And here we are kids. Please enjoy. Formerly apologize to anyone waiting for my other fics. Those are on the way!
"Talking", 'Thinking in first person', Visions/dreams/emphasis
888888888888888888888888= long page break 88888= simultaneous scenes
Beginning scene is taken in reference to part two from this comic by the adorbs CrispyStar of Tumblr. Who was my gateway drug to this pairing.
post/107435825958/mystery-trio-comic-footprints-part-1-2-i-just#notes
I own nothing! Enjoy!
Alternate: And then there were two
Heavy snow fall covers a cozy cabin in the small town of Gravity Falls. Fiddleford McGucket finds himself inside, occupied with the newcomers turned friends who are residents of the cabin. One especially, who thought he could go around in frost bitten weather with no protective clothes on-save a scarf loaned from Fiddleford himself.
"ACHOO!"
Fiddleford casually leans away from the large sneeze of one Stanford Pines as he looks at the thermometer, checking his friend's temperature.
The device reads 103 degrees Fahrenheit. Just as he suspected.
"We told you, you would get sick!" He says in a cheerful yet gently scolding tone as he lays a sympathetic hand on the other's blanket covered shoulder. Really, what was he thinking?
Stanford, for his part, gives a glare out of red rimmed eyes and answers "Ah, Sh-sh-shuddup."
The words are weak and glum, said with no real heat. And Fiddleford happily ignores them as he goes and brings a bowl to the sick young man shivering in the chair. He takes a brief look over to the other Pines brother, Stanley, but the researcher is deep in his work. Pouring over his notes and his journal; Fiddleford decides to leave him to it and tend to his sick friend.
"Here. I made you some chicken soup."
Stanford gives a deadpan expression at the cheerful bowl of soup and the equally cheerful man before him.
"Seriously. Dare tell me you're not acting like a mom now…" he grouses, unmoving.
Fiddleford feels some irritation creep into him, past jibes from friends and lovers alike of his "mother hen" tendencies coming back to him. To rub salt in the wound it was his mother's recipe he used to make the broth he was holding now.
Was it his fault he cared?
"I wouldn't have to if you weren't so childish Stanford!" He almost stamps his foot in his agitation.
His flare of annoyance is quickly snuffed out though, when the other lets out another loud, yet pathetic sneeze instead of an answer. Nearly tipping the ice bag off his head.
Fiddleford makes a soft and fondly defeated sigh before saying a cheerful "Bless you."
Stanford replies with a grumble that Fiddleford decides to take as a "thank you" as he wipes his nose with a tissue.
An all-seeing eye flashes across his vision.
Fiddleford McGucket opened his eyes, and stared at the ceiling of his shelter at the dump, or "hobo mansion" as he used to call in in his more crazed state of mind. He concentrated on taking deep breathes as he tried to make sense of what his still somewhat foggy brain had shown him.
Was that a dream…?
No. A memory. A memory from before, before the Society, before his memory wiping device, before the demon. Before…before everything had gone to shit. Back then he had just been Fiddleford, young curator for the Gravity Falls Museum of Natural History, part time research assistant and amateur inventor on his own time. He had had a life back then, a real life. A good life.
Somewhat.
A job (for a sleepy little town with little interest in history), friends (who had mocked him for his association with the Pines twins and then deserted him when he began to fall into madness), a wife (a childhood friend he had agreed to marry to throw gossip off himself and to help her after his cousin knocked her up), and a bright, infant son (really his nephew, but he had and still did love him like he was his own). So much. So much was gone.
Thirty years.
So much time. Wasted. In madness. And sadness.
Alone. Almost.
Here he remained. And Stanford.
Stanford Pines.
Now there was a man that Fiddleford had come to contemplate on more and more as the days went by. It had been a few days since the former "local kook" had had his last adventure with Stanford's grandkids. Dipper and Mabel Pines. Bright children, if a bit silly. But they were young.
How they reminded Fiddleford of Stanley and Sanford. Especially when they had returned his memories and his past to him. Once more his life had been turned around by a pair of twins by the name of Pines. And once more he was left to deal with the changes it caused.
