Chapter Text
1980 - Fiddleford Hadron McGucket
Fiddleford had seen many strange things in Gravity Falls. Some of these were scientific marvels, like the UFO he and Stanford had explored. Some were fantastical, like the fairies and gnomes, and some were simply horrifying, like… well, like whatever used to be in that recently vacated spot in his head.
But somehow, nothing has seemed stranger than the sight of Ford, thirty years older than he should be, sitting across the table from what felt like more of a myth than any being he’d yet encountered in the falls: Stanley Pines.
For as long as Fiddleford had known Stanford Pines, he’d been a pretty weird guy. If anyone ever suggested as much to him, he would swear up and down that it was his hands, but it wasn’t. It was just how he was. Ford didn’t seem to understand people. He always seemed to be bracing for a scathing remark from his peers, and that would lead him to preemptively shoot insults left and right. That habit of his had lost him a lot of social opportunities, although he’d chilled out a little as they’d spent years together. It was a cycle, Fiddleford had noticed. Always a little meaner after a summer at home, before gradually relaxing over the school year, only to have his shields up again next August. It didn’t take a genius to put together that his home life wasn’t fantastic. There was something there that always seemed to set him on edge.
It had never occurred to Fiddleford until later that it might be the absence of something that got Stanford all riled up. Not until their senior year. Fiddleford had been reading a magazine, and came across an ad. He’d squinted at it for a few seconds before passing it along to Stanford and asking how uncanny it was that the man in the ad looked just like him. Stanford had glanced at the image, then snatched the paper out of his hands, staring at it with a look that flashed between shocked and conflicted and sad and angry, then grumbled something Fiddleford couldn’t make out, before crumpling the paper, shredding it a bit, and remarking in a completely flat tone about bizarre coincidences. Even though Fiddleford had been miffed, as he’d really been looking forward to doing the crossword, he decided not to comment.
That was his introduction to the concept of Stanley Pines, though he wouldn’t get a name, much less a story until much later. Stanford would only ever drop little bits and pieces over the years in the form of childhood stories told with a ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. How ‘we’ would pull pranks down at the docks back home. How ‘we’ would always get chased around by Crampelter. How ‘we’ used to get in so much trouble with Pa, and go hide away at the beach. Fiddleford had raised an eyebrow at that one, and added it to the ever growing list of evidence he was compiling on the story Stanford wasn’t telling. He had gathered that Stanford had another sibling. He had gathered that they weren’t close anymore, but they once were. Attached at the hip, it seemed. Almost every story Ford deigned to share from his childhood was a ‘we’ story. And it wasn’t Shermie, cause Stanford had no problem mentioning his older brother. And he’d specifically said that Shermie had moved out when he was very young.
It was after speaking to his Ma sometime around his birthday that Stanford finally let it all drop. Saying how his mother wanted him to try and reconnect with Stanley. Stanley. There it was. A name to the figure. Stanford had ranted about how Stanley was nothing more than a selfish grifter who turned his back on their whole family. How Stanley had cost him a future at West Coast Tech all because he couldn’t stomach the idea of Stanford making something more of himself. How Stan was selfish, and lazy, and why should he reach out when Stanley didn’t care to do the same? Stan had left, and never came back, and never apologized, and until he did, that was it. It wasn’t on Stanford to make amends. Full stop. Fiddleford had listened, biting his tongue the whole time. Stanford wasn’t looking for advice, or commentary, and Fiddleford got the sense that if he tried to offer either of those things, this conversation would be shut down and never ever opened again.
After that Stanford would oscillate between his bittersweet ‘we’ stories, and his resentment filled rants. If he thought it would help any, Fiddleford probably would’ve pointed out how dwelling so much on this empty hole in his life wasn’t doing Stanford any good. Maybe, god forbid, he’d feel better if he talked to his brother. At the very least to get all those feelings off his chest. But Stanford had never liked people sticking their nose in his business, and Fiddleford knew the way he tended to take any sort of criticism as an attack.
He wasn’t sure what he was expecting of this ghost that had clearly haunted his friend. Stanford had painted a brash, loud, selfish figure. Someone who cared about people no further than his own self interests. In his more nostalgic moments, Stanley was someone strong, brave, and cunning. A protector. In summary, Stanley Pines was an inconsistent wraith who was only ever what Stanford’s memories told him he was. Fiddleford eyes the tale made flesh in front of him, and tries to reconcile it with the stories.
