"D'ya still have it?"

"Well, yes."

"Can…can I…?"

"I dunnae. I cannae give it back. I cannae."

"Please—at least let me see it. I wanna know it's safe."

"…Here. I've kept it in this bin."

"Here…the whole time…"

"Donnae! Donnae touch it!"

"It's mine, Abby!"

"Ye cannae take it—ye cannae leave me!"

"…Abby…"

"Ye cannae leave. I need you. More'n anything. More'n air. More'n water. More'n sunlight…"

"I donnae—"

"I cannae live without you! Please, donnae…"

"I wonnae go, I promise. Here—put it away, then. I just…I wanted to see it, is all. Put the bin away."

"You-you wonnae go? You promise?"

"I never planned to."

Ford paced in the cabin. The torrential downpour had returned, drowning out the sound of his footsteps. Every now and again, he glanced at his brother, who had absorbed himself in a book (Ford noted that it was the book that he'd put aside himself earlier when his thoughts distracted him). He didn't understand. Why would he possibly—?

"You're gonna wear a hole in the floor if you don't stop pacing," Stan said. He glanced up from the fairy tales to meet Ford's gaze. "What's eating you?"

"Why did you offer for that boy to join us?" Ford's question sounded more confounded than irritated. He clasped his hands behind back, debating whether to continue berating his brother.

For his part, Stan simply stared. His eyes eventually dropped back to the book in his hands. "I dunno. Something about him…felt…familiar?" His brow furrowed and his lip turned downward. He searched his still foggy memory for a fuller explanation, even returning his eyes to Ford as if asking for help. "Still a little unclear about some stuff."

Ford matched Stan's unsure expression. His brother's memories were still, for the most part, haphazard at best. Between himself, Dipper, and Mabel, their knowledge of Stan's life only covered about eighteen years with detail; the forty he'd spent on his own came back much slower, as there was no way to prompt them, no way to iterate them with any realness. It seemed (to Ford, anyway) that the most random, minor things would trigger these memories that Ford couldn't expound upon.

Stan laughed. "I guess I remember what it feels like to be hungry. Couldn't really tell ya why, to be honest, but I have some ideas."

Ford felt a pang of guilt, but said nothing. There was nothing for him to say; he could only apologize so many times before Stan yelled at him to shut his mouth.

"Eh, it's not important." Stan reached over to put the book on Ford's desk. "So, when's this kid supposed to show up?"

"Should be soon." Ford paused. "Do you think he'd really walk all the way out here in this storm?"

Stan frowned again. "I hope not—"

A knock managed to sound over the rain. Startled, Ford jerked at the noise. He recovered after a moment and opened the door. Drenched from the storm, Sean was swimming in his oversized clothing. Ford had to admit, in this pathetic state, the boy too reminded him of his brother that night, all those years ago.

"You're dripping," Stan stated. His voice had a hint of a lilt to it, as if he were still considering whether or not the comment was a joke.

Sean looked lost. "Sorry. Forgot mah um—"

Stan shook his head. "Don't worry about it, kid. I'm sure we have something dry for you to wear." He rose from his spot on the bed and traveled to the trunk. After retrieving the smallest things he could readily find, he tossed them into the bathroom. "Go change before you get sick."

Sean nodded and hurried into the other room, trying to minimize the amount of water that he dripped on the floor. When the door clicked shut, Ford sighed.

"You're such a softie," he teased. Ignoring his brother's dismissive huff, he picked up his pacing again. "We have a bit of time before the kids call. Hopefully, we'll be on our way by that point. If Sean really does know where this island is, we shouldn't have much trouble."

"That time already, huh?" Stan dropped back into his bunk.

Ford nodded. As he made to respond, the bathroom door clicked open and allowed Sean to return to the cabin's room.

"Better?"

"Yea. Thanks." Sean awkwardly pulled up the excess fabric on the trousers to move nearer. Unsure where to put himself, he decided to set himself on the floor beside the bunk beds, out of Ford's pacing path.

