CHAPTER 4

The landline receiver fit into its base with a final-sounding click. Ford sat for a moment, staring into the distance with unfocused eyes. Then, with a guttural noise of frustration, he swept everything off the table with one forceful movement of his arm.

Hundreds of sheets of paper flew through the air and slid all over the floor. Ford breathed heavily for a few moments, quietly staring at the mess he made. Then, absurdly thankful for the lack of witnesses, he bent over and started to pick them up.

There was no telling if it was important paperwork, or more contacts. Or, they might even contain clues about…

He sighed. The rest of his call to Shermy had gone, well.

The single word that came to mind did not exist in this dimension, the last he had checked. But the closest translation… It had not gone smoothly. It had not gone smoothly at all.

As Ford had found out a few minutes after his request for help, Shermy was an investigative journalist. It was a clear boon, considering that he was after information, and lots of it - until he realized that Shermy's penchant for complicated, borderline uncomfortable questions had only intensified with age and experience.

Telling her the entire truth was out of the question - at least, for now. He had enough trouble with clearing the encyclopedia of crimes his brother had committed under his name. The thought of explaining thirty years of inter-dimensional travel, stolen identities, and supernatural encounters was… daunting, to say the very least.

Stanley could take care of that - once Ford found him.

But she had been… very insistent in her demand for answers. Mabel's letter to her parents about her newest grunkle had not helped. It had gotten to the point that Shermy had threatened to drive up to Oregon herself, and it was only through Ford's quick thinking and - and she had been very clear on this - her long history of trust with 'Ford' that she had relented.

She had promised to look into disappearances and generally strange ongoings in the general time and geographic location of Stanley's car crash… as well as the circumstances of Stanley's 'death' itself. No promises, Shermy had told him seriously - it had been a very long time ago, after all.

Ford had agreed readily to everything his sister demanded - yes, he would tell her why he needed the information, yes, he would explain what exactly was going on with Stanley - with the knowledge that once he got him back, any attempt at an explanation would be made much easier.

But she had made one request of him that made him hesitate.

"Look, Ford," Shermy had said. "I don't know what's happening on your end, but. If you do find Stanley…"

"Yes?"

"Ask him why. If he's been alive this whole time, why the hell did he never come back? Ma and Pa died thinking he was gone, and I never even got to -" She cut off. "…Just ask him, alright?"

Ford opened his mouth, then closed it with a click.

"Ford?"

"I will," he said thickly. That was a question that he could answer… but Ford knew without a doubt that his reply would only prompt additional, more difficult questions. 'Stanley' hadn't come back so 'Stanford' could - and it had never really hit that Ford wasn't the only who had lost his identity, thirty years ago.

Not until now.

He cleared his throat. "Shermy, you believe me? About Stanley being alive?"

Her reply was a bitter laugh. "…I don't know what to believe right now, Ford. But you had my back when I needed it most. I'm not enough of an asshole to not have yours."

Then Shermy had hung up, leaving Ford to a dial tone and the clamor of his own thoughts. Slowly, deliberately, he put his head in his hands.

Was his brother a murderer?

Stanley was a con-man and a liar, Ford knew. Having stumbled upon Stan's list of charges (under Ford's name, no less) while channel flipping several weeks earlier, he was also very aware of the sheer amount of his brother's crimes. There was no telling the kind of crowds Stanley had been caught up with during that decade.

So really, Ford shouldn't be surprised about this new development. It fit everything he knew about his brother. And hadn't Stanley himself admitted that he would do anything for his family?

But he couldn't believe it.

Stanford Pines had always been a man of reason. Even his obsession with anomalies had been well substantiated by hundreds of incident reports. He made decisions after careful weighing of his options. What was logical, was what was right. The last time he had lapsed in his judgement… had nearly brought about the end of the world.

But here and now, he could not bring himself to acknowledge the logical possibility.

Because this was Stanley. His brother, who lied and cheated and almost damned the world for his family - but also, his brother, who he had honestly envied for much of his childhood. Ford might have had the raw intelligence, but it was Stanley who had, as their mother referred to it, the 'personality'. Stanley had his natural charm, something that Ford sorely lacked.

In truth, it was far more than that.

As children, Stanley had been everything he ever wanted to be. He had no trouble talking to people, with a boundless confidence in himself that Ford lacked completely. And, most of all - he was normal, with his five-fingered hands and a wide smile for everyone. Everyone, except his blinding fury at Ford's bullies - and even now, that was something Ford still couldn't completely comprehend.

(But after that flash of deja vu seeing Dipper risk his life and the world not just to save his sister, but him… perhaps, now he understood a bit more.)