He had simply wandered about since then, his rebooted mind clearing out the cobwebs as he dithered on contacting his son and Stanford or remaining in his mad scientist lab/hobo hut until he was well again. Or well enough.
Yesterday he had found his old trunk from college. He had dragged it out with him when he had finally left his home for good, the last dregs of his sanity leading him away from his family. He knew what lay in this time capsule, and just wasn't ready to open it yet. Though he called himself Fiddleford, he wasn't him yet. Not truly, the last bits of murk needed to be cleared from his mind before he truly felt like his old self again.
Until then, he'd continue to dress like a crazed hillbilly.
As he made breakfast Fiddleford gazed down at his hand in its thirty year old cast, rather impressed that it had managed to stay intact this long. He wiggled his fingers and gave a small, mad giggle. Nope, he wasn't himself yet.
He mucked about his "home" the whole day, letting his brain flood with memories, good and bad, of his days as part of the "Mystery Trio" and their foolishness. The monsters, the adventures, the machine…
He never did get that scarf back.
Did Stanford keep it? How was his life now? From what Fiddleford had seen of him, it looked like Stan hadn't changed much over the years since Stanley's…disappearance. He was still the lovable rogue, chasing money and lovers and adventure, still in that house. And apparently still up to his eyeballs in weird shit.
In his mania Fiddleford had been caught in an adventure with the Pines family more than once, especially in recent weeks; some his own fault. And he had enjoyed it, something in his heart had lit up whenever he interacted with those kids and especially Stanford. Just like when he talked to his son, or his former wife.
Before he knew it Fiddleford found himself somewhere else, his feet having decided to occupy themselves while he was lost in his muddy thoughts. It took the former curator a moment to realize that not only was it past sun down but also that he was standing in the woods outside the Mystery Shack. Hiding behind a tree trunk he gazed at the formerly non-descript cabin. Lights were on and he could see figures moving about within.
His observations were cut short when an odd sound came to Fiddleford's attention. It was the growl of a ravenous beast, dying for a meal. He whirled around in surprise, a sharpened spoon materializing in his hand to defend himself with.
But there was nothing there.
The sound occurred again and Fiddleford swept his eyes downward. Moving his ridiculous beard aside the old man gazed at his stomach as it gave another murderous noise. He was hungry. Frightfully so.
His attention returned to the Mystery Shack, but for a completely different reason. The large dumpster at the back of the property. It was kept there until trash day and then would be pushed to the front of the property by Dipper for collection and then pushed back afterward. Over the many years Fiddelford had found this to be a veritable treasure trove of easy food. Especially now that the kids were living with Stan. Not only were there more occurrences of half eaten junk food- such as pizza, hamburgers, almost empty cans of Pitt Cola; but also there was more of a chance of fresh goodies.
Mabel had caught him digging through not too long ago and had made a habit of placing things especially for him. Most of them were nice, except for this weird punch full of stickers and dinosaur toys she would seal in plastic bags for him. It was great coming in, not so great coming out. It took him until now to actually understand why.
Well, he wasn't fully himself yet. And he felt he was about to collapse. So with stealth and timing made from years of habit, Fiddleford soon found himself propping up the lid of the dumpster and taking a look at the all you can eat buffet before him. As he rummaged he began to ignore the sounds coming from the house not too far away. And his attention was completely diverted upon the discovery of some foil wrapped pizza slices.
There was a note attached, it read "For Mr. McGucket" in Mabel's curly handwriting. With a grateful sigh the old man tucked the note away in his overalls (next to the spoon-shank) and began to happily munch away while continuing to scout out more courses for his meal. So occupied was he that he missed the sounds of goodnight's being said and a general silencing of the house as a whole.
He also missed the sounds of an old, tired con man going to stand on his back porch to enjoy a late night smoke.
Just as he was lifting out a half-eaten bag of chips Fiddleford realized his cover was blown.
"Hey! What are you doing in there?!" Stan's gravelly voice cut through the night and surprised the poor hobo. In his haste to get away Fiddleford hit his head on the lid of the dumpster- causing it to slam shut- and then fell on his back. Groaning in pain.
