling around in the blankets, the occasional trip to the bathroom— it didn’t matter what it was, but the chances were high that the other twin wouldn’t be bothered. 

The only times that the other would be disturbed by their twin’s movement were when something was wrong. Waking up scared from a nightmare, staying up too late because of stress, going to the bathroom to throw up instead of a normal trip— those types of things would wake them up. Call it a sixth sense, intuition, some sort of twin psychic bond, but it happened without fail. Even if they were sleeping in separate rooms, if one twin was up because of something bad, the other would be up and ready to help soon after.

Which is why Mabel was prepared for anything when she woke up to Dipper shuffling out of their room in the Shack. His footsteps were slow and awkward, but when Mabel checked the clock she saw it was almost 4 AM, so he was probably just tired. If he was running or tip-toeing, then she could’ve gotten a sense of what kind of problem had him up so late, but it kinda just sounded like he was going to get a drink of water or something. 

But she woke up, so something must have been wrong.

She sat up, rubbing her eyes as she scanned his side of the room. The stacks of books he had gotten recently had been knocked over, the tablet was using to watch videos unplugged on the floor. He must’ve fallen asleep by accident— not really a surprise considering how much he had been avoiding the activity recently. Mabel knew he was worried about Bill, and she was too, but it had been so long since Bipper took over! If the triangle was gonna do something, he would’ve done so already… right?

Waddles grunted as Mabel threw her blankets onto him, the girl stretching before making her way down the stairs to find her brother.

The Shack was eerily quiet, the usual creaks and groans of the rickety old cabin nowhere to be heard. She couldn’t hear any owls or gnomes outside, only the howls of wind that blew by, gently shaking the windows. It was surprisingly well lit thanks to the full moon, though, so Mabel took that as a small victory.

She checked the bathroom first, since that was the most common. When she found the room empty, she moved to the kitchen, ignoring the trickle of anxiety that started making its way up her spine. There was no reason to start getting worried just because he wasn’t in the first place she checked, that’d just be silly of her. Besides, Dipper was the anxious one! Mabel had nothing to worry about. 

When the kitchen was empty too, though, Mabel couldn’t help but start fidgeting with the sleeves of her nightgown. Even if she had no logical reason to be worried, there was something inside of her screaming that there was something wrong. She could almost hear Dipper in head blabbing about Bill— which, again, would be silly to worry about, because that nasty little triangle was gone and things were fine.

 A small thump from somewhere above her broke her thoughts, pulling her attention towards the gift shop. Wandering past the exhibits, she had to admit that they were scarier in the middle of the night. The sight of the empty gift shop did nothing to soothe the unease tumbling around in her chest. Her heart dropped even further as a gust of wind blew in from above, the trapdoor leading to the roof wide open. The anxiety that had been welling up inside of her was flooding her body, tingling with nervous energy. A few soft footsteps pattered above her, confirming that there was, in fact, someone on the roof. Mabel wiped her hands on her sweater before braving the ladder. Maybe Dipper just needed some fresh air— he had been pretty cooped up for the past week or so.

She poked her head out the trapdoor, the chill of the wind barely registering over the jumble of nerves squirming in her gut. In the moonlight, she was just able to make out Dipper’s leg scrambling up over the angled roof. She followed, not caring if he heard her.

Dipper stood eerily still on the highest point of the roof, making no sign to climb down to the little hang-out area Wendy had set up. Instead, he looked down over the edge, leaning over just a bit too much for Mabel’s comfort. 

“ Dipper! ” she hissed, making her way up to the top. “What are you doing all the way up here? If you needed fresh air, you could’ve just opened the window, y’know?”

He spun around far too quickly, as if he was actually startled by her presence, though Mabel would always follow after him when something was wrong. And something was clearly wrong, considering how he was standing over the edge of the Shack with seemingly no regard for his own wellbeing. He stared at her blankly for just a second before his face split into an uncanny grin. Too many teeth showed for a smile that didn’t reach the eyes— eyes that almost seemed to flash yellow in the moonlight.

“Well, I could ask the same of you, sister of mine!” Dipper’s voice was off, too cheery for the time of day and situation at hand. He turned fully towards her, but didn’t move from his spot at the edge.

“You woke me up,” Mabel kept her voice steady as the anxiety within her increased tenfold just looking at her brother. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay… you’ve been super freaked out lately, and I don’t really blame you for it but it doesn’t mean I’m not worried.”

Dipper laughed a laugh that wasn’t his, the nasally tone spearing Mabel’s heart with fear. He seemed to take note of her realization, immediately dropping whatever was left of his terrible impersonation.

“Worried about ol’ Pine Tree? What’s there to worry about?” Bill casually asked, gesturing widely with Dipper’s arms while his legs stood still on the edge of the roof. “Is he not being as nerdy as usual? Oh! Maybe he hasn’t solved his Cubix Cube recently? Knew a guy like that once, he’s not doing too hot these days…”

Mabel stared down the demon wearing her brother’s body, frozen with fear. Fear of what Bill was planning, of course, but also fear of what she would do if push came to shove. She desperately wanted to pummel the demon to a pulp, but she didn’t want to hurt Dipper in the process. Bill didn’t appear to care about his silent audience, continuing to blab on.

“No, no, that can’t be it. I’ve seen the kid fiddle with that cube a hell of a lot lately, especially when he’s watching those videos. Hmm… certainly not the sleep deprivation, that’s normal for him too…” Bill tapped Dipper’s chin in faux thought, tapping his foot. “Y’know, Shooting Star, this would be so much easier if you could just share whatever stupid thing has got your feathers all ruffled. I mean, I might be a mind reader, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it from you!”

Taking a small step forwards, Mabel forced her anxiety down enough to be able to respond.

“Maybe,” she stepped again, “I’ve been worried about my brother because of an annoying,” step, “yellow,” step, “corn chip,” step, “that wanted to throw him off of the water tower,” she stood only a foot or so away from the demon at this point. “Is that all you wanted to hear?”

“Hmm, it’s not exactly what I was looking for, but it’ll do fine. I gotta say, though, it’s funny how you think you can intimidate me, Star! I mean, do ya really wanna threaten me when I can do something like this,” Bill stuck Dipper’s foot off the edge of the roof, wobbling slightly as he grinned at Mabel. “To your dear, dear brother?”

He leaned backwards just as a gust of wind blew by, knocking Bill even further off balance and nearly falling off the roof.

She lunged for him, grabbing his ankle right before he had fallen off completely. Dipper’s head hit the side of the Shack with a dull thud, but Mabel didn’t have the time to feel bad while Bill thrashed wildly against her grip. With a loud grunt of effort, she pulled him up high enough to grab onto the other ankle as well. She hoisted him up with a little less strain than she expected, Bill still struggling against her grip.

“How are you so strong?! ” the demon gritted out as he was fully pulled back onto the roof.

“I carry a pig everywhere with me, genius! ” Mabel retorted, trying her best to keep Dipper’s legs still as she dragged him further away from the edge.

Too focused on his legs, though, she was caught off guard by a surprisingly powerful punch directly to the middle of her face. Her grip loosened just enough for Bill to kick her back completely, scrambling to his feet. He ran for the edge as Mabel rushed towards him with her arm outstretched.

She reached for the neck of his shirt, ready to pull him up again, but she hadn’t expected Bill to abruptly stop when he reached the end of the roof. She tried to slow herself, but it was too late, barreling into her brother’s body and sending him careening downwards. 

Bill laughed as he descended, letting Dipper’s limbs flail around in the air. Mabel’s fingers just barely brushed his hand, but with an extra push, she grasped his wrist and pulled.

Well, she tried to pull at least, before she realized she no longer felt ground beneath her feet.

Chapter Text

Ford’s body ached when he woke up. Even breathing hurt, his torso complaining about the movement. He pulled himself out of bed despite his body’s protests and dragged himself to the bathroom. When he pulled off his shirt, he was immediately met with the source of the full body pain.

The majority of his torso and limbs were absolutely covered in bruises. Purple and yellow splotches mottled his skin, leaving him tender and sore all over. He hadn’t done anything that could’ve caused the injuries in the past few days, at least not to his knowledge, so he resolved to just ask his Muse about it that night. Bill always had the answers to everything, so Ford brushed off the unease building within him and went about his day, not acknowledging the way he’d wince with every movement.

In the Mindscape that night, Ford mentioned the odd bruises to his Muse, who chuckled at his disciple’s distress.

“Don’t mind the bruises, Fordsy, I promise they’re nothing,” Bill purred, taking a sip from his tea. “Last night I took over for a little bit, but I’m out of practice piloting a meatsuit like yours! I just bumped into a few too many doorways and tripped a couple times, that’s all.”

Ford hummed with understanding, smiling at the idea of his all-knowing Muse having trouble with something so simple as walking around. It was endearing, really.

He didn’t question any other bruises he woke up with after that. Bill was just out of practice, after all.

A few months later, Ford woke up to sharp pains radiating through his hands. They were sloppily bandaged, but he could already see the blood seeping through before he went to the bathroom to get a proper look.

Copious cuts littered his hands and forearms, a few burns mixed in with the injuries. Luckily they weren’t too bad, none of the cuts were deep enough to warrant stitches, and the burns weren’t blistering much, if at all. Still, he hissed with pain as he doused his arms in antiseptic, slathering burn cream to the abnormally shaped injuries and carefully bandaging each one.

It was a little difficult to articulate his hands for the day with the amount of gauze wrapped around them, but Ford made do. He wondered if it was his Muse again, considering how he knew he didn’t go to sleep with the wounds. It would have to be brought up in the Mindscape later.

Of course, when Ford inquired about the gashes and burns covering his arms, Bill just chuckled again, eye curled into an endearing smile.

“Oh Sixer, I was practicing in the kitchen last night! You fleshbags need so much energy, and I know how often you skip meals, so I tried your hand at cooking! I see why you don’t do it much though, it’s a finicky skill.”

Ford couldn’t hold back the small laugh that bubbled out of him at the thought of his Muse trying to cook. Obviously a being made of energy like him didn’t need to cook and eat like humans did, so Bill had no way of knowing how to operate in a kitchen. Not that Ford did either, so he was in no place to judge.

He shrugged off the cuts and burns that would occasionally show up on his body in the following months. Bill was just out of practice, after all.

One morning Ford woke to an excruciating pain shooting through his leg. His shin was throbbing, a deep-set pain making its way through his entire leg. When he pulled back his covers, he could see his foot twisted at an unnatural angle, and he couldn’t find the strength within him to flex his toes. Purple and green bruises covered his shin, and Ford quickly realized that his leg was very much broken.

He sighed, knowing that while he could technically go to the hospital and get it fixed up properly, that kind of trip would take all day— not to mention the amount of money he’d have to spend. His Muse would be disappointed to learn that Ford missed out on a full day of work just because he had to visit the doctor. Besides, he was pretty sure he had all the supplies necessary to set and cast the bone himself, depending on the extent of the damage.

