Gravity Falls, August, 2012

Fiddleford made a nervous, aborted gesture toward his face, as if trying to run his hands through a beard that was no longer there. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in his ill-fitting clothes, hunched over as if ready to scamper away at any moment. He did not meet Ford's wide eyes.

Stanford's six-fingered hands clenched bloodless white around the journal, and he found that he could not look away.

There was a loud cough and a creak as Tate quickly shut the door behind him, evidently desperate to escape the suddenly stifling atmosphere of the room. Ford wished, somewhat inanely, he could follow him. He cleared his throat and tried to speak through the lump in his throat.

But Fiddleford beat him to the punch. "Yer - yer th' real Stanford?" He picked at his hands, fingernails scraping against dry skin, oddly worried. "Not th' other one. Not - Mr. Mystery."

"...Yes," Ford replied weakly, trying to find the words that seemed to have fled his mind. "The other one - that was my brother Stanley. I told you about him, before all of this, but -" He forced himself to pause. Rambling was pointless - what he needed to do now was say what he needed to say. "Fiddleford, I -"

"My -" Fiddleford fidgeted. "My Stanford?"

It was as if his words had turned to ashes in his mouth. Ford realized, with a sudden jolt of shock, that he could see his old friend and partner in the strange old man before him.

He knew about what had happened to Fiddleford, of course. Though their accounts were clearly colored by childhood innocence and naivety, Dipper and Mabel had told him just enough to put together the pieces about the origin of the Society of the Blind Eye and the strange going-ons in Gravity Falls, shortly before he had secluded himself permanently in his home. He had even - he thought he had seen the man during the Weirdmageddon, hunched over and long bearded, attacking Bill's allied demons with an almost bestial ferocity (and - a banjo?)

He had also been told of the man's slow recovery, and it was true that the Fiddleford before him was a far-cry from the 'Old Man McGucket' (as the townspeople called him) Ford had seen during the battle against Bill. But he was also nothing like the well-spoken, quietly intelligent young man that Ford had known, back when they had both been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, positively jumping to take on a world of endless mysteries to be solved.

But by all accounts, the Fiddleford that Ford had known had not existed for a - long, long time. Surely, that Fiddleford wouldn't have started some kind of - cult that forcibly wiped memories. After all, he had been the voice of reason within their partnership - the one who had vetoed the (in hindsight) more ill-thought out research proposals and was able to see the consequences of their progress with unclouded eyes.

Yet… he felt queasy as he remembered Fiddleford that night, his crazed rantings, the wild look of fear in his frantic eyes. Something had changed him for the worst, and Ford knew that it was his fault that Fiddleford was… the way he was.

He dragged one shaking hand through his hair. "It - It's me, Fiddleford." The other man stared back him, a tad blankly, and Ford tried, "...How much do you remember?"

"Eh, those memories of mine - sure, they've been gone fer thirty-odd years. But ever since those lil' fellers helped me out, they've been rushin' back faster than ya can say 'Toot-toot McBumbersnazzle!'" Fiddleford was - beaming, the previous tension in his frame gone, and that was enough evidence for Ford to conclude that Fiddleford clearly did not remember everything. If he did, smiling would be the complete opposite of what he would be doing. "I know lots 'f things now! Didja know there's a kind 'f fish that can swim up your ureth -"

Ford knew where this was going. "About us, I mean," he said quickly.

The other man blinked at him obliviously. There was a bead of drool collecting at the corner of his slack, open mouth. Ford sighed, letting go of a hope that he really - shouldn't have held in the first place.

"We - went to college together, thirty years ago. We worked together, here in Gravity Falls, and we were - " He swallowed down the words he really wanted to say. "...Friends. The best of friends. Though… That might be a bit one-sided on your part. I… wasn't a good friend to you, in the end. I've done some things that were -"

Fiddleford scratched at his bulbous red nose. "Always told ya that durn triangle fella wasn't t' be trusted," he huffed.

