[A/N: Underlines are meant to be strikethroughs.]

Gravity Falls, February, 1982

"Lemme tell ya the truth here, Fidds. I shared a room with the man for fifteen years. Fingers ain't the only thing he has six of."

Stan cut off at the approach of their waitress, a vaguely familiar looking brunette with a lazy eye he was pretty sure he caused her.

"Hey, how 'bout some more coffee right here? Yeah, that's it - thanks, toots." He gave her a wink and she giggled all the way back to the kitchen. Oh yeah – even disguised as his nerdier, obviously less handsome twin, Stan Pines definitely still had it.

Across the table, Fiddleford shook his head slowly, a helpless smile on his face. "Nice try, Stanley, but you aren't foolin' me."

He put his hands up in surrender. "What are ya talkin' about? There's nothin' to lie about."

"You aren't the only one here who's roomed with Stanford, remember? The man doesn't have six ni -" The man cut off, a slight blush appearing on his face. "Six of anythin' other than fingers on a hand."

"Geez, harsh crowd," Stan muttered half-jokingly with an exaggerated sigh. "Know any of my brother's other college friends, Fidds? Maybe one of them will fall for it."

Fiddleford smiled weakly. "Ah, no – just me, I'm afraid."

So maybe Ford hadn't changed as much as Stan thought. Big shot poindexter or not, he just couldn't imagine his brother as the life of the party – any party. But Stan had to admit, he was glad that the one friend Ford did have was someone like Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

It had been less than a week since the man had knocked on his door in search of Stan's missing twin and subsequently agreed to help, but Stan had already realized that Fiddleford was... well, put simply enough, a good guy. A genuinely good guy, which was – incredibly rare, a fact that a decade living on the streets had made Stan painfully aware of. He just – cared, maybe a bit too much at times.

Other than the whole... trying to shoot him thing. But hell, Fiddleford had come back to help in the end, and Stan had forgiven people who shot at him with real guns for far less.

"So, uh," Stan said, changing the topic because... that one sure wasn't going anywhere good. "To be honest, I don't get much 'f that technobabble you've been tellin' me. Stuff like that... well, it just goes in one side and comes out the other for me."

He shrugged somewhat apologetically – Stan was very aware that he wasn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer. More like a spoon, really.

"Not a problem," Fiddleford reassured. "It's some complex astrophysics for the most part. But, hm... in layman's terms..." He thought for a bit. "Tell ya the truth, I don't think it'll be too long 'til we get that thing fixed. A month or two, maybe. I still got most of the blueprints with me, so that'll speed things up a whole lot."

"A month or two..." He let out a slow exhale. "Well, that's a hell 'f a lot faster than I could manage on my own. Heck, I wouldn't even know how to start with that thing."

"Still," the other man offered hesitantly, "Stanley, you have to understand. For Stanford... even a month could be too long."

Right. Fiddleford had mentioned the other side of the portal from time to time, but the circumstances had never aligned so that Stan could be comfortable about asking just what exactly was there – and really, how the man had seen it in the first place.

"About that... " Stan swallowed. "When ya came over the first time, when you still thought I was Ford... I never got the chance to ask you 'bout some stuff."

Fiddleford tensed at that, but Stan forged on. "You mentioned some guy. Uh, Bill or something. Who's that, some old flame of Ford's?"

"An old flame -" The other man snorted, then broke into – almost hysterical giggles.

Stan stared blankly at him. "Uh -"

"No," Fiddleford said at last. "Well... I sure hope not. But with all the weirdness goin' on... " He shook his head. "Stanley, you've – seen the supernatural activity in this town. I'm sure Stanford wrote plenty on them in that journal of his."

"Yeah, sure." Not that Stan was particularly happy about it. Rats and roaches were bad enough – but dealing with little bearded men was not what he had signed up for, coming up here. And there was something about the surrounding forest... but Stan trusted his instincts far too much to venture in. "This... 'Bill.' He a part of that?"

"In a way. Bill is -" The man paused. "Stanford always called him a muse."

