Chapter 5
They were back on the path again, this time side-by-side instead of Ford leading the way. Stan had his journal open and was listing off all the things he discovered on his own. Only a handful of tidbits were things Ford already knew and had put into the other two journals, but most of them were things he had no idea about.
"Wait, wait!" Ford said, holding his hands up. "You're telling me you've had a barrier up around the Shack for almost twenty years already?"
"Duh, Sixer," Stan replied, snorting. "How the hell do you think I kept the real paranormal separate from what's in the Shack?" He stretched his arms over his head to ease out the rest of the toxin's after-effects. "It was nothin' fancy. The basic idea was, if you don't acknowledge the creatures around you, they cant come in through the barrier. It held up for twenty years, until the kids came." He snorted.
Ford flexed a hand into his hair, his expression akin to someone putting quantum physics in front of an average ten-year-old. "TWENTY years, it held? What kind of…WHERE did you find something like that?!"
Stan nudged Ford's shoulder. "Contrary to my English grade in high school, I DO read," he replied, grinning. "There's a whole section in the Gravity Falls library on the paranormal. Turns out a lot of that hocus-pocus isn't complete bunk. I got pretty good at it with some practice."
"Hopefully you didn't cause TOO much trouble," Ford said. Stan looked sheepish.
"…I DID raise the dead once. 's why I have ten guns."
"Stanley!"
"Hey, Dipper did it too! And he didn't even say the extra bit that puts them under your control! Ever had to punch your way through a hoard of zombies and then sing karaoke to blow their heads up? NOT fun!" Stan kicked a rock that was on the path.
"You didn't shoot them?" Ford asked, confused. Stan sighed.
"I was down in the basement when it happened. The zombies already took over the house by the time I got up, and I only had enough time to grab a bat and save the kids. I'm just glad I keep my brass knuckles in my pocket at all times." He shot Ford a look. "You know, all that crap would've been a LOT easier if I had known you wrote with invisible ink, you nerd. You crawl up my ass because I didn't 'read the warnings', and you HID them the whole time."
Ford felt his face heat up. "…I…DID overreact," he said. "It was a very trying day…and…I had no real memory of you to react to for thirty years, other than that last fight we had."
Stan frowned. "You held onto THAT for thirty years?" he said, sounding slightly wounded. "I mean…damn, I KNOW that fight was nasty, but…" He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers slipping a little further back to where his brand was.
Ford swallowed hard, his hands twitching by his sides, searching for SOMETHING to say. "…the next thing we need is up on the cliff," he said, then mentally punched himself in the face. Stan sighed, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
"I know a shortcut," he said. "Let's hurry this up, I want to get home before the muscle numbness wears off completely and I'm bedridden for a week." He headed onward to scope out the shortcut. Ford let himself fall a pace behind, feeling the urge to punch a tree.
'Nice going, you obtuse ass,' he berated himself. He remained quiet as they trekked up to a small mountainside and around to where an accessible path had been carved through, which was good because no matter what shape he was in, he was pushing sixty-three and his knees were feeling it.
Stan had to stop for a breather every ten minutes, and Ford was glad he had the foresight to bring a canteen of water. "I could have sworn I saw you pack one of your own," Ford said, helping Stan up after the third rest.
"Yep," Stan said, standing and stretching his back out and handing the canteen back to Ford.
"…So where did it go—"
"We're here."
Stan walked up onto the top of the cliff, sighing heavily when he felt a cool breeze kick up. "Ugh, finally…" he said. "What exactly is it we're looking for?"
Ford looked around for a moment. "It's a plant," he said. "It's incredibly rare, but it's highly valuable. If you wrap a wound with it, it'll heal you in a day."
"I don't even wanna know how you figured THAT one out." Stan looked around, then paused, frowning. "Ford…"
"It's a really funny story, actually—"
"Ford."
"—the last time I ever tried rappelling down a cliff alone, I tell you what—"
"STANFORD."
Ford stopped talking. "What?" he said, frowning. Stan slowly raised a hand and pointed behind Ford. Ford turned around, eyes widening.
Behind them was an enormous nest built out of branches, logs, and animal pelts, as well as some stolen clothing. Inside the nest was a sleeping GRIFFON.
"….A griffon. A freaking GRIFFON…" Stan muttered under his breath. "Is that the same one from that stupid game? I hate Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons even more now!" He edged back, his hand slipping to his bag. "Let's just find the plant and get out of here!"
Ford swallowed. "That's…going to be a problem," he replied.
"Why?"
"…its nest is built right on top of it." He pointed to a patch of plants poking out from under the nest. Stan glanced down at the plant, noticing bright red flowers growing in it, and pursed his lips to stifle a groan.
"Figures," he muttered, then sighed. "Let's get this over with before it wakes up." He and Ford crept up, remaining as silent as possible. Ford had his gun out and ready this time as Stan knelt down and prodded at the plant. "Leaves or flowers?"
"Both," Ford whispered back. Stan nodded and tugged, but the plant was stubbornly persistent. He quietly unzipped his bag and took out his hunting knife, cutting through the plants and putting them into his bag. He took about four handfuls before calling it done and zipped the bag back up, bracing himself before standing, wincing when his back cracked in protest.
Unfortunately, the crack was louder than intended, and the twins froze when the wings of the griffon shifted and lifted, a cranky-looking eye honing in on them.
"…shit," they both said at the same time.
The griffon flared out its wings and squalled at them.
