Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fiddleford laid awake at night, the thought of him swirling around his head like a pacing bull. It had already become custom for him to wake up like this, a layer of cold sweat clinging to his body almost like a second skin, —courtesy of the poor cooling system of the shabby motel he had been living in these past few months— and the image of Stanford Filbrick Pines fresh in his mind and body. The memory of the man being a raw bleeding wound that stung all over. It didn’t matter how much time he felt had happened since they parted ways –Had it happened years ago? Sometimes it felt like yesterday. He’d never managed to recall the day he left properly– the open gash Ford had left in him hadn't fully healed, some days it seemed as if it never would. 

Memories of him surfaced one by one, whether it’d be late nights in the lab, the thrill of newfound anomalies running freely through their bloodstreams, drunken toasts to a bright future, or back when they were nothing but mere college roommates, their destinies crossed yet apparently doomed by the narrative. Two brilliant young minds finding a part of themselves in one another, and in particular moments of self-indulgence: just two college boys giggling and murmuring hushed promises to one another in the secrecy of their own dorm room, away from the prying eyes of the outside world.

His image always manifested itself in times like this, right when Fiddleford had no one but his own spiraling mind to keep him company; a dangerous circumstance. It was a predictable situation, but it was nonetheless precarious. Moments like this would always end when sunrise came, leaving a husk of a man with his mind in shambles and forgotten memories in its wake.

‘it was all so simple back then…’ A heavy sigh brushed past his lips at the thought. ‘If only I could go back.’ It was a silent plea directed towards the heavens, hoping that, despite the grave sin that was his disorder, the Lord would listen to his prayers and please him, that He would give in and the man he yearned for would materialize in his doorstep, pleading for forgiveness after having realized the danger that was that godforsaken portal. 

The ridiculous urge to glance at the door crossed his mind, as if Stanford himself were right outside on the doorstep, it was stupid, really; Ford was gone in more ways than one: gone from his life, and gone out of his mind. His hubris had blinded him so, clouding his judgement against the dangers that the portal could unleash. Fiddleford's head turned to face the small reach-in closet, particularly towards the safe that rested on top of one of the shelves.

Inevitably, his mind went back to it, it always did. 

His entire body craved for the cathartic release the gun offered, frantically seeking the way he would feel like a weight was lifted off of his shoulders every time he used it, the feeling of cold glass against his temple and the fleeting rush of leaving a burden behind that came with equally fleeting happiness. A shiver ran down his spine at the prospect.

The gun had lain dormant for some time now and yet, despite the fact, it had always been at the forefront of the man’s mind these past few days. Fiddleford’s gut churned and twisted in shame at the thought, at the humiliation of having his resolve snapped in half just by such an idiotic train of thought, at the mere prospect of giving in to his foolish urges and finally relapsing having the nerve to even cross his mind. 

Stanferd’ was right. I ain’t nothin’ but a spineless hayseed.

Slowly, remorse bubbled up inside of him as those words swirled around his head, shame noosing around his neck and slowly tightening around it, the weight of guilt gnawing at his senses, a thick dizziness and hollowness taking form. The man took a steadying breath, debating the thought of going back to sleep.

He stared at the steel box from afar, knowing exactly what lied inside of it. Putting it there was supposed to be a preventive measure, to keep himself from using it after the side effects had already begun to corrode his body and mind, to stop himself before it eventually –inevitably– tore apart his last shreds of sanity. 

But he was never a strong-willed man. 

“I need this.” He mumbled to no one but himself, a reassurance that tried to ease the wind whirl of emotions that had nested inside of him. Fiddleford stood up with wobbling legs, using the bed’s headrest as a support, trying not to topple over in his disoriented state. Blood pounded in his ears as he walked over to the safe, the only place he could trust to keep his most precious invention. The rotten wood of the closet doors creaked as they were opened, revealing a steel box inside of it. Fiddleford’s trembling fingers pressed down on the familiar numbers, the motion having been long-engraved into his subconscious; by now, it was just muscle memory.

19-20-1-14-6-15-18-4

There it was.

