It was a terrible, terrible idea. Perhaps his worst ever. Bill prided himself in his ability to pick a bright red apple from a tree but the one he'd chosen today had nothing but brown flesh and worms. The rain pelted down against his fur, soil sodden between his toes, everything clumped and moist and filthy and god he would kill to be floating again. Behind him a concoction of dirt-caked fur and slobbery jaws pursued, hungrier than any hound he'd seen from the Nightmare Realm.
It was too small minded a creature to be fooled by duplicity but Cat's body was lithe and took well to changes in direction. His eyes ran ahead, carving out a path too twisty for its thundering feet to keep up with. Cat wouldn't get itself out of this situation and he couldn't risk losing the vessel; he had to curtail the chase, and quickly.
Muddy paws threatened a perilous tango with the terrain. Several times Bill had to catch himself before sliding into the bark of a tree. The incessant need of a physical body to blink was beyond frustrating. To lose a second of time in the chase was a second the beast could use to nip at the end of his tail. How was he supposed to be efficient when the odds were stacked against him? It managed to track him across the upturned roots and through the low hanging branches. His plan wasn't working. He looked overhead.
A silver spirit cruised alongside him. Cat flexed its translucent claws and pointed its nose upwards to the tree trunks. Bill was inclined to listen; it made a point. Cat's body had more control over its claws than the blunt stubs on the end of the monster behind him. He was striving to bruise ahead when he was better off taking to the skies before he was hedged in. Using all the strength his hind legs provided, he launched himself onto the nearest tree and sunk the fine points of his claws deep into its sides. Cat tailed him the further up he went, hovering above his forehead once he'd plopped himself down on a branch too high for the beast to reach.
His mind throbbed. It was time to exit. The sensation of leaving Cat's body was never pleasant, comparable to taking a sewing kit and making a rug out of your own insides, unravelling each thread of each atom and curling it around your fingers. The switch would've been instantaneous to an outsider's eye, but for Bill it felt like forever. Settling back into his triangular form and watching the world go grey, he decreased his size to match Cat's and floated beside it. Cat shivered its body into acceptance of the returned soul then began to lick its paws. Bill checked the clouds. They were darker than ever.
"That's a waste of time, you know. Unless you like the taste of rainwater."
Cat's fur prickled. The rain stopped.
"Nevermind then." Bill shrugged and veered over the edge of the branch. The beast licked the thick saliva from its chops and lowered its tail, skulking away in search of easier prey. "Coyotes really are the bane of this place. You know I turned them all into tardigrades during Weirdmageddon? Not only were they utterly useless, but they also had to exist for all of eternity. Haha!"
Cat paused its grooming and thumped its tail against the branch.
Bill rolled his eye. "Yeesh, try not to be too impressed. I thought you cats were supposed to be a prestige of human history." He drew a crude portrait in the air, long hair and pointed face. "Cleopatra not ringing a bell?"
Cat wrinkled its nose.
"I thought as much." Bill doodled out a garbage can and stuffed the portrait into it. Both images poofed out of the existence. "Looks like I'm not getting to that journal myself. This would be a lot easier if you evolved opposable –"
"Gooooood morning Mystery Shack!"
He knew that voice. It stuck out against the pounding in his eye like it were a smoke alarm; purposefully engineered to bring pain to your soul. The Mystery Shack wasn't a place Bill intended to visit often, yet each time he'd journeyed in Cat's body he would circle back to its surrounds like a fish falling for the fifth lake lure that week. It was idiotic, it was something he should learn from, and despite it all curiosity brought him over to the source of the noise. Cat mewed after him. It wasn't safe to get down.
It was him. The old man. If he had a nose he was sure he'd smell fetid. Behind him was the freak, who admittedly looked cleaner but had an air of lassitude about him that filled Bill with a desperation to enter the physical realm again, if only to toy with him and push him over. Stanley and Stanford Pines: the two humans he hated the most. The ones who forced him onto his knees like a pathetic whelp.
His eye skirted down to their hands. Five fingers, six fingers. Both to their respective owners.
Something stopped him for approaching the door. He couldn't bring himself to move forwards, not even to phase through a wall or port into the incisions on the windows. Had they set another barrier? No – it would show blue. There wasn't a hint of blue in front of him. There wasn't a hint of any colour in front of him, which he supposed didn't matter considering how grey the two sops were.
He growled. The arrival of the first set of twins was something he could work with; adding the second set was an adulteration he wasn't sure how to account for. He'd already reached his limit for the day... But there was nothing for him to lose by pushing himself a tad more. He tapped at the satiny metal coiled over his noodle-like wrist and returned to Cat with fresh sense of motivation.
"Gooooood morning Mystery Shack!"
The door burst open, hinges screeching as two pairs of polished shoes wiped themselves off on the mat, one pair a long scag and the other some dainty taps. The lights flickered and the interior shook, settling only when the long draw of Grunkle Stan's note had ended. His trenchcoat was ripped at the edges with a faint pink glimmer to it. The hat he threw to the coathanger seemed like a feral raccoon had gotten hold of it.