The Stanley Pines he sees is not brash or loud. He is quiet. He has a shrewd, calculating look to his eye that Fiddleford hadn’t been expecting. The relaxed careless kid Stanford described who lounged on the beach and pulled pranks on tourists seems a far cry from the tense, battered man before him who’s clearly trying to pretend he’s in less pain than he is as he messes with his makeshift ice pack. Actually, he has a look in his eye that strikes Fiddleford as similar to those poor souls who beseeched the Society of the Blind Eye for help. A weight they begged to be removed. That didn’t speak to the carefree life Stanford always said his brother was living. Not that these discrepancies are entirely surprising. Stanford had clearly been biased, and a decade is a long time. People change. If Fiddleford turns his gaze half a foot to the left, he’ll see that crystal clearly with Ford.
He had heard something during their phone call. A note to his voice that had never existed before. He’d expected some change. It would have been unreasonable not to, but the drastic difference between the Stanford he knows and this person have caught him completely off guard. For one, he looked at this house like he hated it. Or almost like he was scared of it. He’d definitely seemed disproportionately scared when Stanley had been messing with that statue. Why? What pieces of the story were missing? Was it just some sort of twisted paranoia? Or had living in Gravity Falls all those years cracked something in him. That, currently, was Fiddleford's leading theory. Stanford had been very adamantly against his solution to the strain of living in the falls. It was a stance that Fiddleford had doubted would be shifted by time. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel some kind of sympathy for his old friend. All those strange unnatural memories living in a person's head for some thirty odd years were bound to have negative effects.
Maybe Ford could be turned around to the idea of the peaceful oblivion where a memory that haunted you used to be. Maybe time had given him a new perspective on things. Not that Fiddleford felt inclined to ask. Not yet, at least. Maybe later. Once he knew a little more about who this new version of his friend was.
They eat like starved dogs once Fiddleford puts the food on the table. Had they been in such a rush to get here they hadn’t stopped the whole way up? He can’t say it’s atypical of Ford to get so caught up that he forgets things like basic human functions. Perhaps that’s a trait the two share. They are twins, after all. Or maybe it’s whatever trouble’s got them jumpy that kept them on the road.
The conversation isn’t very full. Fiddleford tries to subtly pry answers about the state they arrived in, and Stanley shuts him down between bites. Ford asks if Fiddleford had found anything useful regarding time travel. Fiddleford said that there hadn’t been much to find. If time travel was an easy phenomenon to come into contact with, every scientist in the world would be all over it. Even in Gravity Falls time travel was ill documented. He had found an old letter written by a man traveling the Oregon trail that spoke of two devil children who had come into their wagon, and tempted their children with a strange flashy machine with numbers. That had sounded close to time travel, but further reading provided nothing useful. It only continued to describe the devil children, one with teeth like swords, and clothes in strangely vibrant colors who came and went in flashes of light, but beyond that, there wasn’t useful information about how they’d arrived or where they’d gone. Oh well. He’d sort of expected a place like the museum archives to be a dead end. The beasts of the falls were more likely to have real answers, but Fiddleford wasn’t gonna go interrogate them alone.
Ford had looked amused at his story of the devil children, and disappointed but not surprised about his lack of any real answers.
“I suspected it wouldn’t be so easy.” He murmured. “I lived here a long time, and never stumbled on time travel.”
Ford shakes the thought his head, and stands from the table, pushing his food aside. “Well, no matter. We can look into that another time. For now I have to go.”
“What?” Fiddleford glances over at Stanley as they speak in sync. Apparently both of them were none the wiser to this.
Ford barely pays them any mind, his eyes having caught on something near the windowsill. He scowls at it for a second before deigning to explain himself. “Now that we’re in the falls, I’d like to get some barriers around the shack before sleeping. I’ll only be a few hours. Perhaps less, if things go smoothly.”
“Barriers?” Fiddleford asks, bewildered.
“The spell is simple enough.” Ford assures, as if that was the issue with what he was doing. “There’s only one pesky ingredient not already on hand. I’ll go get it, I’ll come back.”
“No way.” Stanley snaps, glaring at his brother. “If you’re gonna go traipsing around in the woods in the dead of night, at the very least I’m going with you.”
Ford frowns. “I don’t think that’s wise. You are still recovering from an injury.”
“And you’re not?” Stanley points out. Fiddleford shoots him a look, eyebrow raised, but Stanley doesn’t spare him a glance, focused entirely on Ford. “How’s your head, Ford?”
Ford blinks, his expression taking on a distinct ‘deer in headlights’ look. “That’s…not relevant.” He replies in a way that screams ‘it’s definitely very injured’, which makes his next comment, accompanied by a shrug all the more frustrating. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Sure.” Replies Fiddleford, shaking his head at the damned hypocrite he calls a friend. “That’s what you always hear about head injuries. They’re ‘nothing serious’.”
