this is one in a series of fiddauthor fics i wrote for tumblr, re-posted here for convenience. enjoy!
1981
Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.
The name, sandwiched between the "Shermy" and "Ma", jutted out to Ford as he stopped skimming through his college phone book. His thumb grazed over the words etched in cursive- his cursive- that, while faded, were still clearly legible.
Stanford's eyes swept over his name continuously, suddenly engrossed in the past.
To say that the two engineers had ended their relationship on a sour note would be an understatement.
He felt a slight pang of guilt as he recalled Fiddleford slouched over on the hard dirt floor; hollering, gripping Ford's shoulders in stark terror. The bleakness of his stare was completely unnerving, contrasting his usual soft gaze. He had been so unhinged, so unfamiliar…
And this uncharacteristic outburst lead to him backing his bags and moving out: leaving Stanford secluded out in the woods to work on their greatest achievement solo.
Ford placed the worn phone book atop a growing heap of notebook paper drawings cluttering his desk.
His posture stiffened. Memories invaded his brain and brought back the intense sensations of loneliness and anxiety that often plagued him. The rows of candles and books that encircled him began to make him feel uneasy.
He quickly retreated from his private study into the small compartment of the elevator. It shakily gained momentum after he had pressed the "up" arrow.
The thought of calling Fiddleford crossed Stan's mind.
Despite still harboring resentment towards his former friend, a small part of him genuinely wanted to check in and see how he was doing. Urging Stanford to get some closure; to hear that ebullient Southern accent again. He rubbed the bags under his eyes.
"Should I just… sleep on it?" he wondered.
"Perchance even ask for advice from…" A loud ding paused his inner quarrel for a moment, the elevator doors springing open.
Ford trudged upstairs towards the cabin ground floor.
"No, no." He could already imagine how that conversation would play out.
"Oho, Sixer! Are we forgetting about how that organ-sack abandoned you?" he could hear Bill's nasally voice ask.
"There's no point in 'making amends'… death is imminent, why waste your breath trying to fix something irreparable? You humans and your petty drama! Besides, why would you want to seek out some rustic low-life when you're already friends with one of the most powerful entities in the multiverse?"
Even though no actual discussion had taken place, Ford figured that Bill would be right in his opposition and that he would just have to move on.
Stanford heard the screeching of tires the second before the collision.
His face smacked the steering wheel, causing a high-pitched beeping to erupt out of the front of his car. He quickly regained his sense and fumbled to unbuckle his seat belt. Charging over to where the automobile had crashed into him, he noticed a stream of smoke emerge from the car hood.
Ford quickly assessed the state of his motor vehicle and was surprised to see minimal damage. The front of the pick-up truck that had rammed into him, on the other hand, was totaled. Broken headlights and metal shards littered the side of the street.
The door swung open and the driver stumbled out.
"Oh! Uh, you okay buddy?" Ford exclaimed, rushing over to help up the gray-haired man. "You gotta watch where you're going next time."
The distraught motorist hissed and held his right arm. "Sorry, s-so terribly sorry. I din't mean to hitcha, sir, I just been so distracted lately…" he explained, avoiding eye-contact.
Stanford inspected the man for a second, jolted by a sudden surge of nostalgia. His hair was a disheveled mess; it was obvious that he was loosing it rapidly. He wore a grease-stained undershirt and cracked glasses.
Ford winced as he instantly made the connection.
"Fiddleford McGucket? Is that you?!" he blurted out, taken aback. "You've… uhh, changed a lot since I last saw you." Fiddleford's hand went from clutching his injured arm to scratching the stubble on his face.
"I'm sorry? I don't believe I ever seen your face 'round these parts."
Stan felt his heart drop a little.
"That's not funny, Fiddleford… I mean, I know we had left off on bad terms but…" He stopped talking as his attention was directed at his ex-assistant's genuinely puzzled expression. How could he have possibly forgotten him?
"Stanford. My name is Stanford Pines," he elucidated slowly. "We… went to Backupsmore together? I hired you a few years after graduation because I needed an extra pair of hands for my… um, project. Y'know, the portal?"
The last part of his explanation seemed to trigger panic in Fiddleford as he immediately began to tremble. He took a step back, remnants of his pick-up crunching beneath his loafers.
"Sorry! Sorry. I just don remerberb- er, remember y-you. Ya must be thinkin' of someone else," he stuttered, eyes darting in all directions. Ford reached out to touch his shoulder, but that only seemed to drive him more into hysteria.
"No, you- you need to go to a hospital! Your arm, there's clearly something wrong-" Fiddleford batted Stanford's hand away.
"Don you touch me. Don EVER touch me!" he spat, hobbling backwards."I n-need to go home, I need to forget!"
The sound of ambulance sirens in the distance caused him to dash into the woods at the side of the road.
Ford stayed where he was, beside the wreckage. Staring off into the trees where Fiddleford had disappeared through.
And reminded himself that he had caused it.
2012
Stanford huffed, crumpling up the paper slip with directions scribbled on it and shoved it into his trench-coat's pocket. He stood at the entrance to Gravity Falls' garbage disposal site.
The children really weren't exaggerating when they told him that McGucket lived in a dump.