Agitating his leg as little as possible, Ford reached across his room and grabbed his desk chair, wheeling himself around his home and grabbing what he needed. Thank Tesla, he didn’t have to go downstairs for anything. 

It was incredibly painful, even with the magical-grade painkillers he took, but Ford managed to push his tibia into the right position and wrap a cast around it. He’d have to have a talk with Bill that night, at least to figure out the source of the injury, if not to remind the deity about how fragile human bodies could be.

Ford huffed as he told Bill about how he spent the first half of his day, going on a small rant about how he didn’t even own crutches, before the Muse reached out a hand and hushed him.

“Dear, dear Sixer, I’m so sorry you have to deal with that,” he spoke with genuine concern, his eye focused solely on his disciple. “Last night there was some monster trying to get into your home— I think it was a Gremloblin, considering its size— and I had to go out and chase it off. As you can see, it did more damage than both of us would’ve liked. I don’t have much practice fighting in a human body, y’know.”

Bill’s gentle hand cupping Ford’s face quickly dissipated any lingering agitation still buzzing around in his head. The scientist smiled, ever so thankful for his Muse’s efforts.

He could’ve sworn that his leg didn’t hurt as much the next morning as he quickly built himself some crutches. Bill was just out of practice, after all.

Chapter Text

“We need to go to Piedmont.”

The firmness of Ford’s voice was betrayed by a very slight tremor. Stan decided not to comment on said tremor, focusing more on the actual statement.

“I’m all for visitin’ the kids, but I gotta ask, why now? They’re still in school, ‘s not like we’d have a lot of time to chat with ‘em.”

Ford’s eyes flicked around the room for a moment before he responded.

“I am… worried about them.”

Well that was a lie. Ford had gotten better at lying over the years, but he still couldn’t fool Stan. Avoiding eye contact, hesitating before replying, the way his hands were folded behind his back in that pretentious pose he always did— Stan was certain that Ford was hiding something. He couldn’t let Ford know that, of course, because if he accused Ford of lying, it’d probably turn into some big fight about Ford being upset that Stan didn’t trust his judgment or something like that.

So Stan sat back in his chair, keeping his body language and tone casual, trying to figure out the source of Ford’s worries.

“We just called them two days ago, Poindexter, they’re fine. Though if ya wanna call more than twice a week, I’m sure they’d love that.”

Ford’s posture somehow went even more rigid at that, eyes darting around the room again. Stan had to hold back a snort of laughter at his brother’s paranoia— they were alone in the middle of the ocean, whatever Ford was trying to look for in their itty bitty cabin wasn’t there, Stan knew it. 

But Ford was clearly paranoid about something, so something must’ve been wrong. He couldn’t ask why his twin was lying, but maybe Stan could ask about whatever had him so jumpy, that’d probably explain the situation a little better.

“...The twice a week calls are fine, Stanley. We don’t always have the ability to call them more than that, regardless, so trying to do more than that would be more of a nuisance than anything else.”

Stan grunted in agreement— after all, their last video chat had ended abruptly because of a rough patch of water that ended up knocking out the Stan-O’-War’s already shoddy internet. The calls weren’t always the best quality, but they were able to see and communicate decently enough most of the time.

“I really do think we should go to Piedmont, Stanley. Just… just to check in with them in person, make sure they’re okay.”

Ford was fidgeting with his hands, now, twisting his fingers nervously. Now that Stan was really looking at his brother, he could also see the dark circles around his eyes. Not an uncommon feature, Ford often missed out on a fair amount of sleep, but they were darker than Stan would’ve liked.

“Uh-huh,” Stan raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his soda. “Would ya mind tellin’ me what exactly’s got ya so worried about them though? You know the kids would tell us if somethin’ was wrong over there.”

The scientist scanned the room again, chewing the inside of his cheek as his brain was clearly going too fast to understand. He took longer to respond this time before he finally sighed, deflating slightly.

“I— I don’t want to say it out here.”

Ford glared at the pictures hung up on the walls as he said that— he was already deep into his paranoia. Stan wasn’t going to push it much further, though, he was just glad that Ford was going to explain whatever was going on in that big ol’ brain of his. 

“Alright,” Stan grunted, standing up from his seat. “Where are we talkin’ about this then?”

Even through his anxiety, Ford visibly brightened in response to Stan listening right away, grabbing his brother by the arm and rushing themselves to… the bathroom. It was the smallest room on the ship besides their storage closets, but it also didn’t have any pictures of people or windows. Ford crammed the two of them into the tight space, locking the door as soon as they were both inside. Stan ignored the anxiety that bubbled up in his own chest at the action, knowing it made his brother feel safer.

“So what’s up?” Stan kept his voice light enough for Ford to know he wasn’t judging, but flat enough to show that he was taking it seriously as he sat on the toilet.

“I have an… unfortunate hypothesis,” Ford started, pacing as much as he could in the small room, only about two steps each direction. “One I’d much rather be proven false, but in order to do that, we’d need to see the children in person.”

“Figured it was somethin’ like that, but would ya mind giving a bit more detail? Not exactly a mind reader over here, Sixer.”

Ford’s breath hitched for a moment, just enough to be noticeable.

Oh.

“Oh,” Stan voiced the thought. “You think he’s back, huh?”

“I… have reason to believe that he has returned somehow, yes,” Ford swallowed, flapping his hands in the way he often did when overwhelmed with emotions. “I imagine I know why, but I’m not quite sure how. The only hypothesis I have related to the how and the who used to bring him back are… unsavory, to say the least.”

“I promise you he’s dead, Ford, I saw it happen. Besides, we got rid of all the cave paintings ‘n stuff used to summon him, so there’s no way for anyone to bring him back even if he was alive.”

Ford swallowed again, with more difficulty.

“Unless… unless the people who brought him back had already seen that information before we removed it.”

An uncomfortable silence filled the room as Ford stopped his pacing, staring at his brother with a stern yet anxious expression. His lips were drawn into a thin line, but Stan could see the slight quiver to them, along with the tears forming in his eyes.

“Ford… you don’t think…”

Stan couldn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Ford nodded, his brows furrowing.

“I don’t want to believe it for a number of reasons, Stan, but there’s too much proof— I— I need to see them in person, Stanley, they can’t hide it in person and— and —”

He hiccuped, the tears in his eyes becoming too much to hold. The dam broke, Ford sobbing into his hands and sliding down the wall. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” Stan softly spoke as he moved from his seat, kneeling in front of his brother on the floor. “How about we go over that proof you mentioned, then we can see if there’s enough to warrant that kind of check-in, yeah?”

Ford sniffled into his knees, curled in on himself. He nodded, though, which was enough of a response for Stan to patiently wait on the cold, hard floor of the bathroom. It took a few moments, but Ford’s sobs soon turned into more manageable whimpers. He lifted his face from his knees, face blotchy and red.

“I, um… Last call,” he sighed, “they had mentioned some… worrying plans.”

Stan hummed questioningly, urging his brother to continue.

“Mabel… she had talked about her plans for the start of this next summer.”

“Yeah, she did, I remember,” Stan scooched closer to his brother, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. “What about it?”

“Well, she said that when she got back to Gravity Falls, she was going to… make the whole town one big party…” Ford mumbled the last few words, pausing for a moment as the statement sunk in. She did say that, Stan recalled, but also, she’s Mabel. Of course Mabel would want to have a massive party when the summer started again, the kid was made for throwing parties! 

“I know she’s the type of girl to throw parties,” Ford started again, somehow responding to Stan’s silent thoughts. “So I tried not to think anything of it until Dipper said that it would be utter chaos— Stanley, I can’t be certain that they aren’t working with Cipher until we see the children in person, it’s— it’s too plausible!” 

He had stopped crying, the deep, shuddering breaths replaced by short, shallow ones that were dangerously close to hyperventilating. 

“Dipper’s summoned Bill before, and there’s no saying whether or not he’s still a tether to this plane, Stan, there’s no way to tell from all the way out here in the ocean!”

“ Ford, c’mon, deep breaths, huh?” Stan squeezed Ford’s shoulders in an attempt to ground him. “How about we call them again—”

“ NO! ” Ford yelled loud enough to get Stan’s hearing aid to ring for just a moment, though his words quickly became a whisper. “If we call them he could be listening, Stan, he was listening to the last one.”

“Alright, no calling then— but whaddya mean he was listening? First of all, he’s dead, but second of all, I didn’t see any corn chips or nothin’ on the camera.”

“At— at the end, Stan, I saw him. He was there, I saw their eyes, we can’t trust them! ”

He was back to yelling, tears dangerously close to spilling over again. Stan was lucky he was allowed to sit so close, Ford usually couldn’t handle people being so near during his… episodes. Still, the closeness did nothing to diffuse the confusion.

“Work with me here, bro, I didn’t see anything at the end of the call, what’re you sayin’ you saw?”

“You didn’t— Stanley, how could you not see it?! At the end of the call, when the image warped, their— their eyes, Stanley! ”

Ford pulled himself out of the tight ball he had curled into, grabbing Stan’s shirt and holding him close. At this angle, Stan could clearly see just how truly distraught his brother was over the idea of Bill being back— at the idea of the kids being the one to summon him. He obviously hadn’t slept since the call, if not longer, and he was on the very verge of tears, sniffling miserably. If only Stan had noticed sooner, maybe Ford wouldn’t have gotten to this point.

“Alright, alright, let’s take a moment and catch our breath, huh?” Stan smiled softly, trying to make sure he didn’t come off as condescending. “This is Dipper and Mabel we’re talkin’ about, they know just as well as you an’ I do how dangerous Bill can be. Why would they try to bring him back or do his work when they’re half the reason he’s dead in the first place?”

“They could’ve been pretending to work with us— plotting from the beginning some way to have Cipher return after Weirdmaggeddon— they’re smart kids, Stanley, we can not underestimate them.”

“Yeah, they’re smart kids, so they know not to trust a con like that demon. Don’t ya trust them?”

Ford tensed, the wetness of his eyes becoming too much to bear. Tears overflowed as he broke into sobs once more, hiccuping into Stan’s sleeve. Stan moved to fully embrace his brother, pulling him in closer and slowly rocking back and forth, softly hushing. He muttered soft assurances— they’re safe, he’s gone, they’re okay — until his tailbone started to ache and his throat went dry. The entire time, Ford’s frame shook, unable to get any words out in between his hiccups and wails.

Eventually, though, he seemed to run out of tears, turning his face away from Stan’s chest enough to speak.

“I— I can’t trust them, Stanley,” Ford’s voice cracked. “I want to trust them, I do, but— I can’t. There’s some— some— stupid block in my mind that won’t let me.”