Kneeling, the man swiftly reached for the item, his eyes glistening with unbridled desperation at the sight of it. A breathy, borderline manic laugh escaped his lips as he cradled the item in his arms, holding it with reverence, almost as if it were something sacred. He ghosted a hesitant thumb along the rim of the wheel, along the borders of the rectangular LCD screen, and all the way to the bulb that rested on the tip of the gun. It was a grounding motion, as if he wanted to assure himself that it was still there; that it hadn’t inexplicably disappeared. His index finger and thumb gripped the aforementioned wheel, turning it around until three words were finally displayed on the gun’s screen in gaudy green letters.

STANFORD FILBRICK PINES

Shaky hands gripped the handle of the gun with an unyielding force, as if the second he loosened his grip, it would grow limbs and scurry away from him. He stared at the bulging lightbulb that replaced what would’ve been the barrel of a normal gun. It glistened back, glaring at him, mocking him, daring him to finally pull the dreaded trigger, to end all of this once and for all, to vanish his woes and retreat into the realm of blissful ignorance.

Fiddleford hadn't noticed he was biting his cheek until he felt the bitter taste of iron seep into his mouth. 

The man had already started to grip the gun so tightly that he’d started to hurt himself. With an unsteady and hesitant hand, he raised it, holding it against his temple, right on top of the star-shaped scar that was now permanently embedded onto his skin, a ghost of his past mistakes. His fingers wrapped hesitantly around the trigger, digits methodically fiddling with it, pressing it down tentatively as if to test if this would be the time he could finally commit to it. His mind raced, blood pounded on his ears as adrenaline pumped through his veins. The weight of the moment sinking in as he let it linger. 

What had previously been deep, steadying breaths were now becoming erratic and shallow, a sudden lightheadedness clouding his senses and rendering him useless. Fiddleford’s trembling hand loosened the grip on the handle, his index finger slipping from where it had been perched, right on top of the gun’s trigger. No matter how many times or how hard he tried to coax himself to finally do it, he could never bring himself to delete what had once been the treasured memory of a dear friend (and perhaps more).

Maybe if it were a real gun, he would have had the guts to do it.

At first, in the haze of desperation and in the rush of adrenaline, Stanley had pushed all the buttons, pulled all the levers, and connected every cable he could find in a hopeful yet futile attempt of getting the godforsaken thing to turn on, to emit if not a single flicker of light, something– anything that Stan could cling onto for hope. Desperation had eventually been replaced by impotence, and he reverted to what he knew best, slipping back onto the all-too-familiar action with ease: aggressiveness. 

For what seemed like hours, he had been begging, kneeling, punching and screaming at the wretched thing. His fists collided repeatedly with the freezing metal, his knuckles raw, angry purple-red blotches began to fade in as bruises started to form, drops of red blood seeping through the tender, abused skin. Grating words tore and scraped at his sore throat, imploring for mercy, for this to be some kind of wicked dream, for his brother to come out of the portal at any minute.

But nothing had happened.

A void glare stabbed through the triangular hellhole that had brought his brother’s ultimate demise. Stan fell to his knees, his aching body giving in on the weight of its own mass, no longer having the energy required to withhold itself. A loud thud echoed in the room as the man fell to the ground, dirt clinging onto his sweaty skin, creating an uncomfortable layer of grime above it. A shudder ran through his spine as his ears rang, his chest rising in a shaky breath. Hot tears bubbled behind Stan’s eyes, blurring his vision and threatening to spill at any given moment. Sobs wracked through the man’s body. He roughly wiped his stubborn tears with the heel of his hand, unwilling to let any more of them spill.

The effects of the once bustling adrenaline were finally wearing out after hours of useless pleading, leaving way to an even greater sense of dread to settle inside him, his pounding heart feeling like it was going to jump out of his ribcage. The bruises that littered his knuckles made themselves known with a stinging ache and his sore arms didn’t hesitate to protest at every move he made.

A piercing pain tore through his shoulder, the culprit being a nasty second-degree burn that had gone unnoticed for the past few hours. Stan took a steadying breath; he’d had worse, he had more important things to care about right now. He'd fix that later. His body complained, but he opted to ignore his gaping wound. A pulsing pain wracked at the burn. He winced. 

Later. 

Stan glanced around, trying to look for anything that had gone unnoticed. Maybe now, with the frenzy of adrenaline having worn off, he would find the key to turning it on, the secret to getting the damn portal to open and for his brother to come back. Stan caught sight of a worn leather-bound journal, with a golden six-fingered hand etched into its cover, the number one painted on top and a monocle (because of course Ford would use a monocle— the pretentious bastard) dangling by a cord from its spine.