Ford glares at him, and opens his mouth like he wants to say something, before he winces, and visibly recalibrates himself. Fiddleford frowns. Odd. Stanford was never one to have much tact in an argument. He usually let his emotions get the better of him, and was left to deal with the fallout later. Had his friend matured, or had what he’d been about to say so bad even he could see it was a mistake?
“...The shack needs to be protected.” Is what Ford lands on saying.
“From what?” Fiddleford asks, raising an eyebrow. There’s the paranoia he expected. “I’ve been here awhile, I haven’t had any problems.” Unless this is something that followed them specifically. Well...actually that was definitely possible. “Is this protection from whatever thing ya’ll’re not telling me about that's got you so busted up?”
“No.” Ford replies flatly, and with no hesitation. “That was handled.”
Well…ok then. Does he mean to sound so ominous? Even Stanley sucks in a breath, and looks away. But, Fiddleford notes, he does not refute that this threat is gone. That doesn’t sound like the paranoia Fiddleford was expecting from either of them. Paranoia never told the brain ‘everything is good. The threat is handled’. His brow furrows in thought. So Ford was a paranoid mess, except that he wasn’t about this very tangible threat that had obviously injured both him and his brother very recently. He’d rather focus on barriers and demons. Was it some kind of coping mechanism?
Later. He can do his best to psychoanalyze whatever this mess was later.
“...Ok.” Fiddleford eventually said. “Well if it’s not that, there’s no immediate threat here. Nothing that can’t wait til morning and a good night's rest.”
“Are you sure there hasn’t been a threat?” Ford demands. Fiddleford rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, Ford. I think I’d notice.”
Ford raises an eyebrow, and again opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say before he thinks the better of it. Instead he just exhales sharply, and goes back to glaring. Fiddleford narrows his eyes. Once could be a moment of his friend not wanting to say something that crossed a line. Twice was a pattern. Twice implied something deeper. Ford's determined expression falters under Fiddleford's searching gaze. After a long moment, he sighs and looks away.
“Right. Fine then. I’ll wait.” Ford agrees, even as he eyes the door and the window as if he’s already plotting an escape. Apparently he never got any better and spinning a truth. He hears Stanley scoff beside him. Good to know Ford doesn’t have him fooled either.
“Ford, I swear to god." Stanley warns. "If I wake up and you’ve disappeared into the woods, I am going after you, and I’m dragging you back by the ear the way ma did when we were kids.”
“I’d likely be back before you woke up.” Ford replies easily, then winces as he realizes it gives him away. He throws his hands up in surrender before Stanley can launch into another tirade. “Fine. Alright. I won’t go until morning, I promise. But I’m spending the night scratching the eyes out of the wall.”
Fiddleford blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Fine, Whatever.” Stanley agrees, as though that’s a normal thing for Ford to do. He roots through his pocket and tosses Ford a closed blade “I’m gonna go take a shower.” He stands, again wincing as he does so. He chucks the peas back into the freezer, before pausing, seeming to realize that he doesn't know his way around.
“Bathroom's down the hall to the right." Fiddleford supplies helpfully. "And there’s tylenol behind the mirror in the bathroom. Maybe take some.”
“Oh.” He glances over to see Stanley eyeing him with trepidation, as if waiting for a catch. Fiddleford raises an eyebrow. He's pretty sure he hasn't done anything to warrant such suspision. Is Stanley that paranoid that such a small thing raises alarm bells?
Whatever trick he’s looking for, he must not find it on Fiddleford's face. His expression shifts, and he looks away. “Uh, thanks. Yeah, I’ll do that. I appreciate it.”
“It’s no trouble.” Fiddleford mutters, watching Stanley disappear down the hall.
Again, Fiddleford thinks of his memory gun. It could stand to benefit these brothers. They’re exactly the type he would see on the street and offer this salvation to. They’re exactly the type he would encourage his budding society to recruit. Ford was a prime example of what they were protecting themselves from. Twitchy, nervous, illogically paranoid. It’s like how he was before the memory gun. He can’t remember quite what drove him to its creation( and thank the lord for that ) but whatever is was had him spooked as all hell. Seeing monsters where there weren’t, spiraling into pits of anxiety fearing whatever it was. Whatever it had shown him. These two are like that. Victims of the world at its worst as far as he can tell. The bliss of nothing the memory gun provides would be preferable to that. Fiddleford knows it would. But even with their limited interaction it’s clear that Stanley isn’t someone who trusts or accepts help easily. And Stanford wasn’t on board with the gun when Fiddleford proposed it, and he’d always been stubborn as a mule.