To be perfectly honest, Ford didn't think that Fiddleford would still be around after all these years. He was at the very least surprised when he overheard his nephew mention an "old man McGucket". Although his suspicions were never confirmed, he always had an inkling that the engineer was the founder of the infamous Society of the Blind Eye and that he attempted to erase all memories of working on the inter-dimensional portal. Not only that, but he set out to forget Stanford.
Only after Ford realized that he was being manipulated into finishing his grand project did he finally grasp how right Fiddleford was in telling him to destroy it, and how wrong he himself was. Wrong. He hated to admit it, but after three decades of hopping alternate dimension after dimension, it was hard to justify the way he reacted to McGucket's warnings.
He still felt the need to conclude this chapter of his life and apologize; although, he was worried. If Fiddleford had already began slipping in 81′, he couldn't even imagine how far gone he was now.
Reluctantly, Stanford went past the fence and tried his best to ignore the putrid smell of the mounds of trash that surrounded him. He licked his lips.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" he called out, searching the stuffy landfill for any signs of McGucket. No response.
The author kept strolling along and spotted a small shack, composed out of what appeared to be scrap metal and an assortment of garbage. Ford noticed the word "MCSUCKIT" in spray-painted crimson letters on the side and came to the conclusion that, okay, this is where he lived now. This esteemed engineer took residence in a trash hut in the middle of the dump.
He didn't have much time to express the repulsion welling up inside of him as he heard some rattling closely behind him. Stanford instinctively went for the gun on his belt.
"Fiddleford? Is that you?" he questioned, pivoting around to face the noise.
A hunched-over man with a white beard draped over his overalls crawled out to greet him. He was hauling a trash bag filled with empty cans on his back. Ford caught a glimpse of his right arm: still-bandaged up.
"Oh, 's just YOU! Mister Mystery! I din't recognize you without yer fancy suit and fez'o whattnot," he exclaimed, cans clattering together as he dropped the bag at his feet. Ford practically gawked at his appearance and how… how his eyes were completely unfocused.
"Say, you havn't happened to see my raccoon wife anywhere, have ya? She gets all antsy whenever I leave her in charge o' the place," the hillbilly said, kicking some boxes around. Stanford kept staring until an uncertain emotion- pity? Anger?- swept over him.
"I'm not that Stan," he declared, balling his fists. McGucket tilted his head.
"Pardon?"
"I said, I'm not that Stan. Fiddleford, this all might sound like make-believe, but… my brother, my twin brother has been pretending to be me for the past 30 years. You… do you remember anything? Anything from when we were dorm roommates, a-and you would always play your banjo when I tried to study, cause you knew it got on my nerves… or that first week you came to live here with me in Gravity Falls, and we'd stay up and play D,D, and more D until sunrise and… and…"
Stanford dropped to his knees; his trench coat rolling up underneath him.
"I… I did this," he admitted, his voice cracking.
"And I know you can never forgive me for it, or r-recall anything I did in the first place, but I've spent so much time thinking. I accidentally went through the portal after I learned what could result from it. Not a day went by where I didn't regret ignoring you."
McGucket took off his hat, his fingers toying with the rims of it as he looked down. Ford grimaced at the gesture.
"This was a bad idea, I should've expected… You don't even know who I am. Who we used to be," he croaked, hating the threat of tears building up in his eyes.
"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn't anticipate on this, a-at all-"
"Stanford," McGucket murmured, inching closer to him. He wrapped his good arm around the shaken man.
"Hush." Ford blinked away his tears.
"H-how do you-" He struggled to swallow a sob.
"Y'know that boy is a lot like ya… Dipper, that is," McGucket replied, running a cold hand through Stan's salt-and-pepper hair.
"Took down them robed men, got me my memories back, along with his sister. Them kids are somethin' else. An' I'll be frank withyua. That moment I could recollect yer name for the first time in years, everythin' just came afloodin' back to me. I was steamed. An' I was thinkin'… I had thought that yer brother was YOU. Try'na deliver the end o' the world and all." Ford felt clumps of his hair being lightly pulled by McGucket's fingers, steadily being twirling around them; just like he had used to do, way back when they worked together.
"But I ain't mad anymore," he continued. "You couldn'tve known what would happen… erybody makes mistakes once in a while."
Letting out a strangled laugh, Stanford pulled the hillbilly closer to him.
"I don't believe that everybody has ruined another person's life."
"Gah, shut yer yap already. No need to keep hornswabblin' around when I just forgave you. 'Sides, things've been lookin' up for me lately! I finally gained all my brain matter a' back, and my son ain't blockin' all my calls no more!" Ford drew back from the embrace and smiled sadly at his old friend.
"That's good to hear, Fiddleford," he replied, getting up off of his knees. "Say, if you ever need a place to stay or something, you could always come back to the cabin. Stanley might argue, but it is MY house. I outrank him."
McGucket waved him off. "A mighty generous offer, Stanford, but I'mma perfectly happy here. Wouldn't wanna intrude on yer sibling rivalries 'nd everythin'," he answered.
"But if ya ever need any help, or, y'know, some company…" McGucket bent over and reached into his garbage bag to pull out a hollowed-out tomato soup can. He rested it in Stanford's hand, and offered him a lopsided grin.
"Just give me a call. I'll be keepin' an ear out for ya.