Bingo.

“Fuck–” A sharp, pained hiss escaped Stan’s lips as he stood up, the man weakly clutched his shoulder as the burn there made itself known with a throbbing ache. Stanley hoisted himself up with shaky legs, walking over to the book and grabbing it with his unoccupied hand. He inspected it, opening it and earnestly skimming through its contents. A shred of hope managed to wedge itself in Stanley’s heart as he saw that the diary held instructions on how to operate the portal. That was it– he needed to get to work right then and there.

In the darkness of the bunker, the already indiscernible line between night and day blurred further as countless hours of Stan’s life were spent trying to decipher the alien codes his brother had invented —because of course he couldn’t be a normal person! He always has to be so secretive and over the top, even when writing in a fucking private diary.— Stan had soon learned that most of the contents of the journal were Ford documenting the anomalies that lay hidden in the forests of Gravity Falls, and when he had finally, after what seemed like forever reached a part of the book that vaguely spoke about the portal— he’d turned the page and was met with a message.

Continued in Journal #2

An aggrieved groan left Stanley, the guttural sound bouncing and echoing against the walls of the chilly underground lab. The message seemed to sneer and mock him for not understanding the book, the cursive he had always thought of as pretentious looked even more infuriating now. 

It had to be a joke, some sick, twisted and of awful taste joke.

Ford said that he hid the wretched book— the maniac could’ve put it anywhere. There’s no time to play hide and seek now, he could be in some hellhole dimension right now! Ford might even be— No. No, no, no— focus Stan.

He isn’t dead.

He can’t be.

A heavy, exhausted sigh brushed past his lips as he slouched against the desk, just staring at the book, hoping that it would somehow by the grace of whatever higher being was looking after him —which, whoever they were, they were doing a rather lackluster job—, achieve sentience —Gravity Falls was a weird place, right? That had to be possible— and personally tell him all there was to know about operating the portal. 

Days of sleep deprivation had finally caught up to Stan, as his eyelids drooped, the man struggling to keep them open. He couldn't give himself the luxury of wasting a single second; Ford needed him. He stifled a yawn.

He was quickly losing the fight, and his addled mind wandered back comforting memories of simpler times, times where Ford would find himself in the exact same position Stan was now, eternally hunched over the shabby wooden study in their shared room back at Glass Shard Beach, papers and books strewn across its surface as he bit the lost himself in his studies, most of the time forgetting to tend to his most basic needs. 

The crummy timber door let out a pitiful squeak as Stan opened it. He glanced around, surprised to find Ford still bent over that goddamn desk, jotting down notes in that pompous loopy cursive (Who did the guy think he was? A founding father?) and researching whatever topic he'd gotten interested in that month. Even before he left, Ford had been already frozen in that same spot; Stanley had left at noon. 

It was already night. 

It had been six hours.

Typical Sixer. He shook his head with a smile as he leaned casually against the threshold, a half-empty bag of toffee peanuts and a sealed pack of jelly beans cradled against his chest, both of them inside a flimsy paper bag. “Yeesh Ford, did you melt into the chair or somethin’?” He said through a mouthful of toffee peanuts.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, I can hear you chewing— it's gross.” Ford scolded his twin with an annoyed huff, not even bothering to divert his gaze from the book in his lap. 

A chuckle brushed past Stan’s lips as he approached his brother, giving a rather heavy-handed pat to his back. “I can always count on ya’ for a warm welcome” He rolled his eyes playfully, reaching into the paper bag, pawing around for the jellybeans. “Here, ya’ need to eat.” When he found them, he threw them at Ford, who caught them clumsily.

Truth to be told, Stanford had been stuck on a particularly confusing section of the book, and the stress of not having been able to solve what was supposed to be a cipher that he would've otherwise breezed through had been gnawing at him for almost an hour now. Any trace of previous strain was washed off of his face as a graceful smile snuck onto his lips at his brother’s caring gesture, and even then, he couldn’t help but to annoy him at least a little bit. “Jellybeans aren’t exactly nutritious, you know?” He teased, six-fingered hands unceremoniously fumbling with the plastic bag, pulling haphazardly at the flaps to open it.