When their father had thrown Stan out… it had almost been a moment of vindication. His brother wouldn't always be okay, his 'personality' wouldn't always carry him through - and then, minutes later, when the moment had passed and the reality hit that his brother was gone… he had told (lied) to himself that his brother had deserved it, and what's more - Ford didn't need him anyways.

(and… Stan would be fine. He always was.)

But even without Stanley by his side, adulthood had been especially humbling. He couldn't trust, he couldn't commit, he couldn't - and everyone had left, in some way or another. Watching Fiddleford disappear into the darkness of their laboratory, he had shouted and cursed - and knew, within his heart, that his brother would not have made the mistakes he had. Stanley, who trusted, who committed, who loved -

Stanley, who, despite his crimes, his lies… was a better person than Ford could ever hope to be.

His brother was a con-man and a liar, but he was not a murderer.

(he couldn't be)

Ford leaned back.

Every part of Gravity Falls was somehow influenced by the supernatural, and Ford had no doubt that Stanley's faked death was aided by forces unlimited by rules of reason. What he needed was evidence. He didn't know what kind of creature was involved, but.

Twelfth floorboard from the door, my room. Couldn't risk Dipper and Mabel –

Ford sat up, eyes wide. Stan's note. Of course.

True, there were a number of things that his brother could be referring to. Before - all of this, he had automatically assumed that Stanley simply kept his earnings hidden under the floorboards of his home - he couldn't see his brother ever making deposits at the bank.

(Except he evidently had, judging by Ford's paid-off mortgage and student debts.)

But, confronted with the new information of the past hour, the line had taken a far more sinister meaning. Whatever was hidden under those floorboards could contain clues as to how his brother had managed to fake his accident.

Stanley's room smelled of smoke, unnecessarily strong cologne, and strangely enough, just the smallest whiff of fabric softener. Even knowing the man was probably hundreds of miles away at this point, Ford felt uncomfortable just… walking inside.

It had been many, many years since they had shared a room, but it seemed that the vast majority of his brother's bad habits was intact. Various things were crammed into the corners, from vacuums to helmets. The bed was unmade. Ford stepped carefully over the beer cans scattered all over the carpet, and -

Carpet?

He knelt to the ground, inspecting it with squinted eyes. Yes, this was very clearly carpet - old carpet at that, stained with unknown substances and smelling vaguely of alcohol. But Stanley had very clearly mentioned floorboards…

Ford sighed, and pulled out a knife from his pocket, a keepsake from his thirty years traveling through dimensions. Stan wouldn't complain about property damage, surely, not when the rest of his room looked like this.

He cut a slit into the carpet with some difficulty, and pried the two sides apart with his hands. Floorboards, rotted with age. Ripping them up before laying the carpet must have cost extra, knowing his brother.

Or, with what he knew now… they probably provided an additional layer of security to whatever Stanley was hiding.

Because there was no doubt now - this was not a hiding place for a stash of money, not when it was almost impossible to unearth, even with the knowledge of its location.

This was for hiding something permanently.

Further observations determined the width of each floorboard, and some quick mental calculations brought Ford to a location several feet from where he had started. The actual retrieval process was far more difficult, as Ford cursed and fumbled his way through splinters and rug burns to pry up the floorboards.

But then, he reached below and closed his fingers on something that was evidently not dirt, and the triumph that he felt then made it all worth it.

It was a book, with blue covers and considerable heft. Ford blinked. No, a journal - not one of his, as it was evidently a product of mass production, and Stanford had hand-bound all three of his.

There was only one person it could belong to.

Perhaps, he had more in common with his brother than either of them had believed.

He cracked it open carefully. It had been more damaged by the passage of time than his own journals - understandable, because when Stanford Pines made something, he made it well. But the majority of the words were legible, and his brother's handwriting was distinctive on the pages.

Ford sat down, adjusted his glasses, and prepared to read. A cockroach crawled over his splayed hand.

…Maybe it was a better idea to examine Stanley's journal in the kitchen.

Only about a third of the pages were filled.

Stanley had taken a very different approach to the creation of his journal. While Ford had meant for his journals as references above all, Stan's entries were more reminiscent of a diary, focusing more on his personal experiences and thoughts. Each entry was written chronologically, with the day's date scrawled on the top of each blurb. Just from a skimming of the contents, his brother had focused more on text - the few pictures were rudimentary at best, but the written descriptions were vivid… and oddly poetic in their bluntness. Then, there were some pages of equations that Ford remember vaguely from the later years of his doctorate studies.