“Oh,” Stan murmured, holding the two of them still. He hadn’t considered that, but it made sense. Ford had a hard time trusting anyone these days, but Stan never realized just how deep the paranoia ran. “Well… you trust me, yeah?”

Ford sniffed, looking up at his brother with bloodshot, teary eyes. “I don’t trust anyone else, Stanley.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling Stan thought only existed in cheesy novels and fanfics bubbled up in his chest, holding his twin tight. “Then can you trust me when I say that the kids are okay and absolutely not working with Bill? At least for the next day or so, so we can call their parents and make sure it’s okay we swing by for a visit.”

A beat passed before Ford nodded jerkily, keeping himself as small as possible as Stan held him. “... I think I can do that.”

“Great, glad to hear it. We can still stop by Piedmont if their parents say yes, and if they don’t… we’ll just end up in the port anyways, on ‘accident,’” he winked. “For now, though, I think you oughta get some sleep in. Your eyes look ready to go on a week-long trip with the bags they’re carrying.”

Ford huffed out a wet chuckle, nodding but making no movement to get up from their cramped position on the floor.

“Um… Stanley… could you maybe… ugh, this is embarrassing,” he murmured, hiding his face in Stan’s shirt.

“C’mon, nothin’s too embarrassing to share with the only guy you trust,” Stan smirked down at his twin, jostling him enough to see his face again.

“...Could you stay with me while I sleep? I don’t think I’d manage to feel safe if I was alone.”

Stan smiled, squeezing his brother one more time. “Yeah, Ford, I’ll stay with ya. Now let’s get up, huh? My back’s killing me down here.”

Chapter Text

“Maybe messing with the werewolf pack was a bad idea” briefly passed through Ford’s head as he screamed in anguish, a throbbing pain radiating from the deep bite in his shoulder. He had sought them out in hopes of them having any tips on how to stay up for days on end, considering how many werewolves didn’t truly sleep so much as they did transform. Perhaps he could’ve studied their physiology, asked questions about how they were able to go so long without sleep in either their human or wolf forms.

He didn’t get a tip so much as he got attacked by multiple large wolves. In hindsight, he really should’ve asked them when they were in their human forms.

He hadn’t, though, and so he was left alone in his cabin, curled in on himself in agony as he went through his first shift. Bones creaked as skin rapidly stretched to cover his new form, a deep pressure building within him as new bones were created. He regretted not taking off his clothes before this, hearing his beloved trench coat being ripped to shreds once it could no longer fit his hulking back.

It felt as if he had passed out by the end of the shift, his ears ringing loudly as his vision whited out, but he found himself lying in the same place that he had started the transformation in. If he had passed out, Bill most likely would have seized the opportunity and ruined Ford’s life even more. Unless… unless Bill couldn’t possess him while he was a wolf.

Ford felt his tail thump happily on the ground at the thought, but didn’t let himself get too excited. There was a full possibility that he just wasn’t passed out long enough for Bill to take over, or that he had just gotten close to passing out and didn’t actually go unconscious at all. He’d have to figure out a safe way to experiment with that theory, though, just in case.

Really, Ford was just surprised that he had so many mental faculties while in the unfamiliar form. The other werewolves acted more… animalistic when he had interacted with them, so he had assumed that that meant human thought processes were more or less incapable of occurring. 

He laid on the floor for a few hours, body too tired to stand and walk around, though his new ears and nose were on high alert. He could hear and smell everything, from the gnomes scuttling around in the bushes outside to the unmistakable yowl of a cowl far off in the forest. 

The earthy smell of the pines had so much more depth in this form, not to mention the distinct smells of each creature that would occasionally walk by. What animal belonged to what smell was still a mystery, but Ford could tell when a different animal walked by— he had expected his sense of smell to improve, but it was truly impressive just how powerful it had become.

He rested his head on his paws at one point, closing his eyes and truly appreciating the new senses bestowed to him. The transformation was incredibly painful, but he figured he could get used to it if it meant avoiding Cipher— if this form really was immune to his control.

His thoughts were broken by a salty-sweet smell wafting through the air accompanied by uneven footsteps near the edge of the forest, crunching against the fresh snow. The footsteps stumbled closer, the smell becoming stronger. His head perked up of its own volition, furiously sniffing the air. Ford felt something drip on his paws— he was drooling.

It felt as if some outside force stood him upright, his unfamiliar body padding through his home in source of the smell. The closer he got, the less he could think about anything but that savory-sweet-metallic aroma, how badly he wanted to find the creature emitting it, how badly he wanted to track it down, how badly he wanted to taste it.

It was close, now, just outside his cabin, he knew it. The awkward footsteps were still shambling around in the clearing in front of his home, the intoxicating stench causing him to drool uncontrollably. 

He needed out.

The sound of items crashing down as he ran into tables didn’t matter as he raced around the cabin looking for an exit. He wasn’t lucky enough to have any open doors or windows, but he needed to get out. The smell was still out there, getting stronger by the second, and he realized just how hungry he was. He couldn’t find himself to care about the chunks of wood scraping against his fur or the sound of hinges breaking, his mind was too clouded with the dizzying smell that was now so close.

He ran towards it, drool dripping down his jaw as he came across the injured deer struggling to stand. It didn’t stand a chance against the ravenous wolf barreling towards it, crying out in pain as sharp fangs pierced its flesh.

A heavenly flavor filled Ford’s mouth as he bit down— one he had never tasted before but desperately wanted to taste again and again. The salty-sweet metallic scent flooded his senses, the fresh blood pouring down his throat. The crunch of bones breaking against his jaw didn’t bother him as he tore into the feast in front of him, too infatuated with the incredible new experience.

He didn’t know how long it had taken to satiate himself, but the sun was rising by the time he felt full. He licked his chops, savoring the remnants of his meal as he watched the sky turn pink and orange under the cover of fluffy white clouds. Huh, he still could see the same colors he could as a human, interesting.

He stretched, yawning before he decided it was time to head back to his cabin. His body was still aching from the new form, he didn’t understand why he thought it was a good idea to run out into the snow like that.

And then it hit him. He turned to the shredded remains of the deer in front of him and couldn’t hold back a gag— he had killed and eaten a damn deer. He wished he couldn’t remember it, but the actions were still fresh in his mind. The incredible smell, how weak and vulnerable the thing was, how delicious it was. 

He liked it. He still liked it, the lingering flavor pleasant in his mouth. 

His ears plastered against his head for just a moment as a pitiful whine came out, a wordless apology to the carcass in the snow by his paws. There wasn’t anything he could do for the poor thing, though, it was already injured anyways, but the knowledge that something so simple as the smell of blood could cause him to become such an animal was truly haunting.

Ford sighed, resigning himself to reality, and slowly plodded back to his cabin. With the sun rising, he was probably going to shift back soon, and he certainly didn’t want to have to deal with that out in the snow.

The sight of his broken front door made him cringe, especially since he had fortified it only a few days prior— he’d have to do better next time. The mess inside his home was equally cringeworthy, practically everything overturned and knocked onto the floor. Note to self: build a room to stay in while shifted, just in case. 

He nudged the front door shut before wandering back up to his bedroom, curling up on the floor and mentally preparing himself for the deep-set pain to start flooding his body. 

It didn’t come.

He waited a little longer.

He felt exactly the same, the only pain in his body being dull aches that were slowly subsiding.

Maybe he had to focus on the shift? He hadn’t gotten Werewolf 101 or any sort of guide on how to handle his newfound ability. 

So he focused. He imagined his body turning back to normal as vividly as he could, recalling the excruciating pain that ripped through him only half a day ago. He flexed his muscles, bringing them close to his body, keening in distress, but nothing happened.  

He probably just had to wait longer, right? Perhaps a werewolf’s first shift lasts longer so their body gets used to it. It could be a day-long activity, that would make sense. Yes, it simply had to be a longer-than-normal shift. All Ford had to do was wait for the rest of the day, keeping himself entertained enough so as not to fall asleep, but not making even more of a mess around his home or going out and killing more defenseless animals. Easy.

The day dragged on, Ford pacing in his room, listening for any noises out in the woods. He propped his head on the windowsill for a bit, sniffing the air when something ran by to take note of the smell. Gnomes and squirrels smelled remarkably similar, though gnomes were a bit muskier. He’d have to examine why once he got his human form back— he doubted the gnomes would be very receptive to an interview by a massive wolf that couldn’t control himself.

Night came by, and Ford felt quite the same. He wasn’t nearly as tired as he would be as a human, so perhaps werewolves really were resistant to sleep like he had originally theorized. The theory having proof meant nothing for his inability to shift, though, which was currently the more pressing matter.

He paced his room until sunrise, ignoring the grumble in his stomach and thanking Tesla that there were no other injured animals passing by. It made sense for him not to shift back in the night, all things considered. Most werewolves were depicted as wolves at night and humans in the morning, and the werewolves in Gravity Falls seemed to be much the same. So he tried not to stress about it as more and more hours ticked by.

Yet the only change he could feel were his paws aching about all the pacing he had been doing, and his stomach groaning about having no food. His wolf form seemed to need more energy than his human form— he usually went days without food with little to no bodily complaints. He’d have to fix that.

But first, fixing his form.

Going back to the werewolf pack was probably his best bet, but now that it was morning he doubted that they’d be wandering the woods. And even if he knew their human identities, there was no way he’d be entering town like this. He laid down with a huff, mulling ideas over.

Books would probably get ripped to shreds under his paws, so trying to read up on the topic would get him nowhere. He could try to use wolfsbane or silver to see if those would have any effect, but there was a high chance of him severely injuring himself with those types of materials, and he’d rather not die a wolf. He could maybe go into the forest and find a snack, that’d probably help him think better. 

He snorted in disgust, shaking his head to dispel that last thought— he couldn’t let himself just submit to his animalistic whims like that! He was stronger than that, it had only been two days, he still had his dignity. 

… And maybe he had some food downstairs, he really was quite hungry. 

He padded through his whirlwind of a cabin, careful to not knock into anything else or step on tools that had scattered on the floor. The sound of a gnome skittering by piqued his interest, causing him to pause for a moment. It sounded like it was alone, and it was most likely an easy target— small, easy to spot, distinct smell— but he was quite literally on his way to the kitchen. He didn’t need to do something so barbaric as hunting down a gnome.

The kitchen was as much of a mess as the rest of his home, but that was likely unrelated to the previous night’s skirmish. The stuffy smell of mold covered the room, and Ford resolved to make sure he properly cleaned the place once he got his hands back. In his defense, the past month or so had more pressing matters than doing the dishes.

Regardless, he sniffed around the cupboards and fridge to see if there was anything worth eating. There had to be, after all. He may have been inconsistent with eating, sure, but that didn’t mean that he had nothing to eat.

But after about 20 minutes of snuffling around the cabinets and only finding moldy lumps of things that had been food weeks ago and two cans of “brown meat” that smelled absolutely foul, Ford realized that he may have been less satisfied than he thought he would be.