"...Uh -"

"A source of artistic inspiration," Fiddleford added quickly. "Though in this case, more of a scientific - "

"Nah, I got that part." Sure, Stan had never been much for school. But reading and books – the good ones, about adventure and exploring the world instead of numbers and boring old facts – that wasn't school. "But aren't they supposed t' be... ladies? Attractive ones? I mean, with a name like Bill -"

"Bill was not a woman. Nor," the man said gravely, "was he a muse."

"Vampire? Werewolf? Gimme a hint here, Fidds, I'm not obsessed with this stuff like Ford is -"

Fiddleford adjusted his glasses. "You have to understand, I don't know this for sure. I never interacted much with – him myself. But from what I've seen -" He swallowed loudly. "Bill is a demon."

Stan stared blankly at him for a long moment. "...Demon," he said, a bit skeptically. "What, like fire and brimstone demon? Ya gotta understand, Ford and I bein' raised in the house we were, we ain't too familiar with the whole -"

"I don't know much about him. Like I said, I never saw him. Never talked t' him, not after - " The other man cut off suddenly. "All I know is that – he's some kind of malevolent force and his plans... his plans -" He shook his head. "I believe he means to destroy this world."

Stan waited for a punchline that never came, and then let out a deep breath. "Well, damn."

What else could he say to that? This... world destruction thing was not what he had expected, coming up here to Oregon. But then again, what part of the past month or so had he expected? "This – You're not messin' with me, right?" He asked, just to be sure. "Cuz I gotta tell ya the truth, when I think end of the world, I don't see that as an, uh, actual thing."

At the man's solemn nod, he put a hand to his forehead. "How the hell did ya two nerds get wrapped up in somethin' like this?"

And Fiddleford told him, a long, convoluted tale of overblown hopes and demonic possession - and by the end, Stan was tempted to just laugh.

A literal deal with the devil. Ford, really?

"Yeesh," he said instead, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's – Hell. At least I know what I'm getting' into now, I guess. So, that portal is supposed to, uh, end the world. That's what my brother is on the other side of."

"I don't suppose you have any second thoughts...?"

Stan snorted. Fiddleford sighed. "I thought so."

"...Fidds," Stan asked then, some half-forgotten memory popping into his head. "Didn't ya say you saw the other side of that portal?"

The man froze.

"So, uh, what's there?" Stan forged forward. "I mean, I know ya said Ford wouldn't last – too long, and sure - he's a bit 'f a weedy nerd, but he's got a mean left hook -"

"That's... not it." Fiddleford swallowed. "Stanley, are you – by any chance – familiar with the works of Lovecraft? Or the concept of an eldritch abomination?"

"Never read any 'f them myself, but Ford mentioned them once or twice. Eldritch, uh, whatevers – they're monsters, right?"

"...In a way," the other man allowed, eyes dark. "But the nature of an eldritch abomination is that it is ultimately... alien. Inconceivable. Incomprehensible. Monsters are an inherently human concept. These... are not. How can you fight something that exists outside of the laws of reality? Just seeing them -"

He cut off, eyes distant.

Stan wasn't sure he wrapped his head around that, but sure. "So what, those are what's on the other side?"

It was as if he hadn't said anything at all. "It was like I was starin' inta a void, Stanley," Fiddleford continued dazedly, his accent getting thicker, his pupils dilating.

"Uh -"

"The whole universe jus' laid out before me, an' I – I knew things. Lots of things," he stressed. "And I – I saw th' end, when gravity fell an' when earth became sky - "

"Geez, Fidds, what are ya - "

"But they were lookin' back at me!" He shouted with a full-body shudder, his eyes wide and wild, pupils single black pinpricks. Stan realized then that Fiddleford was completely and utterly out of it. People at nearby tables were already turning to stare, and a waitress behind the counter was pointing at them while talking to a pretty beefy, mean-looking guy.

Stan gulped.

"Six eyes – six sights - "

Out of options and not wanting to be banned from the only restaurant in the town, Stan swore and threw a glass full of iced water in the other man's face. Fiddleford blinked and spluttered, but his eyes were normal again.

"What the hell was that?" Stan whispered after a long moment, once it was clear that the other man had come back to his senses. "The mutterin' and the shakin' and -"

The other man wiped at his face with a handful of napkins. "...Humans can't make sense of those things," he said wetly. "But... they can't make sense of humans either. I, I tried to make myself forget, but it's still there - it's all still there -" He went quiet abruptly.