Ford froze. The other man stared back at him, almost innocently.

He closed his mouth with a click. "You do remember," Ford said dully, a hinting suspicion arising in his gut. "The portal, everything Bill did in my body -"

"Too many sides, that's what I think!" Fiddleford interrupted carelessly, "Now, a circle - "

Ford ignored his old friend's confused (?) ramblings and leaned forward, covering Fiddleford's frantic hands with one of his own. The other man stilled at that, an unreadable expression flitting across his face, far too fast for him to even guess at what it was, and went abruptly quiet.

"Fiddleford," he said slowly, "I'm sorry."

For a sudden, startled moment, there was no trace at all of insanity in the other man's face. His clear eyes pinpointed Ford's with alarming intensity.

The breath caught in Ford's throat, but he forged on regardless. "I should have trusted you. I should have put you above him. I was… foolish to believe what he told me. Blinded by my own arrogance. When he said I was - special, that I was one in a thousand, in a million -" His voice broke. "Iwanted to believe. I was - seduced by that vision of success - of acceptance that he promised me, that I -"

"But you were already accepted, Stanford," Fiddleford said quietly with only the slightest twinge of an accent, his voice clear and cutting and terribly sane. "You were already loved."

"I -" He shook his head, images coming into his head unbidden of the younger Fiddleford, who had given up so much - too much - for his sake. Of Stanley, who had always been there giving more than he got, that Ford had tried to convince himself that his brother was only doing it for his own benefit. Ford swallowed hard. "...I know. Far too late to make a difference, but… I understand that now."

It was easy back then to fall to the allure of Bill's promises of power and easy friendship. Even when everything he had really wanted had always been within his reach, they were tempered by human faults, and Ford had been too fearful of failure to accept that - not when his muse had been at his side, tempting him with a (twisted) perfection.

"I should never have told you to come," he said with finality. "You could have kept working on those - 'personal computers' of yours. You could have been -" Ford swallowed. "I cost you your youth. Your future. Your family. I did this -" he gestured at Fiddleford's bent frame, a tad weakly. " - to you. And… I know there is not much I can do to rectify that. I can't give you your life back, and I don't expect - forgiveness, but -"

"Ya weren't the one who did this to me, Stanford." Fiddleford said, cutting him off without hesitation. His head was lowered again, but Ford could just make out the tight grimace on his face. "I did this t' myself. I din't want t' remember, so I made somethin' so that I didn't have to. It's a - It's easier not t' remember."

He raised his head, and though the heavy accent had returned to his voice, his expression was clearly lucid. "Stanford, ya got nothing t' be sorry for. Can't say trustin' that Cipher fella was one of yer better decisions. Or that I wasn't hurt that you kept all that demon business from me. But all this…" He gestured down at himself a tad ruefully. "I was the one who ran away from my problems, see? Ran 'til I didn't even know myself."

Fiddleford smiled mirthlessly. "The lil' fellas - Dipper and Mabel, they told ya about how I was livin' before, din't they? Tell ya the truth, Stanford. Spendin' decades of my life in the dump, marryin' a raccoon, bein' the laughingstock of the town… can't say I'm much pleased about that. But buryin' my head from reality, pretending nothin' was wrong, not even knowin' that I had problems… that was easy. Easier than facin' the end days, or realizing what I made myself into, or -" He cut off. "Or you seein' what I've become."

Ford had sat wordlessly through the entire confession, mentally shaking his head in denial. "If I had believed you when you first warned me about Bill - if I had talked to you after you left - "

"I made my own decision, Stanford." Fiddleford gave him a wry smile. "An' look at what I am now. Are ya ashamed of me? I know I am."

"I am looking," he said roughly, recognizing the familiar steady undercurrent of shame in his old friend's voice - one that did not belong there. "And ashamed is the last thing I am." His old friend gave him a look of disbelief. "The biggest mistake I ever made was pushing you away, Fiddleford," Ford admitted. "Please - don't make the same decision I did."