Stan threw his head back in exasperation as an annoyed groan rumbled in his throat at his brother’s response. He decided to grab the candy from Ford’s hands and to put it back into the confines of the bag for a moment, just to annoy him back. He dangled the bag in front of him and snatched it away when his brother tried to reach for it. “Quit being obnoxious— you want 'em or not?”

“Of course–” The bag of jellybeans hit him square in the face. He rolled his eyes. “Thanks”

“You’re welcome, nerd.”

How the tables have turned.

A bitter —nostalgic— smile tugged weakly at the corners of Stan’s lips at the fond memory. He sighed. Thinking of Ford made the guilt that had previously been a present but sizzling burn in his gut flare up, the shameful feeling bubbling up his stomach, sour bile rising up his throat. 

The dreaded images of Ford being swallowed up by the massive portal conjured itself up in Stan’s mind, the primal panic and fear that had been deeply etched into his features as he feverishly begged for Stan to do something, how his struggling form had failed to grasp at anything that could anchor him to this dimension. But Stan had stood frozen in shock, unmoving, not doing anything to help whatsoever. The pleads that had poured out of his brother's mouth falling onto deaf ears as he fought against the unrelenting pull of the machine to no avail. The unwanted memories made the feeling of guilt multiply tenfold.

It was his fault. His brother could be dead.

The mere notion that Ford could be gone because of him made the grogginess that had previously set deep in his bones scurry away like mice, replaced by a frenzied resolve. 

He had to get Ford out of there.

White specks dotted Fiddleford’s vision as they gingerly poured down from above, falling softly, the sight akin to watching weightless feathers drifting lazily through the air. A blanket of snow had covered the entirety of the ground, accentuating each step that Fiddleford took with a crisp crunch. The trek to the cabin proved hard, after all, Ford had asked the shack to be built in a secluded area with nothing but what had once been a vast, virgin forest. Fiddleford supposed it was so he could study in peace, the place a safe haven for uninterrupted research, far, far away from the sleepy downtown of Gravity Falls.  

The canopy of snow-tipped trees stretched for miles on end, the green leaves of the lush trees hooshing and whistling as the air tenderly swayed them from side to side, some of them falling to the ground, just to be swallowed up by the snow mere minutes after. Despite the view's beauty, the uneven terrain didn't make it easier for Fiddleford, as he was forced to slowly trudge all the way to the cabin.

With every puff he let out, a white wisp of fog escaped his mouth. His hands rubbed against each other, hoping that the friction would ease up the incessant tingle that had settled in his fingertips.

Showin’ up unannounced ta’ yer’ ex-lab partner's house after we ended on real bad terms? Real smart of ya Fidds. I'm sure he will greet ya’ with open arms an’ a kiss on the cheek, yessir.

No matter how dumb the idea was —Really, did Fiddleford have no sense of self-preservation?—, it was infinitely better than shooting himself with the memory gun until his brain was nothing but a heap of pink putty and fried neurons.

Walking through the familiar path to the cabin was unnerving to say the least. It made Fiddleford’s nerves jitter and the urge to turn on his heel and run back to where he came from like a madman, just to relish in the cold embrace of the memory gun grew stronger with each step he took. The ever-looming threat of unwanted memories rearing their ugly heads even more menacing now that he was back at the place where they had formed.

An apprehensive gaze raked over the form of the shack, the once bustling and lively place now a mere shadow of what it used to be, half-buried beneath silvery mounds of snow, weathered wood struggling to uphold its own weight and the eerie atmosphere that the building had to it enveloping him like some sort of wretched spell.

A shaky breath left the man as he found himself upon the door, the same door where he had once stomped away, furious at his warnings not being taken seriously what seemed like a lifetime ago. —Had it really been that long since he had left?— What used to be a comforting place now making shudders run down his spine at the mere sight of it.

“Stanferd’?...” Fiddleford croaked, rapping his knuckles against the door gently. His fingers hesitantly ghosted over the handle of the memory gun that laid beneath his heavy coat.

A pregnant pause.

“Stanferd'! I know you're in there!” The loud yell, paired with the earnest knocking pierced through the deafening silence that had settled over the sleepy forest, creatures quickly scurrying away at the sound. “Stanferd’ Filbrick Pines, I swear if ya’ don't open the door this very moment!—”

An exasperated groan rumbled through Fiddleford’s throat.