Stan wasn't sure what to make of that.

"Fidds," he said slowly, "I'm a simple man. This is all confusin' as hell, so it, uh, helps if ya put this in simple terms. Those eldritch whatchamajigs are bad news, I get that. But uh."

Stan paused. "Since ya mentioned the whole 'end of the world' thing – I'm guessin' we don't want any of them over here. And that Bill guy – he does."

"Bit of an – understatement there," Fiddleford muttered, wiping his glasses with part of his shirt.

"But I mean, what do they want? Everything wants somethin', even – hulking alien monsters, or whatever they are."

The other man was quiet.

"Fidds?"

Fiddleford looked at him, eyes haunted.

"Stanley, that is something I try not to think too hard about."

Gravity Falls, August, 2012

In retrospect, allowing a demon full control of one's body had not been one of Ford's better ideas. Allowing a demon full control of one's body and complete discretion in his actions… had very likely been his worst.

To this day, Ford still did not know the full extent of what Bill had done while in his body. The demon had directed much of the construction of the lab himself, and after his betrayal, Ford had scoured his house from top to bottom, destroying as much of Bill's additions as he could. He had taunted, or intimidated, or did something to Fiddleford that had set the man constantly on edge. The fact that Ford managed to keep willfully blind to his friend's increasingly desperate warnings remained one of his greatest regrets.

The red-hot symbol located on the side of one of the larger pieces of machinery in the lab had been one of Bill's additions. It had been one of the more insignificant requests, especially compared to the other offerings his 'muse' had demanded, and Ford had never thought much of it. He had assumed that it was a symbol with some deeper meaning in whatever extradimensional society Bill had originated from.

Then came the fight, when Ford had - branded his brother permanently. He could still remember the brief stab of shock as he realized what he had done, the sickening smell of burning flesh and cloth, and then - the cold regret and guilt that had made him stagger backwards, frantically stammering apologies.

But, what exactly did that symbol mean? There had been a reason behind everything Bill had done, and the demon and his brother had, in hindsight, a rather odd relation. How was it possible that Stanley had lived in this town for thirty years, surrounded by Bill's images and influences, and not had any idea who or what Bill Cipher was? The man was oblivious in some ways, yes, but not that oblivious. And, while Bill clearly knew of Stanley's existence, he had made no direct moves against him.

Yet, whatever the implications of the sigil, Bill had not taken advantage of it during Weirdmageddon - even when Stanley had been leading the resistance against him. It was only now that the old brand seemed to hold any significance at all.

And that there was the rub: clearly, Stanley had known this would happen.

He had made the call to Shermy and waited for the twins to leave for Piedmont. He had confronted Ford, clearly expecting to be told to leave, and had been so - shocked, so terrified when Ford had told him to stay. And then, he had left anyways.

Now, his brother was missing - and the sigil that Ford had branded on him, however accidentally, had something to do with it.

Ford licked his fingers before flipping each page of his brother's journal - or, to be more accurate, his diary. Because it was, really - each entry was written familiarly and oddly conversational, as if speaking to a close friend. It was clearly written for someone to read, because there were odd emphases on certain events and, at points, extensive, unnecessary justifications of his own actions - and yet it had lied under those floorboards for decades, moldering away.

What had changed? He wanted to ask, but that was a mystery that could wait until - after.

Instead, Ford quietly read through the dozens of repeated mentions of bad dreams, odd dreams, with growing alarm. Dreams, the subconscious domain - that was Bill's domain, his and the other creatures of the Mindscape. It would make sense that Bill would have made contact with Stanley - after all, they had a common goal, even if the demon's ulterior motives were quite different.

But dozens of these dreams and without any mention of a triangular, one-eyed creature… up until his final moments of hubris, Bill was an efficient creature that would have gained no great enjoyment from this kind of taunting, especially when Stanley clearly had no idea what was going on. This was an out of character, disorganized, almost confused approach, as if Bill had no clear idea what he wanted from Stanley.

Unless, this wasn't Bill. The green eyed motif didn't fit, unless the demon was attempting some kind of symbolic reference to Stanford's relationship with his brother -

Ford shook his head with a groan. Now, he was stretching it.