Fiddleford stared at him with clear, wide eyes, utterly speechless. Ford dragged a hand through his hair. "I admit… this was hardly what we expected for our futures, back then. But, Fiddleford - you've done much more than I could have, in your position. Dipper and Mabel told me about how you saved them from the Society of the Blind Eye. And during the Weirdmageddon, I saw you out there fighting Bill's demons -"

"Y-Ya did?" Fiddleford stammered in surprise, a light blush dusting his cheeks. "Why, I mean… that ain't much -"

"Fiddleford, I know how - tempting it is to hide from one's problems," he said, already thinking about that decade of - first frequent, then occasional phone-calls, with a caller who hung up before Ford could get a single word in.

About how he could never muster up the courage to call back.

"But… You did fight back, Fiddleford. Even after a year of living with me hosting that demon in my body, even after the horrors you saw on the other side of that portal."

Ford paused momentarily, eyes darkening as he remembered for the first time since Fiddleford opened his mouth why he had come in the first place.

"Not only that, but… you - came back for me, didn't you? After all I did to drive you away... You helped my brother repair the portal and bring me back, even though you knew what were on the other..."

He trailed off. Fiddleford's somewhat loopy grin was replaced suddenly by an utterly unreadable expression, as quickly as if some internal switch had been flipped in the man before him.

"At least, that was what Stanley wrote," Ford added quickly, not sure where he had misspoken - or indeed, if he even had. "If there was anything more to that, I don't -"

"I'm sorry, Stanford," Fiddleford in a quiet voice that nonetheless cut through his words with knife-like precision. "I couldn't stop 'im."

Ford blinked, somewhat taken aback. "Well, of course I'm not blaming you for Stanley bringing me back through the portal. ...Though, I admit things might have been quite a bit simpler if the interdimensional rift was never formed. But we were still able to defeat Bill in the end. Why… as much as it had endangered the world… selfishly, I'm quite glad to be back in this dimension. Those were a," he swallowed, thinking of the decades he had spent surviving on the edges of alien societies. "...a rather difficult thirty years on the other side."

But his friend didn't seem to register any of his words, a familiar blankness in his expression as his gaze bore onto a spot slightly over Ford's left shoulder. "I could've - I should've done it then, Stanford. It wasn't too late for him, I don't think."

...Something was wrong here, bigger than he could see. "Fiddleford -" Ford reached out a single hand to place over Fiddleford's shaking shoulder, smiling weakly against the sick twist of deja vu he felt in the pit of his belly - back to that night, three decades ago. "Get it together, man. Too late for what?"

"Stanford, I didn't know," Fiddleford told him earnestly. "Why, I only remembered - just a couple 'f days ago. I must've wiped the knowledge outta my head dozens of times in the past. I couldn't believe it back when th' memory first came back."

"Believe - what?" Ford raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid you're losing me, Fiddleford."

"I said to myself, that ain't possible, Fiddleford!" The other man said, voice hushed, as if Ford had said nothing at all. "But -" Fiddleford shook his head. "I'm - not as brave as ya think, Stanford. I couldn't bring myself to help him and -" His voice broke. "They came for 'im."

"Who's - they?" Ford asked uneasily. Somehow, he knew that this was a question he did not particularly want an answer to. But he - had to know.

There was no reply.

"Fiddleford, please. Stanley's gone missing, and I have no idea where he could have gone. That's - part of the reason why I came," Ford admitted. "You're the only one who can help me, Fiddleford. A clue, maybe something he said - "

"They're what I saw on the other side," Fiddleford said finally. "...Why I tried to erase my memories."

That did not mean much to Stanford, who had never known exactly what his partner had saw in his brief glimpse of the other side of the portal. What he knew, however, was that the pieces were not lining up.

"I don't understand," Ford said slowly, finally finding his voice. "But Stan didn't… he doesn't even know about -"

There was a pitying look in Fiddleford's eyes. "Stanford," he said quietly. "Your brother is not what he seems."

