CHAPTER 2

Admittedly, Stanford Pines wasn't the best sleeper, even before the whole fiasco with Bill. His insomnia had served him fine in college, where it was practically the norm. On the especially bad nights when pure excitement and passion would keep Ford up all night long, Fiddleford would brew him a carafe of dark coffee in the morning, with no cream and perhaps just a little too much sugar to be healthy – just the way he liked it.

His eyes practically boring holes in the ceiling above him, Ford suddenly found himself nostalgic for the past.

When had everything changed?

When he found Stan's snack bag next to his malfunctioning project, and realized with dawning horror just how far his twin would go to keep them together? When their father had thrown Stan out of the house, and Ford had been too inflamed with rage and indignation that he couldn't even look his twin in the face? When Fiddleford had stormed out of the lab, wild-eyed, shouting damnation and destruction?

In fact, he suspected, but would never admit, that his almost life-long insomnia might have stemmed from his never getting used to the absence of loud snoring from the bunk bed just above him.

In the weeks after his return from the portal, that sound was a lifeline of normality for him, even though it had been forty years since he had last heard it so regularly. But now -

Ford sat straight up, a cold pit opening where his stomach should be.

For the first time since he returned from the portal, he couldn't hear Stanley's loud snores, usually easily permeable through the wooden walls.

Which meant –

It takes him mere seconds to put together the pieces, but the realization still floors him when it hits.

He should have known. Stanley, the stubborn idiot - no wonder his brother had been so adamant on waiting another day.

But, why would Stanley want to –

Ford shook off that line of inquiry. He did not understand his twin; that was something he had to accept. After seeing Mabel and Dipper's relationship, he had to wonder if he ever did.

The door to Stan's bedroom was unlocked and easily opened, but it was as Ford had feared.

His brother was gone, had somehow left while Ford was distracted by the skeletons in his closet – gone, without even attempting to talk anything out.

Without missing a beat, Ford turned on his feet and ran for the front door, suddenly very thankful for his habit of sleeping in his day clothes.

The night was cold, dark, and quiet. The disappearance of Stanley's car from the driveway was damning.

Judging by the fresh tire marks on the loose gravel of the driveway, Stan hadn't been gone for long. Nevertheless, short of running on foot and picking a random direction, there was nothing he could do. Even if he could gain access to a vehicle at this time in the night, he had absolutely no idea where his brother was headed.

Ford swore colorfully, dragging a hand through his hair, then again with increased volume.

With a sense of defeat, he trudged back into the house, cursing any and all gods out there in the multiverse for Stanley's ridiculous stubbornness. No doubt, his brother had taken some kind of offense to something he had said, and ran from his problems instead of staying to work them out.

Typical. Just typical.

It was only after Ford slumped down into a nearby chair, that he noticed the single piece of paper on the kitchen table. His brother had left some kind of note. He eyed it balefully, as if ignoring it would make it disappear along with the past fifteen minutes.

A moment later, he sighed and reached for it anyways. He was 58 years old – he couldn't afford to be so immature about his problems, not anymore.

Perhaps, Stanley had the prescience to at least leave some kind of contact information. True, he might ignore Ford's calls, if he truly insisted on acting a quarter of his age. But once the kids returned to California, Ford could call and mention that their Grunkle Stan was taking an extended vacation to avoid working their issues out.

Knowing his grand-niece, it would take less than a day for Stanley to be standing sullenly on the doorstep, being shouted at by a twelve year old girl armed with a military grappling gun.

Ford smiled fondly at the thought. Yes, if Mabel had any idea that Stanley had gone, there would be – excuse his French – hell to pay.

Then he read the note, and the smile disappeared from his face.

It was written in Stanley's distinctive, blocky handwriting – impeccably neat and easy to read, which had, in their childhood, contrasted greatly with Ford's own unnecessarily stylized cursive. The strokes were shaky, however, and Ford found himself uncomfortably reminded of just how old he and his brother had gotten. But the contents itself…

…made no sense. Ford squinted, and adjusted his glasses.

Ford,

Thanks for the offer. Between the two of us… you always had the best ideas. But, and then, separated by several scribbled words out, it's not gonna work for this. Just, a blotch of ink, trust me, Poindexter.

There was no elaboration. Ford raised an eyebrow.

The twin thing we had about not going through each other's stuff? Consider this permission to do whatever you want with the stuff in the Shack your house. Phonebook's in the second drawer to the left – bunch of numbers in there, if you need help with getting your identity back.

Shermy's in there too. You, a smudge of ink, should talk to her.

There was a small puddle of ink at the end of the last letter, as if Stanley had been momentarily distracted. Then, thin and streaky, as if scrawled down before he could change his mind, Twelfth floorboard from the door, my room. Couldn't risk Dipper and Mabel – everything else was scribbled out.

Don't tell them. They don't have to know about – another series of scribbled out words. Don't do anything stupid, Poindexter.

Another scribbled out word, then simply, Sorry.

Ford put the piece of paper down slowly, a cold sensation going down his back. No contact information. No hints at where Stanley had gone, or why. Ford had experience with the cryptic, but this was ridiculous.

And… perhaps, if he had been less experienced with the supernatural, he would be able to convince himself that there was nothing strange about the note.

But there was something… indescribably sinister about the whole thing, and Ford couldn't stop the electrifying jolt of panic that drove all lethargy from his limbs. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, it seemed.

What had his brother gotten himself into…?

The car rolled to a stop. The parking brake was pulled, almost as an afterthought. He opened the door, and stepped out with a groan.

This was hardly a conventional parking spot, and they had mowed down thirty years of new growth in order to get to this exact spot in the forest. But he had needed a place where people wouldn't go – the last thing they needed was for an abandoned vehicle to be reported, to either Ford or the kids. They weren't sure which would be worse.

He drove a hand through their hair with a sigh. "Hell," they said to himself, "…We really screwed it up, huh?"

He had been telling the truth – they had never been the twin with the good ideas. This was probably on the par with the Stan-vac with how ill-thought it was, but… what other choice did he have?

If the kids found out… Stanley wasn't sure what he would have done. Ford… as much as they didn't want him to know, there was no way his brother could keep his nose out of the latest mystery.

And when he did find out the truth…

How much longer can you keep up this act, Stanley? You're good – but not that good. I've been in Stanford's mind – I know him better than his own twin!

Though… that doesn't mean anything to you - does it, Six-Sights?

They swallowed. Cipher might have spouted more lies than truth. But he had no reason to lie when the truth worked towards his benefit.

The demon had been right, all those years ago. He couldn't have kept it a secret forever – not if they had stayed. Hell, they suspected that the only reason Cipher hadn't outed them was because the alternative would have been much more fun for him.

Cipher was gone, banished from this realm along with his allies from beyond the rift. But Stan's greatest enemy had always been himself.

Ford would react the same, no matter what they told him. Better he found out on his own.

But this way… Dipper and Mabel wouldn't have to know – and that was what mattered the most.

He placed his fez on the hood of the car with trembling hands.

The forest lit up briefly with pale green light. When it died down, they were gone.