He growled in annoyance, too tired and hungry to care about how inhuman the noise was. If he didn’t have food in the cabin, and he couldn’t shift back into a human to buy food from town, then that left hunting as his only source of food. His animal instincts certainly seemed ready and willing for that, his attention being grabbed every few minutes by another branch breaking nearby, but Ford wasn’t so sure.

The deer was… delicious, sure, but it was the principle of the thing! Two days as a wolf and he’s already given up all pretenses of humanity, hunting down animals in the woods. That wouldn’t do at all. He’d just have to figure out how to shift back before another injured creature showed up on his doorstep then.

He paced the cabin, hoping the larger area would make him feel less like a caged animal and help him think about anything other than food. Instead, he could think about the moon cycles and theorize whether or not there was any potential of the moon being the source of his abnormally long shift. But to his knowledge, the moon was acting normally. Perhaps a blood moon could impact a werewolf’s shift lengths, what with blood clearly having an impact on their animalistic tendencies, the salty-sweet-metallic smell somehow lulling them into a trance, leading them to the perfect prey practically begging to be eaten— and that was enough thinking about the moon.

He continued to think about causes for his stuck form, absolutely not getting distracted by every sound and smell that passed by outside, most definitely not thinking about what creatures in the forest would be the easiest to catch, what would have the best tastes based on their scents, or replaying the heavenly memory of tearing into the deer on loop. 

No sir, he wasn’t thinking about any of those things, just ways to get back to normal. His stomach knotted itself into painful positions, growling louder as the hours passed. He hadn’t managed to think of any possible hypotheses on how to shift back into his human form, not over the constant internal monologue of “food food food food food food” that he couldn’t seem to shut up.

An unfamiliar sound stopped his pacings, a loud, rumbly noise that crunched through the snow and brought with it a musty, smoky smell with some underlying chemical that made him sneeze. He got the feeling that he should know the source of the sound, but he couldn’t find the name for it. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t food, but it was something new, and that would have to be good enough.

The sound grew louder, coming much closer to the cabin than Ford had expected. The scent changed somewhat, new notes of dirt and sweat and salt and so many things Ford couldn’t wait to identify. He padded over to the front door, sticking his nose through one of the cracks he had made, taking a stronger whiff. The sound came even closer before it stopped suddenly, the musty smoky smell going away soon after.

With that smell gone, Ford was able to pick out a few more scents from whatever thing was outside. Urine, eugh. That one was pretty pungent. There was a minty smell, a warm, sweet-smoky one, an odd yeasty scent and— salty-sweet-savory-metallic blood.

There was no doubt about it, there was blood somewhere nearby and Ford couldn’t help but drool as he pulled his nose away from the door and started pacing with excitement. He didn’t know exactly what was outside, so he couldn’t just burst out and give chase, no matter how much he wanted to. Something loud slammed outside, heavy footsteps crunching through the snow and getting closer to the cabin.

Whatever was making those footsteps smelled of dirt-sweat-smoke- blood, and Ford was finding it very difficult to keep himself quiet, the urge to bark excitedly incredibly strong— but he couldn’t reveal himself, not yet.

The footsteps thudded onto the porch, the tantalizing smell so close. It knocked on the door, which swung open on its broken hinges incredibly easily.

Ford stood just off to the side, waiting for his unsuspecting prey to walk right into the line of sight. He couldn’t believe his luck when the thing stepped forwards, looking the wrong direction.

He couldn’t help but lunge forwards, the smells all blending together into a brand-new, absolutely delicious aroma. His teeth sunk into his prey, which cried out and flailed against Ford’s bite. It kicked him off with a powerful blow, but Ford kept his jaws right where they were, ripping out a chunk of its arm as he flew across the room. 

The intoxicating smell of blood filled the room as his prey started to stumble away— but Ford had only just gotten a taste, and he was hungry.

It didn’t make it far before Ford lunged on its back, digging his teeth deep into its neck. It screamed again, but soon went silent and limp as Ford filled himself with the salty-sweet-savory-metallic goodness. 

He swore the fear of it almost made it taste better, somehow. If only it didn’t have the weird outer layer that tasted more like dirt than anything else.

Chapter Text

He was an idiot, he knew that. He had seen the incomprehensible horrors that laid beyond the portal, he knew Ford had made some blasphemous mistake that was bound to destroy the entire world, and he knew that he shared half of the blame in the creation of the doomsday device in their basement. But when Ford begged— begged— Fiddleford to stay for just one more day, he couldn’t help but cave.

Of course, staying that one extra day turned out to be the worst possible mistake he could have ever made.

He couldn’t sleep, obviously, the sight of the thing behind the portal haunting him every time he blinked, but he could still hear Ford’s footsteps padding around the cabin, and he couldn’t use the memory gun knowing there was a high possibility of his friend walking in on him in the process. Theoretically, he could just erase Ford’s memory of seeing Fiddleford erase his memory, he’d done it before, but—

“Hey Specs! C’mere, I need your help with something.”

Fiddleford’s heart dropped deep in his chest at the sound of… it. It used Ford’s body, spoke with Ford’s voice, but never fully committed to the act. Whatever it was, it was something Fiddleford never wanted to interact with. He knew if he didn’t reply soon, it’d find him, but he didn’t want to comply with its demands— chances were, the thing was probably related to the portal, which just made him think about the grotesque beast he saw, the twisted maw of skin and bone that couldn’t belong to anything less than a demon, than Satan himself—-

“Cat got your tongue?”

Ford— not Ford— stood in front of him, eyes wide and wrong, smile too wide, hands too twitchy. It laughed, a high pitched, nasally sound. Fiddleford had to get out, his eyes flicking around the room to find some sort of escape as his heart rate sped up to a blur. Before he could act, though, the thing wearing Ford’s body lunged towards him, pinning the lankier man to the ground with ease.

“ Git offa me! ” Fiddleford wailed, thrashing with all his might. “I didn’ even do anythin’ ta warrant this kinda thing, you demon! ”

“Aw, don’t act like you weren’t thinking of jumping out the window to get away from little ol’ me! If you were actually trustworthy, I wouldn’t have to manhandle you like this!” It hoisted Fiddleford up, keeping his arms in a tight grip behind his back. “Now c’mon, I really do need your help with this!”

It shoved him forwards, practically pushing the man down the stairs towards the storage room— towards the entrance to the basement.

“Y’know, popping in like that,” it chatted casually as it pulled on the book that opened the secret door and started heading down to the elevator, “Was pretty rude of you. Whatever happened to knocking? Or maybe a quick ring on the ol’ summoning hotline? It’s basic courtesy to let someone know when you’re gonna be visiting!”

“P–poppin’ in? What in tarnation are you—” Fiddleford’s thrashing paused for a moment as he felt a chill run through his entire body. His fingers felt numb as his mind registered what the thing was implying. “ N– no… ”

“Eeeyup!” it giggled— giggled— while it punched in the code for the elevator, cramming the two of them inside. “Glad to see that you’re not entirely fried up there— though you’re pretty damn close! Really, though, you caught me at a bad time, Specs. I’m usually much nicer to look at! Exoskeletons really do something great for the complexion.”

Fiddleford couldn’t think. His brain was full of steel wool, thoughts too muffled to fully understand but altogether incredibly distressing. The thing in Ford and the thing in the portal— he was talking to it— it was here— it had been here— for months! His body moved of its own accord, flailing wildly against arms that should’ve been controlled by his friend. 

“ LET GO’A ME YOU GODFERSAKEN, HELL-RAISIN’, SONUVA— ” his words were cut off by his head slamming into the cold metal walls of the elevator, leaving the small room spinning in his vision.

“ Woahhhh there buddy, let’s calm down a sec!” The doors of the elevator opened with a cheerful ding, the thing dragging Fiddleford’s limp body out into the cavernous lab. “There’s no need for name-calling!”

Fiddleford paled as the portal came into view, the sight of the massive triangle making his already wound up nerves tingle with anxiety. He was almost glad to be held up by the thing in Ford’s body, his legs were too weak to keep him standing. Chains wrapping around his wrists barely registered, his attention almost fully consumed by the portal looming over him. As his back pressed against one of the support beams around the room, though, he quickly realized what was happening.

He tried to fight back against it, but his limbs were quickly strapped to the support beam, cold metal binding his wrists and ankles. Sparks bit against his exposed skin as the unmistakable sound and smell of soldering filled the air.

“Wh— what’re you doin? Whaddya want from me?!”

“What am I doing? Heh, Specs, I thought you were smarter than that!” it pulled itself out from behind him, a welding helmet lifted up on his head, a blowtorch in gloved hands. “I’m making sure you can’t get outta here, of course!”

Fiddleford didn’t know that he was capable of feeling such a tremendous amount of dread. The thing clearly saw the raw fear in his eyes, chuckling at the sight.

“As for what I want from you, hm…” it put a finger to Ford’s chin in faux thought, humming. It snapped after a moment, perking up with that horrifying smile spread across Ford’s face. “What I want is for you to scream!”

It flipped the helmet down, yellow eyes glowing from behind the visor. It fiddled with the blowtorch until it had a low flame. Fiddleford’s mouth ran dry. His body was covered in cold sweat, his weak limbs trembling as his senses were flooded with deep, genuine fear.

The thing whistled behind the mask as it drew the blowtorch closer to him, lightly drawing it past his limbs to singe his clothes. It trailed the flames up and down his body, burning holes in his sleeves. The warmth could’ve been almost pleasant if it weren’t for the fact that it was delaying the inevitable.

“Just fuckin’ do it already, ya demon. ” Fiddleford gritted the words out, ignoring how strangled he sounded as he feebly tried to wiggle away from the flame.

It clucked its tongue a few times, shaking its head in disappointment. Its hand, however, remained in the same spot, hovering over the toe of his shoe. “Don’t be such a buzzkill, Specs, haven’t you ever heard of a little foreplay?”

The smell of burnt leather permeated the air, the heat around his foot steadily increasing.

“Besides, can’t a fella enjoy something like this? You walked in on me in a very vulnerable position, and I don’t take stuff like that lightly!” Fiddleford could feel the flame reach his sock, the final layer of protection quickly turning to ash. 

The heat was just that— heat, for only a second before it turned into a sharp bite of pain. It carried up his nerves, molten lava ripping through his skin. He desperately tried to pull away from the sensation, the chains around him clanking against the beam. A scream he didn’t realize was his tore out of his throat as the fire dug deeper into his skin, gnawing on his bone.

It pulled back, cackling loudly with the blowtorch still on in its hand. The feeling of a thousand nails boring into his flesh subsided, the deep, aching heat still throbbing against his foot as ants climbed through his nerves.

“ WOWZERS, Specs! I knew you were gonna make for some good entertainment, but I didn’t realize just how fun this was gonna be!”