Fine— it 's fine. Two can play at this game.

Despite the protest that resonated through his frostbitten joints, the man leaned down, glancing beneath the stiff, mud-streaked mat. The replacement key glinted under the moonlight, a shred of hope in the vast darkness that was this whole debacle. Fiddleford didn't waste his time, quickly jamming the key into the lock, turning it around, hoping that the mechanism hadn't somehow frozen in this godforsaken climate. Fiddleford’s hands fumbled with the item, but his efforts were futile.

Either Ford had changed the lock to another one of the same brand, or the unforgiving, below-zero temperatures had really done a number on the mechanism.

A sigh.

Fiddleford didn't have the time to figure out which one it was, so he reverted to his first tactic: relentless knocking. 

After what seemed like an eternity of rapping knuckles against the hardened wood, muffled grunts could be heard from the other side of the door.

“Ford! I've been callin’ after you fer' almost half an' hour now, I've been—” As his hand swiftly reached for the memory gun, preparing to aim it at the man in front of him, words tumbled over one another, Fiddleford eager to let it all out after months of excruciating radio silence.

But when he came face to face with the disgruntled figure that had laid just beneath the threshold, his once firing mouth stopped in its tracks immediately.

Fiddleford’s eyes raked over the other man’s form, taking his appearance in with a puzzled frown. His resemblance to Ford was outright uncanny, only a few features distinguishing the two men apart from one another. The most glaringly obvious one being his fashion sense— formalwear had always been a staple of Ford’s closet, going all the way back to college. Ties were always snugly secure against his neck, trench coats ironed to perfection, warm turtleneck sweaters that made him resemble the likes of Carl Sagan, button-ups and sweater vests had always been routinary for Stanford, even in his worst moments.

But the stranger in front of him?

A worn-out beanie, frayed at the seams with holes poking through its surface hung loosely from his head, knotted curls cascading down his shoulders —Ford would never let his hair get that long, Fiddleford recalled the man had once called the feeling of hair tickling his neck an “attack on the senses”—in a matted mullet, a dingy black shirt, stained at the collar framed his stocky build, accompanied by the lingering smell of tobacco and sweat seemed to trail after him, the scent pungent. Ford always hated when he smoked.

Definitely not him.

Fidds cleared his throat.

“You're not— You're not Stanford...” He trailed off, bemusement coloring his features as he adjusted his glasses in a bewildered gesture, a frown etched onto his face. 

“Yeah, well tell me somethin’ I don't already know.” The stranger stated, his joke betraying the stern, no-nonsense tone that his voice carried, his voice gruff.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but Fiddleford cut him off abruptly. “Who are you and what have ya’ done to Ford?!” He yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at Stan, his previous seemingly calm and sane demeanor crumbling in the blink of an eye, leaving room for a paranoid and erratic man. 

“Hey— what the fuck?! Calm down, man! You're the one who's on my property.” Stanley barked, confused by the other man's sudden shift in attitude. Anger brewed slowly in his stomach at the allegation thrown at him. The remainder of scraps of patience or hospitality that he was willing to show to Fiddleford had just been snapped in half at the guy's outburst. —Despite this, his gut churned in shame at the reminder of what he had done, despite the other being unaware—

What would normally seem like a far-fetched idea crossed Fiddleford’s mind, and in his paranoid state, he clung onto it like a lifeline, taking in its words like gospel.

What if Ford has been replaced by the shapeshifter?!— maybe he found a way to escape his cryogenic enclosure… I need to save him.

His eyes darted across the other man’s shape, and suddenly it made sense, the pieces of a ludicrous conspiracy slowly clicking inside of Fiddleford’s head. The way that his face almost perfectly mirrored Ford’s, and yet, there was something missing. He had once known Ford like the palm of his hand, faint smiles, deep eyebags and an awkward yet determined demeanor forever engrained into his conscience, an image that had sometimes even haunted him as a reminder of the man he had once dared to love. And the man that stood beneath the doorframe wasn’t that, Fiddleford would know.

Chapter Text

The dim light of the office lamp flickered on-and-off, the already wavering light paired with Stan’s crumbling state of mind making the words and foreign symbols in the weathered pages of the diary dance across them without rhyme or reason. The man stared unblinkingly at the sentences in front of him, forcefully rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand in a weak attempt to rub the suffocating sleep away, and again, this time trying to make sense of what to him seemed like nonsensical chicken scratch.