Gravity Falls, March, 1982

After the disastrous talk in Greasy's Diner, Stan had done his best to refrain from asking Fidds anything that might set him off again. He already knew what he needed to do to get Ford back. Everything else - end of the world, demonic muses, yadda yadda - was just extra.

Besides, the other man seemed to be doing enough damage to himself without Stan asking any uncomfortable questions. Whether it was drugs or drink or - something else, Fiddleford had been acting increasingly weird over the course of the past month. It was a subtle thing - some occasional, unprompted, nervous movement of his hands, a few strange outbursts in the middle of an otherwise normal conversation.

If he didn't know better, Stan would've told himself that Fiddleford wasn't the type of person to mess himself up like that. But years on the streets had taught him that there was no 'type of person' that got involved with this kind of thing. Anyone could, anyone would - provided that something bad enough drove them to it.

And with the haunted way that Fidds looked at the contents of Ford's weird pyramid fetish room, or whatever the hell that was, Stan had some inkling as to what it was.

Problem was, how was he supposed to bring up a topic like - that? On one hand, even with a completely pragmatic point of view, letting Fiddleford continue his downward spiral wasn't going to do any good for anyone. On the other… any mention of Ford's old demon buddy - or the thing in Stan's dreams - could very well send the man running for the hills.

But as it turned out, that decision wasn't Stan's to make.

"Stanley, I understand if this is a - sensitive topic but," Fiddleford said a bit nervously, "I - think it will be helpful if you can tell me a bit more about how Stanford was sent through the portal. "

Stan froze in his step, lowering the bundle of wires he had been carrying. It had been weeks since the engineer had started coming over nights to work in Ford's old lab, and really, he should just be surprised that it had taken this long for Fidds to ask, but -

"Uh, yeah," he blurted quickly. "Sure, it's no problem - 'course not… I mean, why would I have a problem with that? Hah!"

Fiddleford stared at him blankly. "Is - there something wrong, Stanley?"

"I'm not being suspicious," Stan said, and immediately regretted it.

"...Of course, I don't - mean to pry, and I understand that you and Stanford had a complicated relationship. But knowing just the mechanics of how the accident occurred, how the portal malfunctioned…" Fiddleford shrugged. "I would know what not to do, at the very least."

Stan blanched. The option of continuing his previous lie about lab accidents was quickly considered and discarded - he sure as hell didn't want to admit, to his brother's boyfriend especially, that he had been the one to push Ford in. That it had been his fault. But if pretending to be innocent meant giving up his brother's life - then, it was hardly a choice.

"...I, uh, might have told a teensy little - not a lie, just a… stretching of the truth, really," Stan stammered. "...About the accident… it wasn't -completely an accident. I mean, neither of us expected it to happen, but - I, uh, should probably start from the beginning."

"...I think that would be best, Stanley."

"Ford sent me a postcard, tellin' me to come up to Oregon. I… did. But when I got there - he was actin' crazy. Almost shot me in the face with acrossbow, shoutin' about how I was going to steal his eyes." Stan dragged a hand through his hair in nervousness. "...Turns out he wanted me to hide that journal of his. And, uh… we started arguing. And then punches were being thrown, and somehow the portal turned itself on, and -"

"And Stanford was sucked in?" Fiddleford asked.

"I pushed him in," Stan said blankly. The other man tensed, something hard in his eyes, but Stan kept going. "It was my fault, Fidds. He - well, he burned me. Accidentally. And, God, it hurt, and I wasn't thinking, and I just shoved his damn book at him - I didn't know it was going to - "

"So you're saying that you and Stanford fought," Fiddleford cut in. "That's how he got sucked up by that thing."

"...Yeah."

