The children were in the kitchen eating cereal when he went back downstairs, with Soos and Wendy standing at the counter. They all were experiencing varying levels of confusion, probably due to Stan not being there to make breakfast like he usually was.

When they saw Ford, the confusion only grew, but now with some concern in the mix.

"Stan is not feeling well," he said before they could ask. "He's taking the day off."

At once Soos lurched to his feet, eyes wide with panic. "Mr. Pines is taking a day off from work?! Oh my gosh, he's dying!"

Immediately everyone else's anxiety levels rose to the equivalent of a blaring siren going off in Ford's head.

"What? No-Stanley is not dying!" Ford fought against the secondhand fear and alarm making his heart pound, and wondered idly just what kind of work ethic his brother had. "Calm down, he's going to be fine!" ...I hope. "He's just going to rest for a couple of days, and I'm going to run the Mystery Shack for him during that time."

Wendy blinked. "Wait, you?"

"Yes, me," Ford said tersely, unable to avoid a spark of irritation at the levels of disbelief he felt emanating from the others-even Dipper.

Why is that everyone's reaction? I can handle running a frabdrazzit tourist trap!

He cleared his throat. "And he suggested that I ask the four of you for input on the matter, so that's what I'm doing now."

After a moment Wendy raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"Any chance I can call my friends over to hang out in the gift shop during my shift?" she asked with a grin; there was a spark of mischief emanating from her as she did.

"What? No, that has the potential to be extremely detrimental to your workplace productivity."

Wendy lowered her hand in disappointment.

"Good call, Grunkle Ford," Mabel whispered loudly, before giggling when Wendy reached over and swatted her.

...Ford wasn't going to pretend to understand what that was all about. "Anything else?"

"Well, first of all you're gonna wanna find something nicer to wear," Mabel said. "As great as your normal outfit is, it's not gonna cut it if you wanna look like you're in charge."

"Yeah, like Mr. Pines says: dress to impress!" Soos lifted his arms dramatically, beaming. The fact that he was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt with sweat stains under the armpits only undercut the message a little bit.

"Also, be careful what you show people, cuz real magic tends to freak them out," Dipper added. "I tried making a gremloblin into an exhibit once, and I might have made two people go insane."

"Maybe something with a lab coat, so you can have a cool 'mad scientist' kind of vibe," Mabel mused aloud; she had produced a drawing pad and paper, and appeared to be sketching out ideas for a new outfit for Ford (he noticed that she emblazoned "DR. MYSTERY!" across the top in multiple colors, with stars and fireworks surrounding it).

"Oh, and no matter what, you're not allowed to shoot anyone," Dipper said hurriedly.

Ford took a moment to digest this information, before giving a nod. "Very well, I think I can work with that. I have a few items stored away that should be safe enough to display, provided people follow directions correctly. Dipper, would you like to help me set them up after breakfast?"

"...Sure, Great Uncle Ford."

He did notice that he and Mabel looked at each other somewhat uneasily as they finished eating, and could feel that all four of the young people weren't sure about this as they got ready for the first group of tourists (his old lab coats all needed to be thrown in the wash, so for the time being Ford just put on an old button-down and necktie of his that he'd found in storage; the shirt felt tighter around the shoulders than he remembered, but still managed to fit)...but he wasn't the same insecure shrinking violet he'd been as a teenager, or the recluse he'd been as a young man who only interacted with a few people on a regular basis.

He could do this.

One hour later

"Get away from the monkey's paw!" Ford ordered, lunging through the cluster of tourists to grab the wrist of the boy who'd been reaching across the velvet rope towards the display. "There's a 'Do Not Touch' sign there for a reason!"

Note to self: set up a force field around this exhibit so people will stop trying to touch it. I swear, have none of them read the original story?!

Normally he might have been a little more patient with the child, but being in charge of a tour group was proving to be more challenging than he thought; the fact that he'd forgotten about the potion's effects on him until he was surrounded by a group of people, all experiencing different complicated feelings that crashed around him like a hundred voices all shouting at once, did not help matters.

Ford had no idea how Stan did this on a daily basis. In order to be a proper tour guide you needed to have eyes in the back of your head, an ability to be in at least six places at once, and an extra set of arms that you could stretch out to twice their length. Heh, Stan would probably like the idea of that for an exhibit, perhaps he should-

The child was speaking.

"I just wanted to see if it worked! You said it grants wishes!"

Ford struggled to maintain his patience. "I also mentioned that the wishes are always granted in a horrific fashion, such as by causing someone's death, and I don't think you're old enough to have something like that on your conscience."