In the cold depths of the basement, Stan found himself alone, completely so, with nothing but the ominous, looming presence of the portal daring to even accompany him. He presumed himself a tainted soul, as for he had been the one who had pushed Ford toward his demise. Stanley hadn't even had the nerve to do as little as reaching a hand out, throwing him his jacket, something— anything he could hold onto. He had done next to nothing to prevent the impending disaster. It was his fault, just like it always was.

Stubby nails scratched frantically at his arm in stress, slowly peeling away at the outermost layers of his skin until they gave place to angry, raw pink blotches. A frown had been deeply ingrained into his features for the past couple of hours, an ever-present feeling of impotence gnawing at the back of his mind, slowly eating away at him, preventing him from trying to stop solving his brother’s senseless scrawling, even if it was taking a toll on him.

Stan didn’t know what to do, the strain of not being able to grasp the workings of the portal, of not making sense of its purpose kept him on edge, his teeth gritting. The soft meat of his tongue found itself trapped between his molars, the teeth pressing down on it, a blooming ache buzzing in the sore muscle.

Ghost tears pricked at his eyes, but, after having spent days huddled up in the freezing darkness of the underground, even his tears had already gone exhaust; he had tired himself out from crying some time ago. So he sat there, eyes itchy and bleary, yet unable to cry as he stared at unintelligible writings in a freezing bunker.

“I can’t do this.” Breathy words were exhaled in anguish, the empty pit of his stomach doing not much to calm down his sizzling temper. “I– I need to clear my mind.” Stan stated, the hand that had been previously gripping his tousled curls in a death-like grip lowering itself to his lap, brushing away at the dirt that had settled on his jeans.

The thought of leaving the basement was tempting, but his gut twisted in guilt at the mere prospect of stopping the progress he was making in its tracks and leaving Stanford alone. (Stan could swear that he was just about to make sense of the alien codes in the journal.)

But before he could convince himself to stay, his stomach made a pitiful noise, a reminder of how little he had eaten these past few days. His main source of energy had been the seemingly infinite supply of too-strong coffee that Ford had in his laboratory. The empty pit of his gut seemed to be gnawed at, as if he were being eaten from the inside out. His body begged him for a warm meal, something he could draw energy from— just anything to fill the unrelenting void in his stomach.

He stood up, a noise-like feeling humming adamantly throughout his stale, sleepy limbs. He stretched, multiple joints popping as they were forced to move for the first time in hours. The burn in his back protested with a piercing sting, making itself known at the sudden movement. It was probably very infected by now.

Stanley let out a deep sigh, a trembling hand trying to steady his body as a wave of lightheadedness washed over him.

I won't be gone for long…

He reassured himself, casting a hesitant glance at the book as he begrudgingly made his way towards the elevator, trudging through the basement, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and reluctance. For the split of a second, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the glistening steel and he drew to a halt, staring at his own image on the shiny metal.

He'd never liked to look in the mirror, as his reflection had always been a dreadful reminder of the miserable state he had fallen into (and of a face that he thought he'd never see again)– but his current condition was outright depressing.

Heavy, dark bags hung underneath his eyes, his skin pale, bordering on sickly, lips were chapped and dehydrated, drops of blood tentatively seeping through the cracks in them. Patchy stubble had started to grow in, Stan ghosted his fingers over it, its rough texture unpleasant to the touch. He tried carding a hand through his hair, the matted curls greasy and unkempt. There was an empty look in his eyes, a tired yet piercing stare glaring back at him through the freezing steel.

He looked like he was ready to drop dead at any given moment.

“Moses… I look– I look bad.” The realization of just how pathetic he looked hit him like a bucket of cold water, the sudden urge to take a shower overcoming him unexpectedly. He shook his head, taking a shower could wait, his current priority was to find something to eat somewhere in the godforsaken cabin.

When he came into the cold interior of the elevator, he couldn't help but grab at a picture in the pocket of his jacket, one that he had always carried with him in his time on the streets. He didn't look at it, but he longingly traced the edges of the photo, every crease, every fold and ridge having been already committed to memory long ago. He had done this so many times before, as it was a grounding motion that'd prevented him from doing something stupid when he was in a rough place.