He brought a bandaged hand up to rub his sore head through his hat and watched as Stanford sedately walked up to him. Frown on his face and lit cigarette in one hand. The porch light cast shadows on his face, emphasizing lines while hiding others. He almost looked young again.
So much so that for a moment Fiddleford hoped that the last decades had been nothing but some bump induced half-dream and would melt away with a laugh from Stan at his clumsiness and an offer to help him up. The larger man would then pull his young, lanky frame up easily and then everything would be right in Stan's arms.
But that wasn't how things were.
"What are you doing in my trash Fiddleford?" Asked Stan, voice low and gruff.
Stanford watched as the smaller, dirtier man pulled his scattered thoughts in order and stared at him with surprisingly focused eyes.
"I'm a hobo. That's what we do Stanford."
Stan raised his brows at the surprisingly condescending remark and watched as Fiddleford stood back up, his body making many pops and creaks that Stan knew all too well. He continued to watch as the hobo righted his clothes, muttering softly to himself in a way Stan had not seen him do in years, when he wore clothes worth fussing about. He had found it rather cute back then, and was rather surprised he somewhat did now.
"Are you just going to stare?" Fiddleford was looking at him now, hands on hips and acting every bit like he used to.
'Looks like the kids were right about his memory coming back' thought Stan as he caught himself actually blushing a little and sputtering for something to say.
A sudden growl from the smaller man's stomach gave him an idea.
"You-uh-you wanna come inside and have something real to eat?"
What was he saying? What was he saying?! After all this time?! There was no way he would agree-
"Sure. That-that's nice of you. Stanford." Said a surprised Fiddleford.
The two looked at each other a little awkwardly for a moment before Stan cleared his throat and then made a quick about face.
"Well, come on."
The two walked into the house, unaware that two preteens had been spying on them from their attic window.
Dipper looked at his sister, brows knitted in confusion and thought. They hadn't heard what had been said, but the way the two older males had acted around one another was odd. And the fact that Stan had invited McGucket in, now that-that was even odder.
"What was that all about?"
Dipper felt an odd shiver go down his spine as a grin crawled itself across his sister's face. It was similar to the same one she wore whenever she got into her "matchmaker" moods, but had a bit of an odd undertone.
The girl eyed her twin a moment before speaking, "Dipper, you ever wonder why Grunkle Stan isn't married, or talks of being married or of any girlfriends or anything?"
"Uhhhhhhhhh, because he's hiding from the cops and we're children?" He asked, unusually slow on the uptake.
Mable pitied him for a moment. She had seen it, and now she had to make Dipper see it. While also giving her grunkle his privacy. For now.
Mable wrapped an arm around her brother's shoulders and said, "Bro bro, there's some things I think you need to know."
The things Dipper learned that night would be burned into his mind for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the kitchen Stan was heating up some left over pasta from that night's dinner in the microwave and desperately trying to think of something to say. He leaned against the counter as the food heated up and cleared his throat awkwardly before once more trying to make conversation.
"So, uh…y-you remember, uh? Right?" He trailed off lamely, why was his silver tongue failing him now?!
Fiddleford watched as Stan struggled for words like some teenager and fought down the urge to giggle, it wasn't a mad one like the one from this morning though. It was a happy one; okay maybe it was a little mad, but a sane kind of mad.
"My memory still hasn't completely returned, but most of what happened between us I remember rather clearly." He answered, swinging his legs a little as he sat at the table. He had always been on the short side but age had shrunk him a little and now only his toes touched the ground as he sat.
The microwave beeped and Stan thankfully turned away to get the food. It was silent in the kitchen as the two old men sat, one eating and one lost in thought.
'If Fiddleford's got most of his brains back maybe he could help? Not likely. Get real old man, there were reasons he brain drained himself into kookiness. And you're one of the reasons, maybe even a main one. Why would he want anything to do with you?' Stan felt himself slump as his thoughts continued.