"Well, I can't say I see a lie here. That certainly sounds like a lab accident to me." The man closed his notebook with finality. "Stanley, you have to understand - I helped build that portal. There are dozens of safeguards built into that thing - I know, because I forced Stanford to add them in. There's undoubtedly something… peculiar about the device turning itself on, but -"

He shook his head. "That is beside the point. What I am hearing here, Stanley, is that the two of you both did something - and I'll be honest here, something as colossally idiotic as get in a brawl, next to an untested gateway with effects of anti-gravity… and an accident happened. That was all. Honestly," Fiddleford continued, muttering to himself, "I knew Stanford's grasp of laboratory safety procedures were shakey at best, but…"

"Uh," Stan managed, somewhat unintelligibly. "...I, er." Any words of gratitude remained in his throat, though maybe it was better he didn't manage to voice it.

"Though… I am a bit concerned about that - burn you mentioned?" Fiddleford mused.

"There was a weird symbol on the side of that console there - exposed hot metal and all that." Stan grimaced. "Ford… might have kicked me onto it. Hope ya don't mind that I covered it up… Not exactly something I want to see, uh, ever." Hell, he still couldn't force himself to fry bacon.

"A - weird symbol?" Fiddleford paused. "I would like to take a look at it, if you don't mind. If there was an exposed brand anywhere inside of this lab, it certainly wasn't there when I worked here."

"It's right on the back of my shoulder - gimme a sec." Stan reached backwards, pulling the fabric of his undershirt aside. "You see it, Fidds?"

Fiddleford dropped his pen. "...Does it look familiar?" Stan turned his head. "And, uh, I know you're not a medical doctor or anythin', but it's kind of a weird color for a burn, right? I don't think I've ever -"

"Stanley…"

He blinked. "Yeah, that's my name. What - What's wrong?" Stan turned around quickly, only for Fiddleford to cringe back. "...Hey, if it's bad, just tell me, alright? I got enough cash to find a doctor if I need it."

"...That's been on you ever since Stanford went into th' portal?" The other man asked quietly, eyes fixated on the spot on the back of Stan's shoulder, as if it would attack him.

"That's what I said. But Ford - well, both of us were pretty caught up in yellin' at each other and all, and he didn't know that thing was on the side of the console." Stan shrugged helplessly. "It wasn't his fault -"

"...Dreams," Fiddleford croaked.

"Uh, what?"

"Have you -" The man made an odd, spastic gesture with his hands. " - had any. Since then."

...Alnight, so maybe he should be the one backing away here, not Fidds.

"Well, I mean…" Stan shrugged somewhat non-commitably, trying to hide his confusion. Somehow, he knew that mentioning specifics was probably not a good idea. "Some, sure. I mean, doesn't everyone? Look, Fidds, I don't know what exactly's messin' with your senses right now, but… you trust me, don'tcha?"

The look Fiddleford gave him was not exactly encouraging. Stan relented. "...Just gimme some idea of what's goin' on here, would ya?"

"...Dreams were how Stanford first made contact with that demon," the man said dully. "Back in college, he couldn't sleep for more than a handful of hours a night, at best. Then in Gravity Falls, he was sleepin' away entire days and makin' excuses about doin' his best thinking in his subconscious. Soon enough, he was walkin' around shouting about his cells dying and fish swimmin' up the urethra."

Stan snorted. "Fidds, I wish I was sleepin' entire days. Hell, I don't even remember the last time I got a decent night of sleep."

"Then, you have - had dreams."

...Shit. "Well... yeah. I mean," he composed himself, trying to choose his words carefully. "Sure, some were weird, but look - I've had weirder dreams after late-night quesadillas, for God's sake."

Fiddleford's face was ashen. "Did you say yes?"

"Huh?"

"Stanley, I asked ya," he swallowed, "did ya agree to anythin'?"

Oh.

"...Is this what this is about?" Stan almost felt like laughing. Honestly, what kind of demon would want to make some kind of deal with a guy like Stan Pines? Ford was a genius, a regular ol' poindexter, so that was understandable at least.