The latter raised an eyebrow, but for now… he ignored all of that, and immediately flipped to find the day of his brother's faked death - only to find that the last entry was written several days before.

Ford swallowed his disappointment. Of course it wouldn't be that easy.

With a sigh, he returned to the very first entry, and began to read.

Gravity Falls, January, 1982

Stanley could still hear his brother's screams, even though it had been over an hour since... it happened.

Over an hour, spent grappling with machinery he had no idea how to use, pressing any buttons he could, cursing whatever deity thought it was funny to screw over Stanley Pines just one more time.

If only Ford put labels on all his... science stuff. Then maybe he could have the slightest idea how to even start bringing his brother back.

(Because Ford was alive, and it didn't matter how long, it didn't matter what he had to do, Ford was alive and Stan was going to bring him back -)

He had flipped through the book Ford had thrown at him. Unfortunately, the words might as well be gibberish. Even ignoring the strangely detailed pictures of... things that made Stan wonder if his brother had ever gotten into hallucinogens in college, Ford's equations and calculations reached far, far beyond the level of any math Stan had ever learned during his admittedly meager amount of schooling.

And back then, he had thought throwing the alphabet into the mix had been crazy enough.

By now, Stan had about come to terms that he was stuck. He needed to bring Ford back, but he had no idea where to even start. Was his brother's invention just broken, or had it always been a single-use device? And even if it was broken, how was he supposed to know what to fix?

He had to confront the truth - Stan wouldn't be getting his brother back anytime soon. But eventually, he would. He had to. Right now, however…

The rush of adrenaline that had fueled him for most of the past hour had completely faded, and paralyzing pain from his injury had replaced it. It hurt to move from his bent position, and an accidental scraping of the burn against Ford's couch was so painful he had yelled out loud.

Eventually, he managed to stagger upright, a hand instinctively reaching towards to his back.

Cold water, that was what he needed. Cold water and lots of painkillers.

As it turned out, Ford's medicine cabinet was well-stocked. Perhaps, unusually so. Everything was legal, yes - but what had Ford been doing that required all of these painkillers? And… bandages?

Stan squinted, then shook his head. His brother had clearly gotten involved in some crazy things during the last decade - though maybe he wasn't the one to talk.

He took a few, and swallowed them down completely dry. Sure, it probably wasn't a great idea to pop strange pills in unknown amounts. But the pain was nearly blinding now, and this, at least, was something Stan had a lot of experience in. He hadn't been able to afford neatly printed dosage amounts and prescriptions for nearly a decade.

Nearly half an hour later, he sank down on the toilet seat, new gauze haphazardly applied to his burn, done with only the aid of the mirror. His legs gave out halfway and he hissed in pain as he smacked into the code porcelain. Good thing he had decided to sit down when he did.

Stan was tired. He had been exhausted for the majority of the last decade, but now, it felt as if every ounce of fatigue he had endured and ignored had come crashing down on him. It had been a long drive up to Oregon, with little sleep and even less food, as his throbbing eyes and the gnawing pit in his stomach reminded him.

There was nothing more he wanted to do but sleep.

But he couldn't. Not now. Not until he got Ford back. God knows what was on the other side of that portal, and judging by Ford's reaction… it was nothing good.

He had to go back down there. Maybe Stan had overlooked something, or his brother had left a note somewhere, or. Something.

There had to be something. Anything.

The journey back down to his brother's underground laboratory ended up taking a whole lot of time and leaning on walls. Stan staggered out of the elevator, flipping through Ford's journal until he found the page he had seen earlier.

It looked like a blueprint - well, part of a blueprint, anyways. But there was one of the sides of the triangle, that part of the circle… now, if only Ford wrote the stuff on there in a language Stan could actually read.

He squinted back at the machine again, and that's when he saw it.

Directly in front of the entrance to the portal, hovering several feet from the ground, was a swirling mass of substance that Stan had no idea how to describe. Gravity clearly had no hold on it, but the way it moved… looked as if it was crackling with energy.

It seemed to have a lack of color, if anything, and staring too long into it sent chills down his spine.

Stan lifted one of the shorter metal pipe near his foot, and used it to poke the thing. Y'know, just to get an idea of what the heck it was.

…Well, whatever it was, it writhed at the contact - almost angrily, if he had to put a label to it. Stan examined the tip of the pipe dubiously. A whole chunk of the metal, the part that had actually made contact with the substance, was completely gone. Not melted or cut off, just… missing, as if it had never been there in the first place.

Stan blinked. Well, good thing he didn't use his hand. What the hell was he supposed to do with this thing?

...Whelp, he got nothing.

