Ford spent the next two hours staring out the car window, pretending to be fascinated by the passing landscape. It would have perhaps been a more convincing act if the landscape hadn't been an endless flat desert expanse, making each mile that came and went not particularly different than the last one. Still, it was better than allowing himself any more thorough a look inside Stan's car; who knew what new disgusting pieces of trash he might spot. It also communicated fairly clearly that he wasn't interested in talking. Indeed, he and Stan didn't say a single word to each other for the entire two hours. Not until Stan pulled off at a self-service gas station and explained, rather redundantly, that they needed to fill up on gas.

From the car Ford spotted the unexpected luxury of a payphone outside the little food mart, reminding him of something he really ought to do. He got out of the car and called out to Stan, who was heading inside to pay for the gas. "I'm just going to use the phone here to call my research assistant and let him know what happened."

Stan paused with his hand on the door. "Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry, if you would told me, we could've stopped somewhere sooner."

Not particularly wanting to admit that the idea hadn't occurred to him before now, Ford just said, "It's fine. Fiddleford and I were out when it happened, and he might not even be back yet. I may end up having to leave a message." In fact seeing how absorbed Fiddleford had been in the pig races, he might not have even noticed Ford was missing yet.

Stan nodded, then continued on into the store as Ford walked over to the phone. It rang twice before someone picked up on the other line.

"Hello?" Fiddleford said, which wasn't his normal greeting at all, not to mention the slight frantic tone to his voice. So maybe Ford really should have thought to call earlier.

"Hi. It's me," Ford said.

"Stanford, where in tarnation have you been? You tell me you're going to the restroom, then don't come back and aren't anywhere to be found in the entire carnival; believe me I looked, and I had the staff there looking too by the end of it. If you ran off into the woods after some weird critter and didn't have the decency to tell me first, then I'm going to invent a giant robot hand to smack you with."

"I'm sorry, but I promise my absence was entirely involuntary. I was going to the restroom, but I'm afraid I ended up using a portal potty by mistake," Ford explained.

"A portal potty? I don't think you've told me about that one before. Is it what it sounds like it is?"

"Assuming it sounds like an outhouse that also can teleport you at random, then yes."

"Well, shoot. Are you okay? Where are you; do you need me to come pick you up or wire you some money to buy a ticket home or something?"

"I'm fine. Actually, I coincidentally ended up fairly near to my brother, and he offered to give me a ride back home," Ford told him. Hopefully they could leave it at that.

"Well, that's a fair bit of luck," Fiddleford said.

"Yes, the situation could have been much worse." For example, he could have landed in the middle of the desert with no roads or civilization in sight and be worrying about death by dehydration at the moment, instead of just worrying about dealing with Stan for the next 48 hours. It was important to keep things in perspective.

"Wait a second, doesn't your brother live in Piedmont?" Fiddleford asked. Ford winced. Apparently they weren't just going to leave it at that. "In that case, I'll definitely come pick you up. Why don't you see about spending some time at your brother's house to catch up with him and his family, I'll drive down to Palo Alto to spend a few days with Emma-May and Tate, then I'll come get you, and we'll head back up to Oregon together."

"Ah. About that," Ford said. He scratched the back of his neck nervously. "I wasn't actually referring to Shermie when I said my brother. I was talking about my twin brother, Stanley."

"Stanford Filbrick Pines."

Ford winced again. "I wasn't deliberately keeping him a secret from you."

"Uh-huh," Fiddleford said, each syllable dripping with skepticism.

"I wasn't," Ford insisted. At least, he mostly hadn't been. "There was an incident and some family drama not too long before you and I met, so at the time I really wasn't up for discussing Stan or even thinking about him. By the time I had gotten used to everything and was okay with talking about him, it had been too long and it felt awkward bringing him up."

"Uh-huh."

"Sorry," Ford said. Really, he didn't have to apologize as he was in no way obligated to tell Fiddleford everything about his life just because they were friends. On the other hand, Fiddleford was his friend, one of a very few Ford had, and Ford didn't want him to think he was being deliberately exclusionary.