"RUN!" Stan shouted, racing over the top of the cliff, grabbing Ford's jacket en route, mostly as a means to make sure his brother was with him. Ford let Stan lead him off, keeping his head turned to the griffon, swearing loudly when it lifted off from the nest and dove after them.
Ford raised his gun to fire, but stumbled over a rock, his glasses falling off his face and shattering on the ground. "DAMMIT!" he swore, squinting and shooting anyway. He apparently only clipped a section of wing that was only feather, because the griffon just shrieked angrily and flew faster.
Not needing glasses to know where the griffon was aiming, Ford dove on Stan, tackling them both to the ground a second before the griffon's claws would have caught them. He sat up and looked up at the sky wildly, having to squint to try to see anything besides the blazing haze of the sun turning the sky almost the same golden color as the griffon's feathers and fur.
Stan sat up, fumbling with his bag to get it open, cursing like a sailor when the zipper jammed. "OF ALL THE TIMES FOR THIS SH—"
"STANLEY, RUN!" Ford jumped up, jerking Stan up with him, but keeping his hand tight on Stan's jacket. Stan took off running again, and Ford followed best he could, keeping his gun raised and poised to shoot.
Another loud shriek from the griffon gave Ford a general idea of where to shoot, and he did so, with gusto. If anything, it kept the griffon away long enough for Stan to make it to the path that led off the cliff—
The griffon swooped down and Ford ducked, but the griffon's talons knocked the gun out of his hand and down the mountain.
There was a brief beat of an 'oh shit' moment before Stan grabbed his bag and tore it open, zipper be damned, and grabbed his shotgun, shoving Ford behind him and firing, managing to graze the beast's side. "Goddamn cataracts!" he snapped, narrowing his eyes and taking aim again. "FORD, GRAB THE BAG AND GET DOWN THE MOUNTAIN!"
"I'm NOT leaving you here, Stanley!" Ford snapped back. "Don't be stupid!" He fumbled around in his jacket, his hand grabbing up the smoke bomb. He looked up, seeing the griffon diving down for another go. "GET DOWN!" He threw the smoke bomb over Stan's shoulder, clenching his eyes shut when it exploded, covering an impressive range. "STANLEY, LET'S GO—"
The griffon made a blind swoop and got a lucky grab, snatching Stan up in its talons. Ford felt his heart leap when he heard his twin scream from being snatched, fumbling around blindly for SOMETHING, and found the bag. He reached in and nicked his finger on the hunting knife, grabbing it up and hoisting the bag over his shoulder, running out of the range of the smoke and BARELY managed to skid to a halt before he ran right off the edge of the cliff.
He had an idea of how high up they were, but not being able to properly SEE made the sight nauseating. He looked around wildly, honing in on Stan's screaming and managed to catch sight of the griffon making a dive down to the ground.
Girding his loins for what he was about to do, Ford took a few steps back from the cliff before diving off, the hunting knife clenched in his hand tightly, focusing everything on landing on the griffon's back.
He landed knife-first, his free hand clenching into a mass of fur and feather to avoid getting bucked off mid-air as he jerked the knife out and stabbed again. "LET GO OF MY BROTHER!" he shouted, twisting the blade slightly. The griffon shrieked, thrashing around in the air, and Ford could hear Stan shouting something indecipherable.
The griffon did a barrel roll and Ford slipped off the beast's back and managed to grab into a back leg, losing hold of the knife mid-fall. He clung for dear-life, looking over to see Stan doing the same to a talon.
"FORD!" Stan shouted over, letting go with one hand to reach out. "LET GO!"
"ARE YOU CRAZY!?" Ford shouted back.
"TRUST ME, FORD! JUST LET GO!"
God, of ALL the words for Stanley to say… Ford bit his lip hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he eyed the hand that was reaching out for him. He didn't want to die out here, and he certainly didn't want Stanley to die either. But at this point, he figured if they fell to their deaths together…
Letting out a mentally frustrated growl, Ford let go of the griffon's leg with one hand and reached out to Stan.
The griffon made swoop upward, and Ford lost his grip entirely, dropping like a rock. Stan let go of the talon he was holding onto, falling after Ford and managing to grab hold of him. At the contact, Ford clung to Stan with both arms, almost crushing his twin.
"STANLEY, I'M SORRY!" he shouted over the rush of wind, his eyes clenched shut. "I'M SORRY I LET DAD KICK YOU OUT I'M SORRY I DIDN'T STAND UP FOR YOU I'M SORRY I DIDN'T CONTACT YOU SOONER I'M SORRY I HIT YOU I'M SORRY FOR BLAMING YOU I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M—" He was cut off when he heard the sound of something going off, yelping when he felt them both jerk in the air…and then stop for a moment before descending slowly.
He opened his eyes, seeing Stanley's hunting jacket opened and arm raised, holding onto to something. He looked up. "…Is that a…?"
"Grappling hook," Stan said, grinning. "Told ya to trust me, Sixer."
Ford stared up, stunned for a few moments before clinging to Stan tighter, feeling about ready to pass out. The grappling hook's cord managed to lower them to a short slab of rock that jutted out from the side of the mountain, and Ford dropped onto it bonelessly, groaning as he felt his stomach finally catch up with the rest of him.
Stan retracted the hook, plopping down next to Ford and patting his shoulder comfortingly. "If you gotta puke, do it now," he said. "Trust me, you'll feel better."
Ford just groaned.
"…Apology accepted, by the way."
Another groan.
"Love you too, Sixer."