...He realized that he could have put that a little more tactfully when the boy's eyes began welling up with tears.

"Um-I-I'm sure that was not your intention," he tried to backtrack, kneeling and patting his shoulder awkwardly. "However, you need to understand that this is no toy, it's something that could genuinely cause real danger to you or those around you-"

The child ran off crying.

A second later Ford was being accosted by two angry women.

"What did you say to our son?!"

He blinked as he got to his feet and straightened his tie. "...He's both your son? How-I'm sorry, how does that-"

...It was only by Dipper surging to the rescue and explaining that Ford was "behind the times" that he was able to avoid the Mystery Shack being slapped with a massive lawsuit.

By the end of the tour, the best Ford could say was that the house was still standing, and nobody had been killed or cursed or made an ill-fated wish. Also, according to one of the older women he was a "silver fox," whatever that meant.

Ford wanted nothing more than to go hide in the basement at least until the potion wore off, but instead he warmed up some canned chicken soup and went to check on Stan while the children handled things in the gift shop.

Stan had propped himself up on some pillows so he could sit up in bed, and at some point had acquired a bowl down at the foot of the bed that Ford guessed was in case he felt the need to vomit again. He was still rather pale and glassy-eyed, and even though he couldn't sense what his physical condition was like Ford could feel that he was miserable.

"How are you feeling, Stanley?" Ford asked, sitting down on the side of the bed and stirring the soup.

Stan looked at him with drowsy, dazed eyes, before murmuring, "Kinda like I did this one time when I got scarlet fever." He blinked. "...Or actually, mighta been dengue fever. Don't remember what the difference is."

Ford scooped up a spoonful of soup and offered it to him. "If I remember correctly, scarlet fever has been almost completely eradicated, while dengue fever is primarily found in hot tropical climates. Then again, things might have changed while I was away."

"...Prolly dengue, then. Spent some time in Colombia way back when." Stan grimaced, but then gingerly sipped from the spoon.

"I'd like to hear about it when you're feeling better; that sounds interesting." Ford fed him more soup for a minute, then put a hand to his forehead. Now it was his turn to grimace. "I don't like that fever."

"Whoa...tha' feels nice." Stan leaned into his touch, the corner of his mouth turning up into a goofy smile as he looked at him. "You're a lot nicer than the real Ford. He's...prolly in the basement doin' science crap. I'm glad you're here instead."

Ford felt like a tight hand had wrapped itself around his throat and squeezed. All he said, though, was, "I'm going to get a damp washcloth for your forehead. Don't go anywhere, I'll be right back."

He doubted very much that Stan was in any condition to go anywhere, but all the same he made the trip as swiftly as possible, and came back with a damp washcloth. Stan was still in more or less the same pose Ford had left him in, so he just readjusted him until he was leaning back a little more, and then put the washcloth across his forehead.

"Do you think you can eat some more?" Ford asked, picking up the soup again.

Stan glanced at the half full dish. "Do I have to?"

"...Not if you're full. I just know that generally, you're supposed to give sick people soup." Ford frowned thoughtfully. "They don't specify how much, though."

He noticed too late that Stan was looking a little green, and barely grabbed the bowl lying on the floor in time for him to empty his stomach into it.

"...Apparently that was too much," Ford admitted when he finished. He put both bowls on the floor, and then used the washcloth to clean Stan's face with a frustrated sigh. "Sorry, Stanley, I'm-I'm not very good at this."

"Yeah, I know. I was...always the one takin' care of Ford. It's not your fault." Stan patted his arm sympathetically.

"Yes, you really did." He got up and went to dampen the cloth again, and while he was in the bathroom grabbed a glass of water as well.

"Do you think maybe you could keep this down?" he asked when he came back. "You should at least try to stay hydrated."

Stan shrugged, but gingerly sipped a little from the glass before putting it on the bedside table. "Ginger ale's good too...and saltine crackers," he murmured, snuggling down under the blanket. "Nuthin' too rich...not good for upset stomachs."

"Well, let's see how you handle the water for now, all right?" Ford put the cloth back on his forehead, and he sighed happily with a little nod. His eyelids fluttered sleepily behind his glasses.

Ford removed his glasses for him, and laid them on the table next to the water. "Get some sleep, Stanley."

Stan's eyes began to close...before he abruptly forced them open and squinted at Ford. "...Shack runnin' okay?"

"...Yes. Everything's going fine."

Fortunately Stan was not the one able to sense emotions; otherwise he would undoubtedly have sensed the lie in his words. As it was, he did give him a bit of a crooked smirk before letting his eyes close at last.

...At least he's trying, right?