"No, no, it's alright. The more I think on it, the more sense this is making. How often when you were talking about things you and your brother used to do were you actually talking about this twin rather than your older brother?"

"The vast majority of the time," Ford admitted.

"Yeah, that's what I figured. I always thought it was a little odd how close the two of you sounded as kids compared to how you are now, not to mention the age gap. But if you had a twin brother, and there had been a falling out between you two, that would explain it."

Ford had never considered that his stories might sound odd. Obviously he avoided relating any twin-switching incidents – easy enough since Ford's obvious six-fingered difference meant he and Stan hadn't tried that all that often – but other stories he'd simply related as "my brother and I" and assumed avoiding names would be sufficient. Apparently not. "Well I do have one, so that's mystery solved, I guess."

"That it is. And out of everywhere in the world you could have ended up, you got plopped down right next to your estranged twin, huh?"

"More or less," Ford agreed.

"Well if that ain't Providence at work," Fiddleford said.

It was too bad they were having this conversation via phone, because Ford had an impressively sardonic look he wanted to share with Fiddleford right now. "God did not reunite me with my brother. A toilet did."

"The Lord works in mysteries ways," Fiddleford quoted.

"It was a toilet. A small outdoor shed full of bugs and human feces." Ford could already sense the notions Fiddleford was getting into his head, and he could not undercut them enough.

"I do know what an outhouse is; I'd say I'm a mite bit more familiar with them than you are even. And you know what? The good Lord made them same as everything else. But never mind about that, you're entitled to your beliefs same as anyone, and you can say the toilet was behind it if you like." That was not a belief, it was a fact. The portal potty had done it. "It don't make me no nevermind either way, so long as you don't let this opportunity slip by."

"This is not an opportunity," Ford said bluntly.

"How do you figure that one? You run into your brother who I'm sure you haven't talked to once in the past, what would it be, nine years?"

"More like ten," Ford said.

"Ten years then, and now the two of you are face to face and have what I'm guessing must be a nice long car ride in front of you to sort things out. Sounds like a pretty perfect opportunity to me," Fiddleford said.

"I am not looking to make up with Stan. I just want to get home and put this interlude behind me," Ford told him.

"You might not have been looking for it, but it seems to have found you anyhow. And you know, I think you do want to make up with him."

"You don't know that," Ford snapped. "Look, I understand what you're trying to do here, but you don't know anything about my brother or what he did to me, so I'd appreciate it if you left it alone."

"You're right, you're right, I'm sorry. He's your brother, and it's none of my business how you want to handle your family affairs. I just got one more thing to say, and then I'll leave it be. Maybe I don't know what Stan did to you or what he's like, but for a person I didn't even know existed ten minutes ago, I sure have heard an awful lot about him."

Ford pressed his lips together and didn't say anything. He really didn't have a response to that. After a pause, Fiddleford continued. "Well, I've said my piece now, and I won't say any more. You do what you like, and I'll hold down the fort for you up here until you get back."

"Thank you," Ford said. "I should be back to the house the day after tomorrow, sometime in the late afternoon, early evening probably."

"Okay, well let me know if anything happens and that changes, but otherwise I'll see you then."

"Alright, goodbye," Ford said, then hung up the phone. At the car Stan had already finished pumping the gas, so Ford climbed back in and stared resolutely out the window as they continued down the road.

Fiddleford didn't know what he was talking about. It wasn't his fault that he didn't, since Ford had never told him anything about Stan, but he still shouldn't be trying to give advice on a situation he didn't understand. Sure, Ford was no longer actively angry at Stan. He could spend time down by the lake reminiscing or he could tell Fiddleford stories without getting upset about what had come after. But those childhood adventures had happened a long time ago, and he and Stan were different people now. Ford was a scientist, a researcher poised on the edge of the discovery of a lifetime, while Stan was, as best as Ford could deduce, a traveling snake-oil salesman who accepted drugs of unknown quality and origin from guys named Rico. Ford didn't have space for someone like that in his life. He didn't want someone like that in his life, even not taking in to account what Stan had done to him. And that was not an easy thing to overlook – Stan had ruined his life, because his stupid unfeasible treasure hunting idea had been more important to him than Ford's happiness. This was the person Ford was supposed to want to make up with?