The contents of the photo were long memorized too, two teenage boys with lopsided smiles looking joyfully at the camera, their expressions forever frozen in perpetual glee. Stan could picture it perfectly if he just closed his eyes.

The picture was a ghost of what had once been an unbreakable bond, of his past mistakes and of the home that he had once had back in New Jersey.

But he had lost it all a long time ago.

The elevator came to an eventual stop with a shaky wheeze, the doors staggering for a moment before breaking open. A mental note had been stored away in Stanley’s mind for the lab’s code—122572— when he had seen his brother punch it into the keypad. He did the same, unsteady hands dialing the unfamiliar numbers. The plexiglass split open with a barely-there hiss.

When Stan had first arrived here, he hadn't paid much mind to its untidy state (he lived in his decade old car, who was he to judge?) But after inspecting it for more than two minutes, it was apparent that it wasn't just untidy.

He was met with a wall, a multitude of yellow post-its lining it up, displaying what seemed like a conversation between two people. Loopy cursive —that was unmistakably Ford's— slowly devolving into frantic scrawling as it further argued against angular writing.

Is that… blood?

Stan furrowed his brow as his fingers ghosted over small splatters of the already dried up brown liquid, a shiver running down his spine at the realization that it was indeed blood. He soon noticed that the specks on pages weren't the only ones in the house, the wooden floor tinted with nasty crimson smudges, reeking of a pungent rotting odor. He scrunched his nose in disgust, putting his shirt over it to diminish the horrid smell.

The hell was Stanford doing out here?

The muffled sound of static-y laughter that came from the room next door made Stan's unrelenting curiosity —that had more than once gotten him into trouble— prickle at him. The sound reminded him of the old-timey radios his dad used to have back at the pawn shop, the cheerful voices of the conductors turning into a crackling muffle after going through the beat up speakers. Just this case, instead of a happy-go-lucky salesman announcing his latest rip-off, it was a manic, deranged laughter that almost sounded like the voice of his brother, but not quite. The obnoxious sound reverberated through the entire cabin, piercing the heavy silence that had settled over it.

The want to know what laid in the next room was still reluctant, the eerie laughter giving him a bad gut feeling about all this. Questions were quickly brewing inside Stanley’s head, the major inquiry being what exactly had driven Ford to do all of this. It had seemed almost ridiculous when he'd first seen him, his know-it-all, level-headed and overall well kept together brother seemingly going through some episode of persecution delusion, going as far as to point a crossbow at Stan and accuse him of trying to steal his eyes.

Well, if he wanted to know what was behind this whole mess, he'd have to look everywhere for clues or anything that could give him a somewhat logical explanation. Doubts were still gnawing adamantly at the back of his head, but he decided to ignore them. At least for now. Reluctantly, he made his way towards the door, fearful of what he might find on the other side. Trembling fingers hesitantly wrapped themselves on the cold knob, turning it cautiously.

He was met with a petrifying sight. Polaroids were strewn across the floor of the living room, pictures of Ford committing a variety of heinous acts, going as far as hammering nails into his own hands—The picture made Stan want to retch— covered the wooden tiling almost completely. The TV played a recording of Stanford in what seemed like a manic state, pupils slit unnaturally and eyes jaundiced as he laughed hysterically, his face split in a too-wide, uncanny grin. What seemed like tapestries were ripped in two, the expensive looking fabric ripping at the seams and rendering the image it was supposed to depict unreadable.

What the fuck?...

Looking around, he noticed that freaky triangle motifs littered every single corner, not just of the room, but the entire shack.

Rays of red tinted light poured from shattered stained glass, the figure of a triangle barely discernible in its battered state. A shimmering golden statue that seemed to be yet another triangle, this time in a top hat that was hastily covered with canvas fabric. Scribbled over paintings depicting the same image yet again were hung up on the walls. Even the portal was a triangle.

Each and one of them seemed to be the eye of providence, only with a rather silly top hat and a bow tie. Sometimes even a cane. The inscription “omnes videntes oculum” that was burned into the wood on top of the main door in Ford's frilly cursive seemed to back that claim.

Stan had considered the possibility that Stanford had been under the influence of something when he had first received him, —he would know— but upon encountering all of this? It seemed to be something much bigger than just drugs.