But Stan… "Alright, even if some demon is tryin' t' talk to me in my sleep… Fidds, look at me. Do I look like someone who would make a deal with the devil? Hell, do I look like someone the devil would want to make a deal with?" Stan, on the other hand, was just a conman and a convict - a dime a dozen in these parts.

In any parts.

None of Fiddleford's anxiousness dissipated. "Yes," he said instead, eyes narrowing.

"...Seriously? Come on, I was askin' that as a joke -"

"If they told ya they could save yer brother, ya would." The man's stare could burn holes in paper.

"Fidds, I -" Stan laughed, maybe a bit weakly, but there was nothing funny about the situation. He walked forward a few steps towards the cowering Fiddleford, both of his hands still held up in surrender. "You know that - that I wouldn't." His protests sounded lame to even his own ears.

"Fiddleford, I swear to God, I haven't been makin' any deals. Tell ya the truth, I have been seein' some - green-eyed spookums, maybe, but unless ya count some cursing on my part, there haven't been any talkin' involved -"

He froze in place the minute the muzzle, for lack of a better word, of Fiddleford's lightbulb-gun leveled itself directly at his face. "Green-eyed - ?" The man choked out, eyes dilating, his hands clenching on the handle of the - whatever it was.

Maybe a few weeks ago, when Stan had known nothing about the man before him, he would have been tempted to just - walk forward the last few steps, harmless looking toy gun or not. But having seen the engineer's work, Stan knew that he did not want to be shot by this thing. Knowing Fiddleford and his penchant for obliviously dangerous inventions, if he had deliberately made this to hurt… harmless was the last thing this was.

"Put it down, Fiddleford," he said through gritted teeth. "Come on, we're friends, aren't we?"

"It's because we're friends that I have to -" Fiddleford broke off, shaking. "Stanley, you've got to understand - this is for your own good -"

"No, I don't understand," Stan growled. "At least tell me why you want t' shoot me before you do it, yeah?" Shit, shit, shit. How the hell was he supposed to get out of this situation? He was at point-blank range - dodging was out of the question. And while Fiddleford was wiry, he was hardlyweak - "Or hell, tell me what I can do so you won't have to shoot me. That would help a whole lot, ya know," he finished, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Leave Gravity Falls," Fiddleford said without hesitation. "Destroy the portal. Forget about Stanford, and -" He gestured his device towards Stan's shoulder. "Break that sigil."

"I - I thought we went over this weeks ago, Fidds," Stan stammered, brushing aside the fluff for the important bit in there - forget about Stanford? "I'm not giving up on my brother. You - agreed with me on this, remember? You said -"

"That was before I knew they were already here, Stanley!" The other man hissed, eyes wild. "If the portal is opened now, then they'll have apermanent anchor in this base of reality. And it is simply a matter of time before they find an alternative - "

"We - can deal with that after Ford's back! He'll think of somethin' -"

"No, he will not," Fiddleford said with a note of finality. "Stanley - give up. I want him back too, but I can't -" He swallowed down his justifications. "...For the sake of the world, for your sanity, for your humanity - Stanley, give up now."

There was only one reply that Stan could give to that. "Then, I guess ya better shoot me." His voice was grim. "Because I can't give up on him. And - I thought you of all people could understand that, Fidds."

"Please don't make this harder than it is, Stanley."

"Yeah?" Stan demanded, trying to sound braver than he actually was. Oh, hell, if he was going to get shot by that thing either way… he didn't wantto hurt the guy, but - "Trust me, I want to make it a lot harder for you than ya want it to be."

He lunged forward, a hand outstretched to knock the lightbulb gun out of Fiddleford's grasp like he did during their initial meeting, except -

The man sidestepped him at the last moment, a matter of milliseconds, and Stan heard rather than saw him pull the trigger - a sudden, final click.

Stan stared, expression frozen in wide-eyed fear, as electricity coursed into the bulb of the gun, the beginning of some kind of light beam building at its end - and just beyond that, Fiddleford's tearful eyes behind his cracked glasses.