The Arizona desert continued to stretch on outside the window as the miles flew by. Ford found his gaze slowly tripping and sliding past the landscape until it came to focus on Stan in the corner of his eye. The thing of it was, while Ford was absolutely certain Fiddleford didn't know what he was talking about, he was perhaps slightly less certain Fiddleford was completely and entirely wrong. Those childhood adventures had been a long time ago, but at this point so had the hurt. Ford's life had recovered, and despite whatever opportunities he may have missed out on, he was doing what he loved now. Maybe ten years was plenty long enough to hold a grudge and it was time to move on. Maybe if Stan was ready to apologize, then Ford could be ready to forgive him. It would be nice, to move from not being actively angry at Stan to not being angry at all. Maybe it would even be nice after a day reminiscing by the lake to be able to call Stan, as the two of them lived their separate lives, and say, "Hey, do you remember that time when…?" Even if they didn't ever talk again after this road trip, taking the time to clear the air now would mean they could both move forward with a clean slate and one less scar in the back of their minds.

Over the course of the last two and a half hours or so, Stan and Ford had taken turn surreptitiously inching down the radio from the deafeningly high volume Stan had set it at initially. They had never adjusted it by very much at any given time, neither of them wanting it to seem as though they were inviting conversation, but the cumulative effect meant it was now quiet enough in the car that they could each hear themselves think. It was also quiet enough that they could hear each other talk, if either of them were so inclined to speak. Or if Ford could think of anything to say.

The traditional approach when trying to make up after a fight was to open with an apology, but Ford didn't have anything to apologize for. Stan was the one who had been in the wrong. Stan was the one who should apologize, but even Ford could see beginning things with a demand for an apology was not going to be conducive to a productive conversation, regardless of how much he was owed one. Blurting out "Let's talk about that time you ruined my life, because I'm still angry at you for that," didn't seem to be a great tack either.

Luckily, as Ford was racking his brain for some way to open a dialogue, the road sign that had appeared in the distance a while ago finally got close enough to be read. Perfect. He would start with small talk about their trip, and then guide the conversation from there to their decade's worth of unresolved issues. Somehow.

"Are we going to be going through California; is it not slower than going up through Nevada? Gravity Falls is on the eastern side of Oregon," Ford said.

Stan's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "We can't go through Nevada."

"Why not?" Ford asked, causing Stan's hands to shift and tighten on the steering wheel yet again and his jaw to work. Ford didn't know why; he wasn't trying to be confrontational. It was a genuine question. Ford's general knowledge of where they were and his recollection of US geography suggested that Gravity Falls was north-northwest whereas California was west-northwest, meaning they would eventually have to cut back east if they drove through that way. However, Stan was the more well-traveled of the two of them, and Ford was willing to trust his judgement as to the fastest route. He just wanted to know the whys behind it.

"Because," Stan said without elaborating.

"Because why?" Really, Ford was trying to make polite, civil conversation here, and as Stan was the one who insisted on them spending all this time together the very least he could do was make an equal effort here.

"Because I'm banned from Nevada."

"What, the whole state?" Ford said, laughing a little at the joke. Except Stan wasn't laughing back. "Wait, are you seriously banned from the entire state of Nevada? That's…" horrifying "… impressive." It was both really. "How do you even accomplish something like that? Did you really piss someone off in Las Vegas?"

"Nah, they love me in Vegas," Stan said easily.

"Of course they do," Ford said because, well, of course they did. A personality like Stan's was made for Las Vegas.