Fiddleford panted, reeling from the pain. “ ...Go… to hell. ”

“HAH! Already been, great vacation spot!”

He didn’t have to see its face to hear the grin in its words as it cranked the flame higher.

“Now let’s see… how about them fingers next, then we work our way in?”

The flame was back on his skin before Fiddleford could react, another scream wrenching its way out as the tip of the torch almost made contact with his palm. The pain was overwhelming to the point of numbness, though his nerves were shocked with pure agony. A sweet, almost coppery, sickly smell reached his nostrils as he felt his skin bubble under the intense flame. 

He’d rather be torn limb from limb, thrown in the slaughterhouse, gutted like an animal, anything than experience the agonizing heat working its way through his body. His foot throbbed harder and harder, almost with a pulse of its own as the flame trailed up his arm. The smell grew thicker, smokier as it reached his collarbone.

Fiddleford was tasting blood as much as he was smelling it, his pulse roaring behind his ears. The flame pulled back again, simultaneously a welcome relief and a horrible reminder of what exactly he had just gone through. At least with the torch actively on him, he was able to ignore most of the other burns, but without the main source of pain he had to focus on the excruciating pins and needles dancing across his skin, far too aware of the blood pumping through his body.

As his screams died off, he became unfortunately aware of the maniacal laughter bursting out from the thing in front of him. He was thankful for the welding mask covering its face. The sight of Ford doing… this… would have been too much to bear. The howling laughter trailed off into hysterical giggles, the thing swaying in front of him.

“ Ohhhhh I am having way too much fun with you, hillbilly!” it playfully tapped the end of Fiddleford’s nose, snorting in between giggles. “I’m gonna miss this when it’s over, ya know.”

“ ... Eat… shit n’... die… freak… ” Fiddleford gasped out the sentence, choosing to ignore how hoarse his voice had become already.

It paused its movement for a moment, the room going unsettlingly silent except for the constant hiss of the blowtorch. Fiddleford swallowed dryly, the motion painful as he dreaded what would happen next.

Uproarious laughter sprung out from the thing in front of him, it bending over and singing some of its hair when the flame got too close.

“ YOU are a RIOT, McSuckit! ” it howled with laughter, almost screaming. “Oh jeez, I never really understood why Sixer took such an interest in ya, but you really are something else! Ya know what? I think just for that, I’ll let you in on a little secret—” it leaned forward, holding its hand up to its face like it was whispering. “The name’s Bill, kid! Sixer’s my right-angle man! Pleasure to officially make your acquaintance!”

It stuck out a hand, waiting for a shake that Fiddleford clearly couldn’t give. Instead, the man mustered up as much saliva as he could and spit on its outstretched palm.

“ Jus’... fuckin’... kill me… ” he coughed raggedly, throat unwilling to cooperate any further.

Bill grabbed the collar of his shirt, hand rubbing against the fresh burn against Fiddleford’s collarbone, causing him to hiss in pain.

“Well who am I to deny such a request?” it giggled, holding tight onto what remained of the burnt shirt.

The hiss of the blowtorch grew louder, the orange at the end of the flame disappearing into a blueish-white. He couldn’t help but squirm as it was slowly brought closer, each second dragging out into hours as he felt the agonizing heat bite into his skin once more.

Chapter Text

Stan had not been having a good day when he had gotten his brother’s postcard. It was the final week to pay back Rico, and the mob boss already knew he wasn’t going to deliver. Every night he got back to the dingy motel he was staying in, another one of Rico’s goons were waiting outside, ready to rough him up and shake out whatever cash he had managed to scrounge up that day.

The injuries got worse as the week went on, starting with bare knuckle punches, to brass knuckle punches, up to the few stab wounds he received the night before. They were deep enough to have to stitch them up, but Stan was mostly just glad they hadn’t decided to take his last kidney yet.

…“Yet” being the keyword there.

He knew the chances of him making it out of the last fight were slim to none, especially since he had hardly been able to sleep, taking the time to patch up his wounds and then waiting in case they came back for a bit more. Theoretically, he could just try to leave town again, but where would he go? Rico and his goons would be sure to follow him, and there weren’t many states Stan could go to without getting immediately arrested the moment he stepped over the border.

Then he got his saving grace— a single postcard, two words. Ford didn’t have to ask him twice.

He slammed on the gas the entire drive to Oregon, not wanting to waste any time— both because of his own problems and the realization that Ford’s simple message was… incredibly unlike him. No other context, just “PLEASE COME!” in big, bulky letters unlike his usual pretentious cursive.

It only took about a day for Stan to pull into the dinky little town his brother was apparently staying in, only stopping to get gas a couple of times along the drive. He had some food in the car already, and he couldn’t afford to sleep and potentially let Rico catch up. At each gas stop, Stan would double check his injuries, rebandaging the ones that had bled through already… which was most of them.

So maybe he hadn’t done the best job at patching himself up— but what was he supposed to do? Take himself to a hospital and get dragged into jail again when they check his (fake) ID, or pay the ridiculously high fees? Diligently sew each one up and make sure it’s perfect when at any moment Rico could barge in and beat him to shit? Rest a bit before diving headfirst into a 20 hour long drive across states to deal with his estranged twin?

No. He wasn’t gonna do any of that. He couldn’t do any of that. ‘Sides, a shitty patch job is always better than none at all. He may have been bleeding through onto his clothes a little, sure, and maybe whenever he stood up his vision went blurry and his ears started ringing, but he was fine.

Gravity Falls was covered in snow, which meant that Stan had to drive a bit slower than he was comfortable with, but eventually he managed to maneuver his way through the small town and find the windy off-road that led to Ford’s place. The couple at the convenience store helped him a bit, too, which was nice of them.

Apparently Ford shopped there pretty often, considering how they thought Stan was him when he first walked in there. The fact that they greeted him with “long time, no see” and mentioned that it’d been a few weeks since they last saw him, though, was less than ideal.

He hoped Ford hadn’t gotten himself into anything too deep, but the sight of his cabin sent a chill down Stan’s spine in a way that could only mean danger. The place looked like it hadn’t been touched by a person in months, and for good reason. “NO TRESPASSING” and “KEEP OUT” signs littered the area, a fence topped with barbed wire surrounding the massive house. The windows were boarded up and the front door looked like it was barely hanging on its hinges, too.

A large patch of dark red staining the fluffy white snow covering the ground caught Stan’s attention when he got out of the car, wincing slightly as he twisted one of the cuts along his torso the wrong way.

‘Please no please no please no god no’ ran through his thoughts as he approached what he could only assume was blood-soaked snow— out in woods like these, he wouldn’t be surprised if some creature had made a meal out of his brother. He heaved a sigh of relief when he realized the dead thing in the middle of the bloody patch wasn’t human, but it was still a grisly sight. Whatever had eaten that thing must’ve been starving, deep cuts taken out of bone by either tooth or claw, hardly any meat left on them.

He shivered, both from the frigid cold around him and the idea that there really were big, hungry monsters out in the woods. There was no way he could handle being out in the snow for much longer, not with his ratty old hoodie and worn thin pants. He murmured a soft “sorry” to the carcass, for reasons he was unsure of, before turning around and heading towards his brother’s horror movie house.

Wind howled through the trees as he approached the front door, his nerves standing on edge. He raised a hesitant hand, taking a deep breath before rapping on the door. It slowly swung open in response, the half-broken hinges creaking.

If Stan thought the outside of Ford’s house was bad, the inside was somehow worse. The hairs on the back of his neck immediately raised in response to the feeling of eyes boring into him. Which was ridiculous, since there was no sign of life in the dark, dingy room that laid before him. 

It was, simply put, a terrible mess. More than Ford’s usual “forgot to clean because of an experiment” mess, and closer to an entire tornado with claws spinning around the room a dozen times. Chunks of wood laid strewn about the floor along with shattered glass, metal scraps, and a million papers. There were drips of… something on some of the papers, but Stan chose to believe that the drips were just motor oil from some machine or another, rather than the more unsettling yet more realistic idea of blood.

He took a deep breath, failing to settle his nerves, before he stepped through the doorway. He thought about calling out for Ford, but first, he figured it’d be better to look around the house silently, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention.

Before Stan was able to decide whether to go left or right, though, an absolute beast of a wolf lunged towards him, sinking its teeth deep into his arm. It was snarling like a wild animal— well, because it was one— as Stan screamed out in pain. He shook his arm without thinking, pushing the wolf’s fangs deeper into his arm, scraping against bone.

His arms were clearly doing no good, so Stan kicked the wolf as hard as he could, hoping to loosen its grip.

Blinding pain shot through his body as the wolf’s fangs held tight, ripping a chunk of his arm out as it flew across the room. The sound of his flesh being pulled away from itself was sickening; a wet, squelching noise that reminded Stan a little bit too much of the sounds a raw chicken made when he would help his Ma in the kitchen as a child.

He turned just in time to see the wolf quickly chew and swallow the quarter of his forearm it removed, licking its chops. ‘Fuck this, sorry Sixer.’ While it was momentarily distracted, he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the feeling of his blood pouring down his arm and soaking his jacket.

Stan managed to make it back only a few feet onto the porch before he heard heavy footsteps behind him. He slammed onto the hard wood, the wolf pinning him down with a ferocious snarl. He screamed himself hoarse in a manner of seconds as the beast’s massive fangs sunk into the back of his neck, going for the kill. He could feel his muscle fibers snap as the thing pulled back, another sickening squelch breaking through the air as more blood started to pour out from him, pooling under his face.

The warm blood was a stark contrast to the frigid wind blowing through the trees. Still, Stan soon found himself going cold as well, vision quickly fading as he felt his body get ripped to shreds under the starving wolf.

Chapter Text

Stan’s heart raced as he fumbled to put on his brother’s clothes. They were mostly identical, sure, but who knew if Bill actually looked at their physical forms or if he saw their souls or some other magical bullshit? This all depended on Bill being dumb enough to not see the differences and Stan being able to pull off a damn good impression of Ford. 

When they were kids, they used to swap identities all the time, just to have fun and mess with everyone else around them. Stan was always better at being Ford than Ford was at being Stan. He just hoped that he was still able to pull it off.

“Alright Ford, time’s up!” The nasally voice echoed through the room, Bill clambering through the awkwardly shaped doorways of the Fearamid. “I’ve got the kids~ I think I’m gonna kill one of ‘em now, just for the hell of it!”

A chill ran down Stan’s spine as Bill gestured wildly with the hand that held the children, bringing them right in front of his eye. His pupil started to glow red, the shape now a shooting star rather than the usual slit.

“ EENIE, ” he blinked, his pupil a pine tree. “ MEENY, ” shooting star, “ MINIE, ” pine tree, “ YOU! ” star.

“ WAIT!! ” Stan bellowed, trying to keep his voice smoother than usual. “I surrender! My only condition is that you let my brother and the kids go!”