The scene had been set: two backyard snails laid on the carpet, the two twins positioned behind them with Dipper imitating an airhorn to start the race – a grand event interrupted barely an hour later. Mabel had assumed when their uncles missed the sharp mark of six o'clock that they'd come much later. It was a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong. Footsteps thumped upstairs in response to the ruckus.
"Stanley, it's almost seven at night," mumbled Ford from behind his bedazzled brother, adjusting his polished glasses and making a bee line for the living room.
"Grunkle Stan! Great Uncle Ford!" Dipper darted from the floor, quick as lightning, to envelop himself in a warm hug from Ford. Mabel bounced over to join in. They lead him over to the couch, relaxing into the leather cushioning, taking note not to crush any innocent snails along the way.
"Time is an illusion these days! Remember when we passed by that vortex?" Stan poked his head through the living room doorway, then turned left to the end of the stairs and snatched the fez off of an unsuspecting Soos. "Hey slick, nice to see you kept the hat well worn. How's the pecuniary affairs? Run any scams?"
Soos ghosted his hand over the bald space the hat left behind, a quick eyebrow furrow abandoned to see a childlike glee on his face. "You're back!" He embraced Stan, who went stiff as a tree and gave him a cautious pat on the back.
"Here I thought you kids would never see Gravity Falls again." Ford chuckled, arms curled around the two teens snuggled at his sides. "What did you have to do to pull this off?"
"It wasn't that hard," Mabel said, glancing at the ceiling. Memories of Dipper desperately trying to convince their parents of the existence of ghosts came to mind. "It's just been a long time, you know? It's not like Bill's coming ba –" Ford's arm twitched.
"Mabel!" Dipper hissed through his teeth, leaning across to flick her arm.
Stan, having reentered the room with Soos's head tucked under his armpit, peered at them through beady eyes.
Silence.
"Hey, where's the pig?"
"Waddles?" Mabel tapped two fingers together. "He, um… He got a little big. Too big for the bus at least. But he's in good hands at home!" Leaving Waddles behind had been an effort and a half. Dipper had dragged her onto the bus, and even then it took hours of wistful window staring to imagine a summer without him.
Stan sniffed. "Shame. I'll have to feed my scraps to Soos now." Soos whooped from against his arm.
Dipper flashed a nervous smile. "So, how was your trip?"
Ford gave him an affectionate jostle of his hair. "Trust me, we've got plenty of stories to tell you. But first." He rose from the couch. There was a slight limp to his step. "Soos. Is the workshop still in tact?"
Soos had weaselled his way out of another noogie and retreated the safety of the twins. He tilted his head. "You mean the basement place? I haven't touched it since you guys left. It's real creepy down there… probably has ghosts or something."
"You could say that," said Ford, casting a nod to his brother. "Stanley. If you will."
Stan leaned towards Mabel, cheek cupped, and whispered, "This is it, kid. I might not make it out alive."
"I heard that. Come on."
He grimaced at her – "Pray for me!" – and followed Ford out of the room.
Dipper's eyes followed their paths, face hardening. "That was quick. Do you think they ran into some trouble?"
Mabel rolled her eyes with a fond smile. "When is Grunkle Stan ever out of trouble? They're probably just tired after their old man trip."
"Yeah." Though Dipper agreed, he rubbed at his chin and tapped his foot against the couch in stereotypical Worried-Dipper-fashion. He needed a distraction or he'd be thinking about it for the rest of the night! Mabel jumped off of the couch and to the corner of the room, scooping two fugitive snails off of the wall and holding them in her palms.
"Round two?"
Dipper couldn't hide the sparkle in his eyes. "Round two."
Stan watched him roughly press the keys. The code must've been embedded in his brain by that point. Each correlated finger counted the numbers from behind his back. Two pairs of boots stomped down the stairs, causing a subtle hum in the space between the walls. How many times had he gone down to the room? He'd lost track of how long the portal took to build. How long it took to rescue his brother.
Ford flicked the lights on once they entered the base. Unlike the golden shine the shack's lights had, the basement's were a stark white that felt clinical and unfriendly. The room dropped in temperature. Cobwebs stuck between the wall's corners and every surface was thick with dust and grime. Stan turned his head to the nearest wall. Dents, scratches, scribbles and…
He pried the poster from under the worn tape. It depicted a fat ginger cat with a blank stare. "Confront yourself or face your inevitable death," he read, turning his head to look at Ford, who was investigating the console. "How motivational. You draft this one up yourself?"
Ford's glasses were struck with a white flash as the man faced him. "Eh. I was in a dark place."
Stan stuck the poster back against the wall, uncaring to the gentle flutter of it falling back to the floor. He joined Ford by the glass window, looking on to the deconstruction of the portal. He idly wondered if he'd been cordoned down just to stare wistfully through the glass or if Ford was actually going to say what was on his mind. It was a fifty fifty wager.
"Stanley."