Stan was glancing at him sidelong now. Ford's non-confrontational intentions must have showed on his face, because a small grin began to grow on Stan's face. It was a hesitant grin, but an intimately familiar one full of mischief. It was the grin that said they were about to get into a lot of trouble and have a whole lot of fun doing it. "You want to hear how I got banned from Nevada?"

"Sure. How did you get banned from Nevada?" Ford had never been able to say no to that grin.

"It all started when I was in this bar in Carson City and this smoking hot babe walks in…" Stan had always been a bombastic storyteller with natural showmanship flair, and the past ten years had only amplified that ability. Right from the beginning the story was so ridiculous and over-the-top and just so Stan that Ford couldn't help but to smile. The smile grew to chuckles and pretty soon Ford was laughing out loud. Each time he did, Stan would almost immediately up the ante on the story, like he was taking every laugh as a personal challenge to make Ford laugh even harder the next time. It was a challenge he was handily succeeding at, so that by the time he reached the end Ford's stomach was starting to get sore.

"…So there I am soaking wet, still in the elf costume, and I don't know who wants to kill me more, the governor or his little yappy dog. I can see it in the governor's eyes how badly he wants to lay into me, just really cuss me out, but he can't because all the kids are right there. So finally he says, 'I think it's time for you to go back to the North Pole and stay there.' Then he storms off and all the kids start cheering. And that's the story of how I got banned from the state of Nevada and saved Christmas."

Ford took a moment to catch his breath, then, still grinning, asked, "How much of that story was actually true?"

Stan shrugged. "Eh, like half of it maybe. I hate to have to tell you this, mostly because you're a grown man and Jewish, but Santa's not actually real."

Ford gave Stan a light shove "I did know that, thank you. I am the paranormal researcher here."

"Right, so how is that – ah, crap." As Stan was speaking he had reached up to lower his sun visor causing a piece of paper or something flutter down and land at Ford's feet. Ford bent down to grab it, only to have Stan immediately try to snatch it away again. "Here, I'll just…"

Ford didn't let him have it. He looked down at the picture in his hands and smiled. It was one of the two of them, back when they had probably been about sixteen. They were in the old boxing gym, looking at one another and laughing as Stan had Ford in a loose headlock and Ford was making a mock punch to Stan's chest. For some reason it reminded Ford of the picture he had tucked safely away in his desk drawer, the one of him and Stan out on their newly claimed boat. Ford took his time looking at the photo, and only then handed it back to Stan. "That's a good picture of us."

"Uh, yeah, I thought so. I mean, it's the only one I've got, but I thought it was a good one." Stan carefully reaffixed the picture with its worn tape to the visor, then flipped the visor back up. That left him squinting right into the setting sun, but Ford decided not to press the issue.

"You had something you were going to ask me?" he prompted.

"Yeah." Stan cleared his throat. "Yeah, I just, you know I told you a bit about what I've been up to the last ten years –"

"Saving Christmas apparently," Ford said.

"Exactly," Stan agreed. "So I was wondering what you've been up to, the whole paranormal research thing. It sounds like the same kind of stuff you liked to do when we were kids, and that's got to be pretty nice. Getting paid to do the kind of stuff you'd be doing for free anyway."

"It's not exactly like when we were children. This is serious research, very thorough, data collection and analysis and…" That was about as long as Ford could keep the solemn expression up, and he broke into a giddy grin. "And it's amazing. It's exactly the kind of work I dreamed about doing, but better."

"So tell me about it. I promise that I'll try not to let your nerd babble put me to sleep," Stan teased.

"You better not fall asleep while you're driving," Ford said.

"Good point. Maybe we ought to wait until we stop for the night. You'll start talking and I'll drift right off to bed."

"Hey!" Ford objected "I'll have you know that a lot of my work is very exciting."

"Oh, yeah?" Stan said.

"Yeah," Ford shot back.

"Prove it." Stan was grinning at him again, like trouble, like a challenge, like a brother. As Ford launched into the tale of his recent encounter with a gremloblin, he thought to himself that no, Fiddleford definitely hadn't been completely and entirely wrong.