T-That's right, he suddenly thought vehemently, glaring back despite the cold crawl of panic as the light grew brighter, brighter, brighter. Let him see -

Fiddleford's hands jerked to the right.

A bright beam of some kind of energy flew past Stan, a millimeter to the side of his ear, and before he could react, he heard it hit the machinery behind him.

The portal behind him. Stan paled.

Oh shit.

It might have been a terrible decision, given the man who wanted to shoot him just a few feet in front of him. But then Stan saw the smoking console, electricity crackling over exposed wires, and his own well-being was suddenly the last thing on his mind.

There was the groan of metal, and the lights flickered suddenly. Stan whipped around, realization blossoming on his face. "Fidds -"

The man stared back at him, a look of dim surprise on his face. A second later, it turned into an expression of sheer panic, and Fiddleford let out an odd mixture of a choke and a whine. He dropped onto - all fours (what the hell) and scampered backwards like a scared animal. He gave Stan a look of horror, his eyes glazed and unfamiliar.

Stan cursed, already knowing what was coming but still taking the one futile step forward. "Don't -"

Fiddleford ran for it, moving surprisingly quickly for a guy on his hands and feet, and Stan had only taken another two steps forward when the lights went out and the lab was plunged into pitch black darkness. After that... he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face, let alone a little guy like Fidds.

Distantly, he heard the sound of the elevator ascending.

It took ten minutes for Stan to finally make his way up from the lab, by which time Fiddleford was nowhere to be see. He sucked in a breath and kicked the wooden wall of Ford's cabin in frustration.

Great. The side-effects of whatever Fidds was using sure picked a great time to act up. With the guy in the state he was, it probably wasn't a good idea either for him to just go runnin' around in the woods, willy-nilly. Stan had been the one to give Fiddleford a ride to the Shack, since the man adamantly refused to drive for some reason.

Then he saw, halfway through his mental ramblings -

There, a flash of movement through the open window, in the bushes just beyond where his El Diablo was parked.

Stan swore again, as colorfully as he could make it, but it came out stunned and dibelieving and - hopeful. Without a single word more, he yanked on his red jacket and ran outside.

"Fidds!" He shouted, scanning his surroundings. It was - incredibly dark, almost unnaturally so, but Stan ignored his instincts shouting at him to go back inside.

He didn't even know where Fiddleford lived, and he had an inkling that he wouldn't be seeing the man for a long time if he left him to make contact. Maybe ever. "Fiddleford!"

Stan made his way to his car, swearing yet again as he tried to unlock his door without being able to see - anything, really. It didn't help that his right foot was soaked - there was a puddle on the ground right next to the El Diablo, which he unfortunately only noticed after stepping in the oddly warm liquid.

He jumped inside and slammed the door, immediately shifting into reverse and backing out of the makeshift driveway. Stan knew his car. He had done 70 miles an hour on the winding Rocky Mountain paths with his El Diablo, Carla screaming and laughing at his side.

This, was nothing.

Stan kept the window open as he drove, eyes narrowed against the cold Oregon winds as he scanned the road for movement. Fidds couldn't have gone far, really, and the forest on either side was rapidly becoming a blur of dark green. Stan was driving a bit faster than necessary, hell, a bit faster than he initially intended - maybe the El Diablo needed a tune-up.

He stepped down on the brake, and - paused.

Stan tried again, but there was no use. The pedal was going down too easily, and Stan was still going too fast.

He looked down in a kind of frozen disbelief, mouth suddenly, suffocatingly dry. The dim light of the car made the fluid on his boot shine with an oily sheen.

The strange men hanging around the diner, the movement near his car - the puzzle pieces clicked together to form a picture that sent a jolt of strangely dull dismay through his body.

Oh, hell.

It took everything he had to straighten his neck against the momentum of the car and look up. Despite the darkness of the night Stan could make out the rapidly approaching pines through his windshield - and the turn just ahead that he could not make. Not at these speeds.

In the split-second before impact, Stan saw green.