Bill hummed, the sound buzzing around Stan’s skull. “Well then, IQ, if you’re changing conditions, then I want to too! How about… as well as getting that little equation out of your mind, I also get complete and utter control over your entire body and soul!”

Stan froze for a moment, barely comprehending the words. He figured it really didn’t matter who had control of his body and soul if the both of them were getting erased, anyways, but would Ford agree with no hesitation? Or would he try to bargain further?

Though only a split second had passed, Stan knew that he couldn’t debate his response for much longer before it became an issue. He stuck out a hand, keeping his face as neutral as possible.

“Deal.”

Bill giggled as he dropped the children, quickly shrinking down to his usual size. He didn’t bother rehashing the details or asking for another confirmation before his hand burst into flames and made contact with Stan’s.

Then everything went white.

Stan was sitting comfortably in his Mindscape’s living room, rewatching The Duchess Approves with some fond memories mixed in there. He could feel Bill’s presence from behind the door, but chose not to tune into the demon’s words. Chances were, the corn chip was just flaunting about being able to win Ford over or some stupid thing like that.

Though… it was taking longer than he expected for Bill to open the door. And it didn’t feel like his mind was getting erased yet, so it probably wasn’t. Which meant Bill was still in there, right? Time passed differently in dreams, sure, but something about the demon’s absence was worrisome.

The fond memories that were interspersed between his beloved period drama soon turned to not-so-fond ones. Getting Ford back only to be punched in the face, hearing the kids decide whether or not they’d stay for the summer over an 8-ball, being 8-ball (Andrew Alcatraz lived a particularly hard life), and more unsavory memories overtook the TV screen in front of him.

The memories overlapped, growing louder and extending beyond the TV, until the living room Stan was sitting in became a re-lived hell. A nasally cackle burst through the noise of memories, and things went white once more.

He woke up surprisingly refreshed, his body not aching like it was before. Though the sight of the Fearamid wasn’t ideal, the sight of his family standing alive and well brought a smile to his face.

In response to his relief, though, the three people in front of him stared in abject horror. Ford especially, with the memory gun still outstretched in his hands.

“C’mon Sixer, don’t make that face at me! You look like a kicked dog with that frown.”

Ford’s frown sharpened into disgust.

“Don’t call me that, you demon, ” he spat, eyes flicking away from Stan just for a moment.

Stan followed his gaze, seeing… him.

There he was, crumpled on the floor. Stan’s body in Ford’s clothes. Lifeless. 

Well, lifeless for a moment. He suddenly sat up with a gasp, scrambling away from the people in front of him and up against the wall.

“Wh— what’s happening? Why am I back?”

Stan felt his heart— did he have a heart anymore? — drop as he saw his own face speak, only for Bill’s voice to come from it. He looked down at himself, quickly realizing the reality of the situation as he was met with a simple yellow body and black rubber hose limbs.

Oh no.

“H– hey, that’s not me in there!” Stan scrambled for words, desperate for his family to believe him. “Can’t you hear it? That’s not my voice, that’s Bill in there!”

“As if, ” Bill scoffed, rolling his— Stan’s — eyes. “Just admit defeat, ya corn chip. You got out-scammed.”

“ You got out-scammed! That was the plan! To out-scam you and get you erased with my mind!”

“You only know that plan because you were knocking around up in here before you got spit back out!”

“No, I know it because I was the one who came up with it!”

“ ENOUGH! ” Ford’s voice broke through the air, stopping the bickering. “Stop arguing like children, what the hell is happening?”

“ That’s Bill! ” Stan and Bill said in unison, pointing towards each other.

Ford kept his finger on the trigger of the memory gun, fiddling with the controls of it as he stared incredulously at the two. The kids stood behind him with wide, worried eyes flicking between Stan-in-Bill’s-body and Bill-in-Stan’s-body.

“C’mon, you gotta believe me Sixer, he threw me in his body and is controlling mine!” Stan tried to step forwards, only for Ford to flinch in response to the movement.

“He’s playing mind games with you, Ford, he just left my mind once he realized he was tricked like the idiot he is.”

The scientist looked between the two, clearly unable to make a decision on his own. His confusion was broken by Mabel pulling on the edge of Ford’s shirt, beckoning him down to her level. She whispered in his ear, eyeing the two suspiciously. Ford nodded and stood up again, grip never faltering on the gun.

“Mabel has a question for you two,” he cleared his throat. “Where did she take Stan in an attempt to cure his phobia?”

“What phobia? You’re gonna have to be more specific,” Stan responded at the same time as Bill saying, “The water tower, duh.”

Ford looked down to his niece, whose eyes were full of tears. She shrugged and shook her head. He looked back to his twin and the demon, not knowing which was which. Stan laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, the water tower was there for my fear of heights, yeah, knew that! There’s other stuff though, like the claustrophobia and hating motorcycles— didn’t know if she was talkin’ about either of those or something else, heh.”

Ford hummed, raising a brow as he glanced at Bill.

“Stan, do you have claustrophobia and a hatred for motorcycles?”

It felt like Stan’s mind was full of cotton, watching his brother call the demon by his name. His ears were ringing as the energy thrumming through him picked up the pace.

“Well, yeah, but Mabel never did anything to try to ‘cure’ those, she only tried with the height thing,” Bill shrugged.

Mabel gave a small nod in response when Ford looked back down at her. His expression was firmer when he turned his gaze back to Stan.

“If Mabel only tried to cure Stan’s fear of heights, why would you need clarification when asked about what phobia she was helping with?”

“Well– I dunno– kid’s pretty perceptive, y’know? Thought maybe she tried to do somethin’ that I didn’t really notice, not as intense as the water tower thing,” despite being in a body with no sweat glands, Stan could feel himself break out into cold sweats as he dug himself deeper into his grave. “Really though, I swear I’m Stan, you guys heard the whole extra part of the deal, having total control of my body and soul and whatnot— he used that to take over my body, honest! Ask some other questions if you gotta, gimme another chance!”

He didn’t miss Ford’s sneer at him asking for another chance, but chose not to let it stab at his nonexistent heart too much. Ford knelt down to the kids again, not taking his eyes away from the other two. Bill stayed pressed against the wall, his expression a blend of confusion and anger. He was a pretty damn good actor, Stan had to admit, but he wasn’t going to let the triangle win. There was no way his family would be tricked for much longer, right?

Ford cleared his throat again, breaking Stan’s thoughts and pulling his gaze back to his brother instead of the demon in the corner.

“Dipper’s curious about Stan’s tattoo. What do you know about it?”

They spoke in unison.

“ I don’t have a tattoo, kid. ”

Stan glared daggers at the demon in his body as Bill chuckled.

“You do a pretty good impression of me,” the demon winced as he sat up a little straighter, looking Stan in the eye. “But you can’t let this drag on forever, just admit defeat.”

“ I do a ‘good impression’ of Stan because I am him, jackass! ” Stan’s vision went red as the walls of the Fearamid shook. He heard the kids yelp in surprise and they held firmer onto Ford, Bill pressing himself further against the wall with a false look of fear.

The shaking stopped while Stan’s vision faded back to normal, taking a deep breath. His family stared at him with a blend of fear and animosity, inching closer to Bill.

“Did… did I do that?” Stan looked around the room, which was filled with significantly more rubble than before. “Do I have his powers when I’m in his body?”

If he did, then wouldn’t that mean that Stan could just snap and end up in his own body again? That wouldn’t solve the problem of Bill still existing, but maybe he’d stay in his head and Ford could just erase them together like they’d planned.

He raised a hand, putting a finger against his thumb and wishing that he’d get back into his own skin.

“ NO! ”

Ford’s voice was followed by an electronic buzz, a blue beam making its way towards Stan.

Then everything went white.

Chapter Text

High pitched ringing flooded his ears as Ford’s hackles raised and his vision went red. He could hear his heart pounding behind his forehead, a slow, steady pace of a predator. Prey— or enemies, he couldn’t tell yet— moved in front of him, daring to edge closer. He let out a low, warning growl, clearly baring his teeth as his fingers twitched for his blaster.

The figures in front of him halted their movements immediately. Good. Not that Ford wouldn’t be able to handle them if they were threats, but he’d rather not fight a pack in an unfamiliar location, especially if it was their domain. He stared them down, focusing his sights on the largest of the pack— though there was no way it was the leader, he could practically smell the deference radiating from it. 

That meant that the real leader of the pack was somewhere else. Worrisome, but not entirely a problem. It was likely that the figures in front of him were guarding the leader, keeping it safe— which meant that they saw Ford as a threat. Which was a good thing, Ford was a threat towards them, he’d honed his fighting skills over decades out in the multiverse, after all. He was a force to be reckoned with, just ask any of the dimensions he had visited.

He kept his stance low, coat moved aside to show his blaster as he stepped backwards slightly. If this was their domain, then he’d have to leave, but there was no way he was going to run like some sort of coward. He’d show that he was a threat, a predator, a weapon until either he was out of their sight or they were all dead.

He took another small step back, not tearing his eyes away from the pack in front of him, and froze.  

There was another one behind him. He just bumped into it. He was surrounded.

With a snarl, Ford spun around to the thing behind him, reaching for his blaster and finding the holster empty. The figure behind him— the pack leader, his brain supplied— had the blaster firmly in its grasp. It didn’t seem to know what to do with it, not holding the weapon properly or aiming it towards Ford, but he couldn’t let it hold it for much longer.

Ford pounced on his prey, slamming it against a wall. It yelled, holding the blaster tightly and keeping it away from Ford. He heard movement behind him— the rest of the pack— and slammed the leader against the wall once more before throwing it to the ground and turning to the others.

They were running towards him, arms outstretched to make them seem larger, shouting out vaguely familiar sounds. He dodged the two smaller figures easily, throwing them to the ground with little force. The larger one, though, the one he had been staring down in the first place, caught him off guard.

It moved surprisingly quick for its size, grappling Ford instead of attacking him. Ford hissed and snarled as he thrashed against its arms. The leader stepped forwards, blaster nowhere to be seen.

These things are intelligent, they hid the blaster. Find it.

The leader was moving slowly towards him, wary, but not aggressive. What a fool. Ford bit down on the arms holding him, hard. The grip loosened, allowing Ford to get out from the hold and dart forwards. He punched the leader before it could realize what happened and scanned the room for his weapon.

He spotted the gleam of its handle poking out from behind a corner. Not that intelligent, then. He dodged the smaller figures again as he dove for the blaster, immediately pointing it towards the pack once it was in his grasp. 

The high, electrical whine from the blaster mixed with Ford’s deep growl, blending into a horrible song that signified one thing: danger. The pack in front of him hesitated, rubbing their injuries and reeking of fear. He didn’t let his guard falter, finger firmly on the trigger.