A thought occurred to him, a nagging suspicion growing continuously in the back of his head that somehow, all the motifs had something to do with the Polaroids and post-its. The images usually depicted a triangle with the same jaundiced tint and stenopaic pupil that Ford had had in his eyes in all of the pictures. In many of them, he was seen encasing his eye inside of his fingers in a triangle shape.

Stan's gut told him that there was something wildly dangerous behind all of this, something that he shouldn't mess with. But this was his brother that had been hurt by this thing. He'd mess with anything if it meant getting him back.

He sighed, looking away from the mess that was the living room, an uneasy feeling sizzling in his gut. He didn't want to see more of all that. He decided he was going to investigate and clean that up later, but first he needed something to eat. He hastily made his way towards the kitchen, hoping that Ford had his pantry stocked with something that could keep his hunger at bay for at least another day. He opened the fridge, the cold air nipping at his face as soon as he did. Glancing around, the first things that caught his eye were a half-finished bag of frozen chicken nuggets and a gallon of milk.

That'll have to do for now. I'll do groceries someday later.

His hand instinctively palmed around his pockets at the thought, hoping that he'd find at least a twenty. After some seconds of incessant pawing, the only thing he retrieved was a discount coupon for a diner back in Texas. He groaned. He'd have to see if Ford had any cash lying around, hopefully enough for however long he would be here for.

Just as he was about to set the stove, the sound of knocks pierced through the silence. A worried frown quickly settled on his features, a hand darting to his curls and wrapping itself in them.

No one had followed him here— right? He had checked more than five times to see if the coast was clear, taken all the unnecessary turns, avoided any suspicious looking vehicles and parked far away whenever his gut told him somebody might be following him. His best bet was to see who it was, besides, if it were Rico he would've already barged through the door.

Probably.

Stanley walked over the door, a pang of fear running through him. When he reached in his pockets for his trusty knuckledusters, he realized that he'd left them on his car. Fuck. Without missing a beat, he grabbed the discarded crossbow that laid on the table. Sure, he didn't really know how to use it, but could it really be that hard?

A quick glance through the peephole proved that no— it wasn't Rico or his goons. Stan let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, his shoulders slumping in relief. He placed the crossbow back on the table.

On the other side of the door stood scrawny, beanpole looking man with a mop of unruly dishwasher blonde hair. His bloodshot eyes darted all across, as if something was watching, and his bony hands shook as he fidgeted with something that laid beneath his coat.

He knocked on the door again. "Stanferd’ Filbrick Pines, I swear if ya’ don't open the door this very moment!—"

"Rude." Stanley scoffed under his breath, rolling hsi eyes at the insistence. He could make this man wait a few more minutes whilst he made himself something to eat. And so it was, that was until the nuggets were already defrosted, and he was just about to put them in the stove that the constant knocking finally got in his nerves. Stan begrudgingly made his way towards the door, his hands wrapping around the doorknob and turning it leisurely.

“Ford!" Fiddleford's previously empty eyes lit up. "I've been callin’ after you fer' almost half an' hour now, I've been—” The stranger in the door cut himself off, before his eyes raked over Stan's form, a confused frown quickly settling on his features.

He cleared his throat.

“You're not— You're not Stanford...” He rubbed his eyes in a bewildered gesture, as if he didn't believe what he was seeing.

“Yeah, well tell me somethin’ I don't already know.” Stan barked, his sleep-deprived and hunger addled brain leaving not much room for hospitality.

Suddenly, the other man's attitude switched up out of nowhere, the once confused expression he worn contorting into one of paranoia and rage as he pointed an accusatory finger at Stanley. “Who are you and what have ya’ done to Ford?!”

The grifter frowned. Is this guy on something? The hell is wrong with him?!

“Hey— what the fuck?! Calm down, man! You're the one who's on my property.” He growled, pushing Fiddleford away from him. A sizzling red-hot anger had quickly started brewing in his gut, the little patience he'd had for the guy quickly snapping.

For a second, Fiddleford's crazed eyes seemed to focus solely on the other man's face, glaring at him with wide, unnerving eyes —Stan could swear that he could hear the cogs turning in his head— his eyebrows knitting in deep thought.

"Shifty" He hissed under his breath, catching Stanley by surprise when he tackled him to the ground.