"Uh," he said finally, squinting up at the… some kind of rift, or something. He did not want to deal with this right now. "…Don't suppose ya could just… go away?"

He didn't expect any sort of reply, and he didn't get one. Staring too hard at the thing made Stanley vaguely uncomfortable for some reason, and he looked away. Now, he had no idea what the thing was, but after seeing what it did to solid metal… Stan knew for sure he didn't want it anywhere around him.

Dammit. He could get Ford to deal with it. Once he made it back safely.

But… This was one of weird things that his brother was obsessed with, wasn't it? Stanley glanced back down at his brother's journal, then shook his head to himself.

Nah, he couldn't write anything in here. Even if Ford appreciated him keeping record, he would go bananas first about Stanley messing with his private property. Or something.

He turned away from the portal and began his long journey upstairs.

Stanley had a long night ahead of him.

Gravity Falls, August, 2012

Ford's face had turned ashen. He wiped at the words, as if trying to dispel an illusion. It couldn't be possible, could it? This was the first time the portal had been activated - well, excluding the accident with Fiddleford. But really, both times, the portal had been open for less than a minute. Not nearly enough time for a -

- for an interdimensional rift to be formed.

He chuckled weakly to himself. Stanley must have seen something else. If a rift between dimensions had been opened, it would have meant the end of the universe. Ford would never had had a home dimension to return to.

Then the moment of humor passed, and Ford shook his head. No, there was nothing else it could be. The proximity to the portal, the physical appearance, the fact that what was inside... could not be comprehended by human eyes... It didn't make sense, but he could not hide from the truth.

When Ford had gone through the portal, a hole had been torn in the universe.

The question was, how was the world still existing? Even Ford's specially engineered prison had been unable to hold the rift in the end - at least, without the alien adhesive that Stanley could not have had access to. In fact, his brother clearly had no idea what was in his basement - or what it meant for the universe.

It was the perfect opportunity for Bill Cipher. All it took was a meeting in the dreamscape, and Ford knew perfectly well how easily the dream demon could prey on a person's insecurities. Not to mention... with Stanley as oblivious as he was to the supernatural, Cipher could have simply waited for the rift to naturally expand.

But none of that had happened. What had happened?

Ford steadied his shaking hands, flipped the page, and -

- blinked.

Thing was gone in the morning, he read. ...Not gonna question it. It's one thing off my plate, at least. But I was taking a look at his journal last night, and I think I figured out some of these weird symbols -

Ford closed the journal, letting out a breath. Of course. It made perfect sense. Now, the last few minutes of panic seemed ridiculous. Yes, the portal had not been open long enough for a permanent interdimensional rift to form. Just another side-effect, a mildly more severe version of the gravity fluctuations. It had closed itself within the day. It must have been a lost cause for Cipher.

A dead end, but he was indescribably relieved that it didn't develop any further. Dimensional walls tended to hold strong, and it took a great deal of power to break through them. Even if anything had come through during the rift's brief period of existence, it would have been pulled back through when it shut. The universe preferred a state of homeostasis above all else, and without an anchor of some sort...

He shook his head. Bill Cipher and the other creatures from the other side of the rift... there was no point in dwelling. The walls between dimensions had been reinforced with the metaphysical equivalent of steel, a thousand times over. Nothing could get across now.

Besides, he was facing a problem far closer to home. If there was one thing that the Weirdmageddon had taught him... it was that family was more important than the supernatural.

Gravity Falls, January, 1982

Hours after the lights shut off, the rift contracted wildly. Pulsed. It frayed at the edges, shrinking slightly, and -

They were called. They came.

- snapped shut, sparks of remnant energy crackling out of existence.

Confusion.

"Well, well, well. Look who's made it, just in time! Cutting it a bit close there, I admit - I was getting worried you wouldn't be joining the fun!"

Confusion.

"Oh, I know that look. An eternity spent as an inconceivable horror existing outside of the laws of the natural universe - sentience must come pretty new to you, huh? How does it feel, existing in less than six-hundred eighteen dimensions? Tingly? Let me tell ya, it's a real pain - can't even stretch my fifty-seven eye-wings in the seventh dimension without driving a few dozen humans into crippling insanity! Hey, how you feeling, Six-Sights?"

Confusion.

"Eh, I can see I'm not getting anywhere. Old dogs and new tricks, and all that. Consciousness is overrated, anyways. Good thing all I need from you are old tricks."

Confusion.

"Well, I got bad news for you. That sigil of yours can't tether you to this plane for long. We're gonna need something a lot stronger if we want you to kickstart the fun. Something like a human soul! Good news..."

"...I know a sucker who's just desperate enough to give you a hand."