He could feel his heart rate slowing as he minutely relaxed from the action, the air tense between them. The pack was making low, soft sounds, watching him intently. They almost sounded comforting, which was a ridiculous thought. If they were trying to be comforting, then that meant that they were trying to calm him down, which would mean they were lulling him into a false sense of security, which he couldn’t let happen.

Movement in the corner of his eye. One of the small ones. Trying to sneak by while Ford’s attention was trained on the leader. He was smarter than that.

A loud crack shot through the air, followed by screams and the smell of smoky, burnt flesh. The rest of the pack ran towards their injured member, falling on the floor around it. Ford could make his escape now since they were clearly distracted, surrounding Mabel—

Mabel. Oh god. 

The red haze fogging his vision disappeared in an instant, his blaster falling to the floor from his limp hands. They weren’t threats, they were never threats, he was the threat. He was an animal, a monster, a living weapon that didn’t deserve any place in this home.

A pitiful keening noise made it out of his throat before shaky legs bolted out of the Shack, carrying him deep into the woods.

Chapter Text

Stanford Pines was the responsible one. He planned out every step of every day every single year. He’d done so since he was a child. That was his role— Stanley would charge in, and Stanford would plan. 

Even when Ford would stay up too late reading before an exam and end up falling asleep in the middle of class, or he’d get too excited over an experiment and forget the safety measures, ending up with burns and cuts when the thing exploded on him, he was the planner, he was the responsible one. 

It didn’t matter that Stan was the one to remind him to wear his modified gloves, or drag him to bed chastising him for staying up until 2AM on a school night, or bringing him food to make sure he wouldn’t forget again, Ford was the responsible twin, and Stanley was the reckless one. 

“Do ya have a death wish, Sixer?” Stan would tease while he made sure his nerdier twin didn’t waste away thanks to his own ambition. Ford would scoff, fondly rolling his eyes as he let his brother act like a mother hen. 

So what if he’d get too caught up in the process and forget to pay attention to anything else? He’d know his end goal, and he was going to reach it no matter what. Scientific discovery was worth a few sleepless nights and missed meals.

Once Ford had moved out, he caught himself hearing Stan’s voice in the back of his head when he’d gone too long without taking care of his daily needs. He ignored it, of course, in favor of burying himself deeper in his work. 

It was easy to lose himself in equations and calculations, the gnawing feeling in his stomach becoming a background sensation. The bags under his eyes were trophies, a sign that he had pushed himself further than others. All for the betterment of science. To keep his grades up, to do more than the average A student, to have a PhD before any of his peers. Because if he wasn’t smart and responsible, what was he?

Occasionally Fiddleford would interrupt his study sessions, nudging him gently before handing him a plate of food from the cafeteria. 

“Nothin’ like my ma’s food, but it’s better than nothin’ at all! I swear, ya got a death wish’a some kind with how stuck in yer head ya get.”

Ford would take the food with a small smile and appreciate his friend’s concern, but really, Fiddleford had nothing to worry about. Ford knew his limits. His hunger hadn’t gotten to the point of consuming all of his other thoughts in an attempt to satiate itself, and the shadows in the corners of the room weren’t moving of their own volition, so he was fine.

Living in Gravity Falls by himself made it even easier to ignore his body’s needs in favor of knowledge. He had long since shut out Stan’s voice telling him off for going days without food. There was no reason to think about Fiddleford’s reminders either, not with Bill there. 

Bill understood. He knew better than anyone how annoying a human body could be, better than any other human Ford had talked to. Bill helped, even, piloting Ford when he was asleep to get more work done. It was necessary if Ford wanted to be known, if he wanted to be valued by the world. 

Researching the Natural Law of Weirdness Magnetism was Ford’s main shot at redeeming himself, proving his worth to everyone who had ever doubted him. That goal was worth anything— anything. If he couldn’t tell the differences between reality and dreams, that was just part of the process. Besides, not eating meant less money spent on food, more money spent on research.

When he finally got around to building the portal, he knew just how worth it his sacrifices were. Multidimensional travel. In his basement. There was no time to waste on rest, sustenance, or hygiene. Fiddleford tried to slip into the role he played in college, bringing sandwiches to Ford’s desk or begging him to get some rest, but more often than not the food would remain untouched on the plate by morning, Ford furiously working away in the same seat.

“Ford, ya haven’t slept more than two hours in the past week, if I’m countin’ right. I genuinely don’t know the last time ya ate, either— I’m really startin’ ta think you’re gonna kill yerself workin’ on this. Nothin’s worth a death wish.”

Fiddleford just didn’t get it. Ford couldn’t waste time on this. The mysterious whispers that he could barely comprehend helped him solve multiple problems necessary to the task, the knotted feeling in his gut the driving force behind him. He hired Fiddleford for a reason— his own hands were too shaky to handle the blowtorches, anyways. 

By the time he had fallen through the portal, Ford had practically trained himself for the lifestyle he was forced into. There was no time to eat, no time to sleep, no time to focus on anything but the task in front of him. He had to kill Bill, no matter the cost. He took what he could eat when he found it and napped when he found a safe place to stay, but only enough to keep himself alive. There were more important things to give his time to than treating himself.

It worked, like it always had. He had made the ultimate weapon, a machine created with the sole purpose of eliminating Cipher. Of course, he had made many more alternatives as backups, but he had only done so because he had the time for it. The hundreds of scars he had gotten in the process weren’t important. They were simply signs of his resilience, his dedication to his goals. 

But of course, right before he was about to accomplish his mission, he was pulled back into his own dimension. Ford had tried to explain why he was so upset that he had returned— he was so close, years of work towards this, ruined in an instant— but apparently all Stan heard was that Ford had wanted to stay a multiversal vagabond.

“You’re smarter than this, Ford! Whaddya mean you wanted to stay on the other side? Is this some kind of death wish?” 

Ford simply scoffed in response. Why he expected Stan to understand, he could never say. It truly was unfortunate though, he had failed at accomplishing his main goal just as another one fell into his lap. He had to keep the rift from breaking.

He had hoped that their fight would keep Stan away, allowing Ford to focus on the task at hand, but of course not. The conman would drop into the basement at random hours, a plate of food in hand, insisting that Ford go sleep after he ate something. 

Ford couldn’t rest, though. If any of his energy were to be focused on something that wasn’t the rift, things could go catastrophically wrong. He couldn’t afford ignoring his work just because he found himself nodding off at his desk more often than not. He was better than that.

Things went catastrophically wrong anyways. Though he should’ve been exhausted, all things considered, Ford couldn’t help but relish in the surge of adrenaline that filled his veins as the sky broke open and rained down horrors beyond most people’s comprehension. The knot in his stomach and the shake of his hands were easily explained away as he ran to the basement and got out his weapons.

The quantum destabilizer gun was the first choice, but should that fail, there was always the quantum destabilizer bomb he had made. Options. Dipper was panicking, as the boy was wont to do, but Ford assured him he knew what he was doing as they made their way to the town square. He murmured the plan to his nephew as he set up the gun, excited that all his hard work was finally going to pay off. 

“Should the gun fail, which I hope it won’t,” he explained, readying his finger on the trigger. “There’s always the bomb strapped to my chest.”

“ WHAT?! ”

The boy’s yell caught him off guard, his aim faltering. The blast of the gun shot through Bill’s hat.

“Are you crazy? Do you have a death wish or something?!” Dipper panicked, realizing what his exclamation caused his uncle to do.

“You know,” Ford sighed, “I’ve never understood people’s fascination with asking me that question.” Bill’s form grew behind him, his all-seeing eye focused directly on Ford. 

“It was nice meeting you, my boy, but I suggest you get out of the blast radius.”

Chapter Text

Shifty was good at keeping secrets. It had to be! It was a secret! Ford and Fiddleford kept a lot of secrets too. Big secrets, like what their faces looked like under the masks or Fiddleford’s “divorce” that he didn’t want Ford knowing about— whatever a “divorce” was. It was a secret between it and Fidds, though, and it wasn’t like Shifty could ask about it.

Well, it could, but Ford and Fidds didn’t know that. One of Shifty’s secretest secrets was that it was practicing words when it was alone. It didn’t want to embarass itself by fumbling over words when it spoke to the scientists for the first time— they were so smart and used words all the time, they’d probably laugh if Shifty tried to talk and messed up the sounds. That’s why it was keeping the talking practice a secret.

It didn’t really know why Ford and Fidds had so many secrets, or who they were keeping the secrets from besides each other, but Shifty wasn’t gonna spill the beans on any of them. It tried its best at keeping secrets secret, and its best was super good. So good, in fact, that when a big stranger came down into the lab, Shifty knew that it had to make sure they didn’t get the chance to share anything. After all, the lab was a secret too!

Shifty had been alone for a while, as it often was, when it heard a loud clang from above. A few more clangs, and then the usual sounds of the lab opening. Heavier footsteps than normal thumped down the stairs, with an unfamiliar voice muttering things. Shifty started flipping through shapes as it wondered what the stranger was doing— a stranger had never found the lab before!

Ford and Fidds had mentioned that there was no way someone else could find the lab, let alone get through the security measures, but clearly that wasn’t the case. For the first time, Shifty started doubting the scientists’ knowledge as the stranger thumped closer and closer to its room. 

There was a lot of yelling from the stranger. Yelling and crashing and things breaking. Especially whenever one of the security systems started up, which was weird— couldn’t they just turn it off like Ford and Fidds did? No, that was silly. The way to turn them off was probably a secret too.

Finally, the stranger got down to the part of the lab Shifty was in! Which was super exciting, since Shifty never got to meet any strangers, but super scary, since Shifty never got to meet any strangers. Plus, the lab was a secret! And so was Shifty! It couldn’t let the stranger find out!

It settled on the form of a mug, tucked neatly in the corner of its cage. It couldn’t see the stranger yet, but it heard them grumbling while they rummaged around Ford and Fidds’ stuff on the other side of Shifty’s room. The scientists were gonna be so mad when they came back to find all their stuff messed with, and Shifty hated it when they were mad. It had to stop the stranger somehow, but what was the best way to do that without revealing itself?

It hummed with thought— something it didn’t know it could do as a mug until now, and the stranger’s rummaging stopped for a moment. They walked up to the door of Shifty’s room and tried to open it, but they couldn’t figure out the password. Shifty couldn’t help but giggle at the angry grumbles the stranger let out as they prodded the keypad. The stranger’s noises stopped again at Shifty’s giggles.

And then with one loud bang, the door busted open.

Shifty was glad it couldn’t breathe as dust and some weird smelling electrical sparks filled the air. The dust acted as a slight cover for the stranger, though they didn’t seem to care much, barging into Shifty’s room and looking around frantically. The stranger was way bigger than Ford and Fidds, and they weren’t even wearing a labcoat! Instead, they wore a shirt that kinda looked like a plaidypus, all red and black and checkered. The stranger’s hair was kinda red too, but an orangier-red. They had hair on the bottom half of their face, where Ford and Fidds’ masks usually were. (Was the face hair supposed to be a secret, too?) 