Fiddleford watched Stan as he ate, the pasta was quite good and filling. As his stomach filled with food his brain filled with thoughts of increasing order and connection. And doubt. Doubt that the reasons behind this kindness being nothing more than just that: a kindness, a brief pitying break in the mutual cold shouldering the two had done to each other.
Even before the end things had gone sour, he and Stan…stupid man just had to like women in hot pants. And he could do nothing about it because of his (fake) marriage and hesitant nature. Maybe if they had properly talked about it, maybe if Fiddleford hadn't been such a coward. Maybe if he had been there. They could have at least saved Stanley. Together.
What would Stanford want with him now?
His plate was empty, his cup of water drained. It was time he started getting his life together and maybe leave Gravity Falls. He would start here.
"I-I'm sorry Stanford. If I-I hadn't been so weak…Bill h-his words got the better of me. And Stanley paid for it. We all paid for it. It doesn't mean much now, but I am so very sorry." His eyes detailed the lines of his plate as he spoke, unable to look the other in the eye.
His eyes shot up when he hear the other's response.
"I'm sorry too. I…I'm not the best person, we both know this. And what happened…I'm as much at fault. Probably more so. (heh) Hell, I know so. I shouldn't had…I was stupid back then. Didn't realize what was right in front of me. And…I never blamed you. And I especially don't now."
"You didn't?" His voice was a soft, surprised squeak. But quickly grew in strength.
"But the machine. And Stanley. And-and- all that work."
"Yeah. I still don't blame you. And actually. About the machine…" He trailed off, unsure how to proceed.
If Fiddleford knew he had been trying to recreate it in recent years, if he knew it was working…and he didn't like it…
Stan knew it wouldn't take the genius long to dismantle it. But he had to try. Especially since Bill was lurking about. The kids had told him about Bill's second appearance to them and he was sure the little demonic triangle was around now. Watching.
To know that he had a hand in FIddleford's descent… Stan clenched his hands into fists and directed his attention to the former local kook. That demon would take no more things from him, or anyone.
"What about the machine Stanford?" Those intelligent eyes gazed at him and he knew he had to say it. For both their sakes.
"I've been rebuilding it. It took a long time, especially with my utter lack of skill at scientific mumbo-jumbo, but I have it working. I followed your blueprints from the journals. It isn't stable though and I-"
He was cut off.
"YOU REBUILT THE MACHINE?! STANDFORD HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!"
Stan couldn't help his deadpan expression even as he shushed the suddenly screaming man who was wearing dirty bandages and torn overalls. The kids didn't know about his plans. And didn't need to know. Not yet.
Lucky for him, Mabel was still knee deep in her explanations and poor Dipper's brain was in the middle of meltdown. They heard nothing.
"Look, I know this is a crazy plan. But I can't, I just can't leave him in there." Stan spoke quietly, yet vehemently.
If Fiddleford had a full set of teeth he'd be grinding them into oblivion. Quietly he snapped, "Stanford. How did you even manage to rebuild it? Let alone get it to turn on?! It took Stanley and me years to get it perfected, and even then things ended in disaster. How do you expect it to work? How do you plan to even calibrate it right?"
Fiddleford's mind was whirling, his thoughts going at a rate they hadn't in years. As he had spoken he had gotten up from the chair, straightening his back and slamming his cast covered hand on the table. His eyes alight with sanity and anger, and worry.
"That's why I wanted your help. I'm not giving up Fidds. If it was reversed I know Stanley would have done the same. Please, help me get him back." Stan had leaned forward as he had spoken, incensed.
"What makes you think he's even alive?" Fiddleford's voice was but a whisper.
"I know it. I know he's still in there. Fighting. And I also know he doesn't have a lot of time left. Please Fiddleford. Help me."
He was only half aware he had placed his hand over the others, only noticing he had done so when the smaller man looked at their two hands together. He didn't move away though, and neither did Stan.
The former inventor gazed at their two hands, and for a moment he could only think of how much nicer it would be if his arm wasn't in the cast and he could actually feel Stand's hand on his own.
'Dammit Stanford." He thought as he gave a sigh.
"Fine. I'll assist you."