Bingo. Ford had that look again. Invisible ants crawled along the back of Stan's neck. "What?"
A beat passed between them before Ford's hand came to rest on his shoulder. "When we were out at sea, did you ever feel the need for something more? Some.. itch that you couldn't scratch?"
"If this is about my rash –"
Ford shook his head. "I need you to take this seriously. Please."
Serious was never a good look; not for Ford. Stan had seen it on him many times and saw it on Dipper just as much. Whenever it passed over them a cacophony of chaos would follow. He tore his eyes from the thick-rimmed glasses and settled on the cold, hard ceiling. "Fine. Get on with it. You don't need to involve me in your monologue."
Ford sighed, pivoting back to the portal's remains and spreading his arms as if to show it off. "It's all I could've wanted. Sailing with you, investigating anomalies together." He looked back to Stan, forlorn. "But I spent so many years in that place. I made friends – estranged friends, but friends nonetheless."
Stan tensed. "You're not saying what I think you're saying."
"We only have so long left."
"Do you know how much of my life I spent trying to get you back? I'm not letting you gallivant off just because you're feeling sentimental!" Stan snarled at him. "You said it yourself – it's dangerous. Why the hell would you want to turn it back on?"
"That was before…" Ford rubbed his palm against his forehead and clicked his tongue. "It's different now. And I want you to come with me." Six fingers unfurled, seeking connection in the air. "Gravity Falls can handle itself. You know that. There's more out there for us." Stupid, stupid, sparkly eyes that reminded him too much of their childhood. "More treasure."
Stan took a step back.
"At least think about it!" Ford pleaded. "The last two years have been some of the best I've ever had. Those thirty years I spent, they were… I want to share the realms with you, Stanley. It's not all nightmares and doom out there. And now they're all free."
"Free from what?" He kept alluding to things, skirting around what he wanted to say like everyone else did because they knew something he didn't. Stan pressed her lips together. "We have family here. You're just going to give that up? Have you learned ANYTHING from what we've been through?"
"I have, I have! It's just – we could take the kids, too, and if I can figure out a way to get us in and out safely…"
No, no. He was talking like it was thirty years ago. Crazy talk about adventures beyond the earthly realm, a non-stop search for the significant. The Stan O' War II was the first time since they were kids that Stan had felt truly close to his brother, reminiscing on the old days and sharing a warmth he'd longed to feel for so long. He wouldn't lose him again. He couldn't. Stan rushed forward and grabbed his arm, fingers hooking in, forcing Ford out of whatever hideous fantasy world he was running through again.
"You need to snap out of this right now, Stanford. I don't know what makes you think it's any less dangerous than it was before. Didn't you tell me this thing was built to start an apocalypse? It let demons into our realm? You think that's just going to change because it's been two years?" Ford's eyes were wide, frail, and Stan forced a breath. "You're letting it control you."
Ford wanted to shove him off. He could see it in his eyes. Instead he drummed six fingers against Stan's arm and in response he gently pulled it away, making a distance between them again.
"I haven't been controlled for a long time," said Ford, straightening his glasses. "And I have you to thank for that."
Stan's shoulders slacked. "Can you just tell me what it is? The big piece I'm missing here?"
Ford's eyes strafed to the side. A deep breath filled with conflict and regret. "I wish I could tell you, brother. I really do."
The betrayal was fresh and familiar. Stan dipped his head; the floor was more comforting than the pitiful look he was being cast again.
"I'm sorry."
He fixed the fez over his head and put his nose to the air. "Whatever, Poindexter. I'm gonna go spend some time withourfamily. When you're ready to do that too, we'll be upstairs."
He gave the poster a good kick on his way back.
"Would you stop licking yourself? It's disgusting and I'm pretty sure you're gonna start losing hair, which isn't a good look for either of us."
Cat pulled its tongue from its thigh and glared at him. The attitude on the whelp was unfathomable. If he was physically able to step on it, the chance would've been too tempting to pass up. He sure fantasised about it. That or taking over its body for good – oh, being a cat couldn't be that bad until he regained his omnipotence! He liked the ability to persuade anyone to follow him simply by tilting his head a certain angle. On the other hand, it had about as much use as –
Glass glass glass. Jagged, pointed; slicing through him like his bricks were made of cheap plastic, carving him out from the inside. He could feel the edges melting, hearing the material whining with stress. Each segment of his body split apart, suspended in the air, a display of his own creation. Yet he could still feel the strings between them. Ice and fire and burning and chilling. They were pulled tight, screaming in agony, trying and trying and trying to pull him back together, to make the pain end. How much time had passed? A minute? An hour? The ends of his fingers twitched but his hands no longer moved.
Then, all at once, everything slammed together and he was pushed back into the mindscape, back into the comforts of the waterfall cave. Cat was staring up at him, eyes as wide as ever. It felt patronising but he wasn't sure how. His pupil dilated to a comfortable size. The experience was a memory, bubbled up from the thick sludge of a witch's cauldron. It had almost felt like…
"Oh, Stanley."