Oh well. It wouldn't do to just force it on them. Maybe once this fiasco was nearing it's end he could loan Ford the blueprints, and offer Stanley oblivion once there was a little more trust.
“Fiddleford.” Ford's voice drags him from his thoughts. The older man is eyeing him, with no small amount of concern. At some point he'd wandered off and grabbed a small pocket knife, and has one hand on the windowsill, tracing along it as if searching for something.
Right. Eyes. He's trying to scratch the eyes out of the wall. Guess that meant exactly what it sounded like it meant.
“You seem to have spaced out." Ford continues. "Are you alright?”
Fiddleford shrugs. “Sure. Fine. I’m not the one with a secret head injury or whatever's going on with your brother.”
Ford chuckles in agreement, and goes back to tracing his hand along the inside of the window sill. It doesn't take long for him to step back, scowling. Fiddleford glances over curiously, and is surpirsed to find there's actually an eye carved in the wood. It's subtle, seeming to have been made to blend with the pattern of the wood, but a slightly close look shows a triangle surrounding it. Just on the carpet Ford had covered up. Huh.
“What is that?”
Ford frowns at the shape, “A mistake.” He slashes through it with a knife. He doesn't make any more effort to continue his explanation.
“Uh huh." Fiddleford prods. "And is that all the answer I get?”
Ford huffs. At least that frustration, Fiddleford thinks, is familiar. “Would you keep it if I told you the rest?”
Fiddleford hesitates at the bitterness in his tone. “Keep it?” He asks, baffled. I’m not gonna…go around telling people or nothing.”
Ford's frown deepens. Fiddleford can’t parse what’s going on inside his head. He seems to debate internally with himself, though about what, Fiddleford can't say. Eventually, he sighs.
“Right. No, you wouldn’t. This is important to know.” He taps the blade of the knife against the scratched out carving.
“…This is Bill. The triangle with the eye. If you see him in your dreams, don’t make a deal.” Ford says curtly. Fiddleford waits for him to keep going, then sighs once it becomes clear that he won't
“Right….and?” He prompts.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” Ford says bluntly. “That’s the part that matters. I’ll tell you more when he can’t hear, if I believe it to be relevant.”
“When he can’t hear…” Fiddleford mutters to himself. Sure. Bill the magic triangle who could hear them through some unconventional patterns in the wood. Ford catches that, and turns to face him, eye brows raised, and a small half amused smile on his face.
“You probably think I’m crazy. But I’ll remind you, I am from the future. How far-fetched are beings that can infiltrate your dreams compared with time travel?”
Well... Fiddleford laughs a bit in spite of himself. When he put it like that, “I guess…not very far-fetched. Fair point. But if this guy is so bad, why’s he all over the house?”
“Like I said. A mistake.” Ford snaps. Before Fiddleford can even muster up frustration at all the none answers, the heat in Ford’s eyes fades, replaced with something heavy. “I…I’ve made a lot of mistakes. They caused the people around me a lot of pain. I know changing things is taboo, but nothing negative has come from my presence yet. I can’t undo every hurt I’ve caused, but maybe I can set some small amount of it right.”
That still sounded like it was bound to go poorly to Fiddleford. He sighs. “Guess it’s probably too late to talk you out of that, considering you carted your brother all the way up here. I’m gonna take a leap in logic and say that didn’t happen where you’re from.
Ford hums, and continues scratching idly at the mark on the wall. “Not yet, no.”
“Well, the fact that you haven’t opened a black hole or collapsed the universe yet with your messing around bodes well. I suppose I'll leave you to it." He grumbles, moving to leave Ford to his wall carving. He's halfway out the door before he's interrupted.
“Fiddleford?”
“Good lord," Fiddleford turns back to face him. "What now?”
Ford's hands are tucked behind his back, and the look on his face is almost sheepish. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind maybe…I don’t know, making me a laser gun?”
Fiddleford blinks. Then lights up as the request processes. “That’s near the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here. Absolutely, I can! No restrictions?”
“A couple restrictions.” Ford assures quickly. “Just something simple. But powerful. I can handle a more than average recoil, so don’t worry too much about that. Not too much bigger or heavier than an average handheld. And nothing too fancy, Let’s say, just lethal and stun settings. I don’t want to have to learn a whole bunch of new features. It’s not that urgent. I do have a traditional gun. But if ever you have the time-”
Fiddleford waves that last bit away. “Oh, come on, Ford. I’ll get it to you by tomorrow.”
Ford grins in a way that makes Fiddleford see his overeager friend clearer than he has since he got here. “Of course you will.”