"You will?" Stan's grip tightened on the smaller man's hand as he stood up in excitement.
Fiddleford looked up at him, "Yes. If this ends up killing me I'll at least die doing something worthwhile."
"Hey, hey, hey. That's no way to think!" Stan took his hand off of Fiddleford's and wrapped the other around his narrow shoulders. In the back of his mind he couldn't help but note how well the other slotted into place at his side, like a missing piece.
He looked down at the other man, a grin blossoming on his face. "With you and me working together I know we can do this."
Fiddleford fought the urge to blush at the sudden contact, hoping that the well water sponge bath he had taken that morning was enough to get off the dump smell. He mentally slapped himself to focus.
"What about the kids Stanford? Do Dipper and Mabel know?"
"No. I'm trying to keep them out of this. For as long as possible. Please don't say anything Fiddleford."
The former curator frowned at the look Stan directed his way and gave another defeated sigh. "Fine Stanford. I won't breathe a word. But if things get hairy, I'm telling them. Their bright kids and though it's dangerous if things go wrong they'll be in danger too and we'll need all the help we can get."
"Sure. Agreed."
What else was he going to say?
And so it was decided. Fiddleford would return in the early morning- after Stan somehow managed to get the kids out of the house and tell Wendy she had the day off- and they would get to work. After Fiddleford had left and Stan had placed the dishes in the sink he made his way to the vending machine.
He entered in the code and made his way discreetly down the secret stairs. He walked into the dilapidated lab and walked over to the desk he had set up by the recreated portal machine. On it were several items. His brother's first and second journals, a photocopied and taped together schematic of the machine, some tools, his brother's old glove, a framed photo of the kids and his brother's old glasses. He paused a moment to gaze at all of these items and then opened a drawer. Out of it he pulled out an old and well used scarf, it was a dark mustard color with a lighter plaid design.
Stan still remembered the day Fiddleford had nonchalantly given it to him, wrapping it around his neck as he boasted and talked with his brother. He had never asked for it back, and Stan had not so accidentally made sure he never recollected it was gone. He remembered when Stanely had caught him with it once, they had been out in the woods by themselves and his twin had spied it peeking out between Stan's own plaid scarf and his jacket.
Stan's face had gone as red as a tomato while Stanley had grinned at him.
The scarf had seen him through a lot of cold days and nights and was one of the few things he had made sure to keep with him over the years. Stan placed the scarf on the table next to the glasses, which sat next to the picture of Dipper and Mabel. He would leave it like that, Fiddleford needed to know.
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Fiddleford woke up early the next morning, he rubbed the crust from his eyes and frowned at the half remembered dream he had. More memories and more triangles. As he stepped out of the mess of blankets and pillows he called a bed his gaze locked on to his trunk. He was ready for it now.
Stan grinned a fake grin as he waved off Dipper and Mabel, the two were off on some excursion with Wendy and her troupe of teens. They'd be gone all day. When they had driven off he turned to Soos who was working on washing the windows.
"Keep an eye out Soos. Big things are happening today. We have to be ready." Soos put on a determined expression and gave a quick salute, accidentally wetting his forehead with the rag he was using.
"You got it Mr. Pines."
"Someone sounds ready for war."
Both turned to the voice and gasped.
Fiddleford McGucket stood there; his hair cut and combed, tweed suit old yet clean, a fresh bandage on his freshly shaven chin and glasses that had none seen the light of day in years on his face. He looked good. In one hand he held a small tool box, the other- it pale and skinny from being in a cast- he brought up to his chest. A sign of his nervousness.
"Are you just going to stare?"
"Holy frijole dude." Was Soos's eloquent response.
"What? No good?"
Stan snapped out of his staring and cleared his throat.
"No, No. I mean you look great-fine. You look fine. It's just a surprise. A nice one. UH- come on. Let's go."
Stan opened the door and let the smaller man in, before following Stan directed to his attention to Soos, who was staring at Fiddleford through the window.
"Not a word of this to the kids Soos. I mean it."
"Alright Mr. Pines. I hope you know what you're doing."
"Me too."
Stan closed the door and walked into the house.