“Hello? Is anyone in here?” the stranger asked, breaking Shifty’s train of thought. Their voice was low and grumbly, it echoed around the room with just how loud they were. It was hard for Shifty not to push itself further into the corner of its cage to escape the loudness, but it had to stay still.

The stranger clomped around the room carefully, being surprisingly gentle as they picked things up and looked them over. They paused when they looked at Shifty’s cage. If Shifty was something that could sweat, it absolutely would’ve been drenched with the way the stranger was peering through the bars with a stern expression. They stuck out a large, gloved finger and started to stick it through the bars towards Shifty.

It was trying really hard to be good and keep itself a secret, it swears, but it couldn’t help but squeak when the finger got too close.

“ Please don’t touch me! ” 

The words came out small and rushed, but it still caused the stranger to quickly pull their finger back and gasp. They stared at Shifty for a few moments, mouth opening and closing without a sound. Shifty stayed still, not changing its shape as it wondered how it was gonna get the stranger to leave while making sure they didn’t share any of the secrets they’d discovered.

It could just ask the stranger very nicely, it supposed, but Ford had asked Fiddleford very nicely to stop using the memory gun thingy and Shifty still saw him bring in the invention every so often, so asking nicely doesn’t always work. It could ask not nicely instead, but that worked even less. …What other options were there besides asking?

Its silent question was quickly answered by the sound of its cage creaking open. The stranger knelt in front of it, their large hand outstretched.

“I’m not gonna hurt ya, little buddy, ya seem pretty harmless,” their loud voice was surprisingly gentle as they peered at Shifty snug in the corner. “Yer a very polite mug, though I doubt that’s what ya actually are, huh?”

Shifty gave no verbal response, instead just fidgeting slightly and making small tinks as its porcelain body hit the metal. If it couldn’t ask the stranger to not share the secrets, then it’d just have to make sure that they couldn’t share the secrets.

“How ‘bout you get in my hand here and we get outta this freaky place, eh?” they asked with a grin— as if Shifty would want to leave the lab without Ford and Fiddleford’s permission! And it was rude to call things “freaky,” didn’t they know that? 

The stranger didn’t wait for any answer, just reaching out and grabbing Shifty with their massive hands. Shifty froze as they pulled it out of the cage, unsure of how to handle the situation but desperately aware that it had to get out of the stranger’s hands and make sure that they couldn’t share any of the secrets they’d discovered so far.

Once the stranger had fully removed Shifty from the cage, it formed a mouth with sharp teeth and bit, hard. The stranger yelped and let go of Shifty, giving it the free reign to change its shape. It didn’t know many big forms, Ford and Fiddleford only showing it creatures that were only up to their hips in height, but Shifty knew that wouldn’t be enough. In the spur of the moment, Shifty changed to the biggest thing it had ever seen— the stranger.

The stranger paled at the sight of themself looming over them, but quickly scrambled to their feet and raised their fists in warning.

“No wonder they had ya locked up like that, no matter how polite ya are,” they huffed, a wolfish grin spreading across their face.

That gave Shifty an idea. It circled the stranger as it focused on parts of itself, elongating the lower half of its face to a furred snout, eagle-like talons stretching out of its fingertips. The stranger didn’t falter, keeping eye contact with Shifty as they kept their fists up by their face.

“I can’t let you get out of here,” Shifty mimicked the stranger’s voice, though it came out as more of a growl. “You’d share too much.”

“Is that a threat?” the stranger raised a brow.

“Are you gonna tell them?” Shifty mirrored the expression.

“I think I’m gonna have to, a giant bunker with shape-shiftin’ monsters isn’t—”

The stranger’s words were cut off by Shifty lunging towards them, sinking its sharp teeth deep into their arm. It wasn’t a monster. It was an anomaly. It wasn’t bad for being different, Ford told it so.

It was quickly thrown off of the stranger’s arm, a swift punch cracking against its jaw. It yelped with pain and clawed at them in return. The eagle talons ripped through the sleeves with ease. Each time the stranger held their arms up, Shifty bit, its arms constantly flailing the sharp talons towards its opponent.

Although the inhuman attacks threw the stranger off guard at first, they soon adjusted their methods. They let Shifty lunge forward for another bite, ducking out of the way and pinning Shifty down to the ground with a loud thud.

Clearly, they had already forgotten about Shifty’s abilities. It turned itself to ooze, remembering the slime that Ford had brought in about a week prior. It squeezed out from underneath the stranger, who was scratching at the ground in a feeble attempt to pick up Shifty’s new non-Newtonian nature. 

Shifty kept the slimy outer coating as it turned into a wolf— still with eagle talons, rushing towards the stranger as they began to stand up, slipping around in the slime that remained on the floor. It snapped its jaws around their neck with a sickening crunch, its talons ripping into their chest.

It kept going, tearing chunks out of the stranger while the wet squelches of flesh ripping filled the air. The stranger wasn’t fighting back anymore, at least, but Shifty had to be sure they weren’t able to leave the place. The biology of all the different creatures Ford and Fiddleford brought in here varied enough that Shifty really had no idea how bodies worked. It settled on the idea of the more gone, the better.

The telltale sound of footsteps going down the stairs that led down to the basement brought Shifty out of its little frenzy, especially with how fast the footsteps were going. It sounded like two people this time, and the steps were much lighter than the strangers— it was probably Ford and Fidds!

Shifty looked around the room and cringed at the mess, but knew that if it were to try to fix things, the scientists would get upset. They didn’t like anyone touching their things, even if it was for a good reason. It couldn’t help its tail from wagging as the footsteps got closer, familiar voices becoming clearer and clearer.

The scientists sounded upset, which wasn’t good, but Shifty knew they’d feel better once they found out that their secrets were still safe. It was best to not make anything worse, though, so Shifty climbed back in its cage and closed the door to it, keeping it secure. It laid down, resting its head against its altered paws, waiting for the two humans to return.

“What if they stole our research? What if they stole our specimens?! ” Ford’s voice rung out as they reached the front half of the lab— right before Shifty’s room.

“It don’t matter what they took, it matters if they tell, Ford! Half the stuff down here’s illegal, I can’t go to jail fer this!” Fiddleford’s anxious twang followed, and Shifty could tell that the man was wringing his hands and pulling at his hair.

It was glad that Fiddleford understood, since they disagreed more often than it and Ford did. Ford would be happy to see that nothing and no one was stolen, though! It smiled wide as the scientists stepped into Shifty’s room, its tail wagging furiously.

The way that the men’s chatter immediately stopped, as well as their steps, had it a little bit worried though. They seemed… scared as they looked around the room, Ford’s eyes falling on Shifty, while Fiddleford’s gaze flitted every which way.

“... Shifty…” Ford muttered after a long moment, his uncharacteristically small voice breaking the air. “Did… you do this?”

“Yup!” Shifty sat up as much as it could in the cage, nodding proudly. The scientists gasped in response, Fiddleford’s twitching pausing for just a moment before it increased tenfold. Shifty couldn’t help but giggle at their shocked faces, which were unmasked for once. “And I can talk, too! I’ve been practicing as a surprise, but I’m not super great yet.”

A long silence dragged out, Shifty’s words hanging awkwardly in the air. Its tail slowly stopped its wagging, unsure of what it had done to keep the scientists so speechless. They were never speechless.

“I, um, I’m sorry for keeping the talking a secret,” it murmured, looking down and away from the humans. “And sorry that the stranger made a mess, but I stopped them! And I figured out how to mix forms! Look!”

It perked up, tail wagging a bit again as it lifted one of the taloned paws and willed it into a human hand. It pressed the hand up against the bars of the cage, expecting Ford to take out his journal and start writing new information on Shifty— he loved it when Shifty figured out new things!

Instead, it was met with Fiddleford screeching and pulling himself behind Ford, who stood rigid, a blank look on his face. Another awkward silence followed, Shifty dropping the form entirely and reverting to his natural shape.

“... I… I did good, right?” it looked Ford in the eyes, confused as to where it had gone wrong. “The stranger was gonna tell people your secrets, they said so. So I stopped them from telling… that’s good, right?”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, but all that came out was a strangled groan of some kind before he left Shifty’s room in a hurry. Ford stood still for a bit longer, his fingers twitching at his sides.

“... O– one moment, Shifty, uh— y– you– um… one moment,” the scientist squeaked out, leaving Shifty’s room as well.

Shifty slunk back to the corner of its cage, pressing itself against the bars. It didn’t want to be alone right now, it didn’t like being alone. Ford and Fidds seemed upset about the stranger making it into the lab and making a mess of things, but they seemed even more upset about Shifty talking and mixing forms. It wasn’t bad that it was learning, was it? Ford always encouraged it to learn more, why was he so upset with Shifty learning on its own?

Whispered shouts from behind the wall only made it feel worse. It didn’t want Ford and Fidds fighting again, they’d be angry at each other for weeks. Though it could’ve shifted into something with better hearing, Shifty kept itself unaware of the discussion happening between the humans— it was nicer to let them keep their secrets.

“Shifty?” Ford’s timid voice broke Shifty’s train of thought, the scientist standing awkwardly in the doorway. “How would you like to… see the outside world?”

“Yes! Yes!” it chirped, trilling with excitement as it rushed to the front of the cage. “The stranger said they were gonna take me out but I didn’t wanna unless you said it was okay, is it okay?”

“Y— yes, Shifty, it’s… okay,” Ford rubbed the back of his neck, Fiddleford watching from behind. “But um, first, we must take you through the decontamination chamber, to, uh, wash you off.”

Shifty nodded, sitting patiently in its cage while Ford slowly moved towards it. He picked up the cage instead of opening it and grabbing Shifty like he normally did. That was weird, but Ford did just say that Shifty needed to get washed, so that was probably why. It could’ve slipped out of the cage if it wanted, but if Ford wanted it in the cage, it’d stay.

The rest of the bunker looked super cool, with a bunch of big metal machines everywhere. Shifty wondered if it’d see anything like itself down there— or up there! It hummed when Ford placed it down, excited to see the big wide world outside of the bunker.

Fiddleford typed in something on the decontamination chamber in front of Shifty, the door of it opening with a hiss. Ford knelt in front of the cage, resting his hand on the lock.

“When I open the cage, Shifty, I want you to walk right into the… decontamination chamber, alright?”

“Mhm! I’ll be good, I promise!”

Ford gave it a weird smile— but maybe he just smiled like that, Shifty never could see his emotions super well with the mask. He opened the cage and stepped out of the way. Shifty tried to keep itself from looking too eager, but couldn’t help but rush into the chamber, turning around to the scientists as the door closed behind it.

It waved at them with a trill, smiling as much as its base form could. Ford timidly returned the wave as it started to get cold. Really cold. Too cold.