Regardless, there was some kind of connection here between the dreams, the brand, and Stanley's disappearance. If only there was someone who had known his brother well enough during that time who he could ask. Even that waitress had known his brother only superficially. Maybe Soos might -

Then he saw the next entry, and he knew.

So uh, good news. That friend of yo Ford's came back - Fiddleford, I think his name is. He says he's gonna help, but he looks pretty frazzled. He's got a whole folder of these papers I can't make sense of, but as long as he can, I've got no complaints.

Maybe I actually have a chance now, but I've got no idea what comes… after that. What I can say to make you forgive me. Hopefully I'll figure it out before then.

Sixer, I didn't mean to do it. Any of it.

When that rippling hole in reality had opened up scant feet in front of him, all those weeks ago when he was still trapped in the other dimension, Stanford had allowed himself a few seconds to - gawk, really, because after thirty long years, he no longer harbored any hopes of rescue.

Not that he had any in the first place, really.

And then, he was furious. There was only one person who could have fixed the portal, and that was his brother. His foolish, headstrong twin brother, who had evidently ignored Ford's copious warnings in order to assuage any guilt he felt about pushing him into an interdimensional portal.

So he had made his way through without second thought. He had buried the heavy emotions under righteous anger - the feelings that had bubbled up with the words that had lumped up in his throat, the moment he saw his brother for the first time in thirty years and realized suddenly that they had become old strangers.

Stanford had dealt with those agents, introduced himself to the children, finally talked to Stanley about the elephant in the room, and -

- and it was only after, as Ford stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling from his threadbare couch, that he had asked himself a very important question.

How?

The only person who could have fixed that portal was his brother, and Stanley hardly had the drive or knowledge necessary to do so. He hadn't even graduated high school, for God's sake.

Of course, there was the possibility that his brother had somehow self-taught himself the complex astrophysics and quantum theory that was necessary to operate the portal, but there had always been an inimitable, inhuman aspect to the portal's construction. As galling as it was to admit, even Stanford could not have completed it without Bill's help.

It had been an uncomfortable question, one that Ford did not know the answer to - and didn't want to know the answer to, really. The most likely possibility was that it had been a minor malfunction that had shut the portal down - some kind of blown fuse, perhaps - that did not require any extensive knowledge, one that even Stanley could have fixed with time.

Well, now he knew.

Fiddleford… now, that was a name that hurt to think about. His best - and in hindsight, possibly only - friend throughout college, and the man whom Ford had driven away inadvertently because of his own obliviousness. Back then, he had assumed that Fiddleford was - jealous, perhaps, of his fascination with Bill.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

The man might have driven himself into insanity, but Stanford had been the one to set him on that path. If only he could have paused that night and - listened to Fiddleford, talked it out, explained the misunderstandings and sorted it all out… Things would be very different. Maybe together, the two of them could have stopped Bill's plans in their tracks.

But… he had never expected Fiddleford to come back. The last he remembered, his old partner had cut off all contact and even… went to some extreme methods to forget the horrors he had seen. Ford had to admit that he could not blame him.

Ford was sorry - deeply, unspeakably so - but though Dipper and Mabel had informed him excitedly of his old friend's marked recovery… he could not bring himself to go see him. He knew he didn't deserve Fiddleford's forgiveness - not when he had cost him his future, his youth, his son. He also knew that there was no way he could make up for it all.

Stanford Pines was used to running away from his mistakes. But he glanced down at the entry again, at the scribbled out phrases that he couldn't make out for the life of him, and…

...maybe he couldn't, any longer.

[A/N: I do think that Fiddleford and Stan would get along really well in a Mystery Trio and/or otherwise canon divergent setting, because Fidds is both a nerd like Ford and a genuinely good person (though his good will towards others... is sometimes taken to the extreme. Sure, you think you're helping, but a cult?) and Fidds has Soos-levels of intuitions, I like to think.

I had another scene originally planned for this chapter, but I figured I should stop ending on cliff-hangers. But, Fiddauthor reunion set for next chapter - as well as certain past complications.

By the way - if anyone wants to talk about GF, the finale, this fic, or - anything really (or just to get a daily dose of GF reblogs) I'm dubsdeedubs on tumblr (because WDW was taken, and apparently I'm not creative enough to think of another name.)]