Ford clasped his hands behind his back, a habitual motion around new people. "Well, Sean, I'll admit that I'm struggling to find anything solid on this island. You mentioned its connection to some 'Otherworld' yesterday, didn't you?"

"Yea." Rolling up the sleeves of Ford's sweater, Sean kept his eyes trained on the ground. "It's an isle of all sortsa creatures. Mostly fae. Ye get some other ones, too—kelpies and banshees and grindylow and selkies and such." A smile tugged at the corner of his lip. "Rumors are, anyhow. I dunnae, mahself. Didnae see much."

"What did you see?"

"Coupla brownies, summat what might've been a shellycoat, and a few birds and seals."

Ford's interest visibly piqued. "Really?" At Sean's affirmative nod, he stopped pacing. "Fascinating. How did you come across the island?"

"Lost in a squall." Sean finally finished rolling up his sleeves. "First time, anyhow. Stumbled across it out fishing a coupla times. Only been there twice by mah own choosing."

Ford's brow raised. "Go on."

"I dunnae exactly how I found it," he admitted, finally lifting his gaze. Sean glanced between the twins, as if checking for signs of disbelief. "I just…sorta knew. I can find it, but I cannae tell ya how."

Ford frowned. He said nothing, instead stepping over to the desk where his journal lay open. After again locating his pen, he began scribbling notes.

Stan rolled his eyes. "As long as you can find it again, I don't think it matters how you do it."

"Don't be ridiculous, Stanley, of course it matters how." The pen continued scratching against the paper. "We'll have to make careful observations and keep detailed notes to make sure we can find it again."

"If you say so, Poindexter."

"Do you know if there's a pattern to the island's movements, Sean?" Ford's eyes flicked up for only a moment. "Any causal relationship to lunar cycles, tides, oceanic currents, seasonal changes, weather patterns…?"

The Scotsman shrugged. "I dunnae. Easier to find in winter."

"How fortuitous." Ford finished scribbling in his journal and shut it with a snap. "Do you know how far away the island is?"

"Not more'n a couple of days. Round trip shouldnae be more'n a week."

"Excellent." Ford turned to his brother. "Ready to go?"

Stan nodded. "Stocked up in town this morning. We can shove off whenever. I think—" A bubbly, electronic jingle interrupted from within Stan's pocket. He withdrew the smartphone, giving it the searching stare of one wholly unfamiliar with technology. A warm smile wormed onto his face as he answered it. "Hey pumpkin."

An ear-piercing squeal greeted him from the speaker, loud enough for the others to hear across the room. As the chattering died down to be only audible to Stan, Ford leaned over to Sean to speak in a hushed voice.

"Our great niece and nephew," he clarified simply.

Sean didn't need further explanation. "Donnae mind. I'll get us on our way." He hopped to his feet, struggling to keep from tripping over his trousers. At Ford's dubious glance, he gave a sheepish grin. "Donnae mind. Go'n chat with yer bairnes." Sean shuffled out of the cabin, where the rain had finally ceased.

"How 'bout a hand, there, Sixer?"

Ford turned at his brother's exasperated sigh; the smartphone was held out to him expectantly, Mabel's and Dipper's voices calling out contradictory directions simultaneously. Ford struggled not to laugh as he took the phone—Stan seemed incapable of mastering even the most basic functions of modern technology. At least Ford's years in the multiverse helped him adapt to foreign devices. A few taps on the screen brought up the teenage twins.

"Hi Grunkle Ford!" they greeted in unison, waving excitedly. The two of them seemed to be walking through a suburban neighborhood, backpacks slung over their shoulders.

"Hey kids." He returned their wave as he sat beside his brother. "You don't need to call so early."

"But we miss you!" Dipper protested. "It's not that early."

"Dipper has a big test today and he was freaking out about it—you need to tell him to chill out!" Mabel nudged her brother. "You're gonna be totally fine, Dip Dop."

"Mabel!"

"Test?" Ford repeated. "Well, Dipper, did you study?"

Dipper nodded. "I've been studying all week."

"You've done all you can do to prepare for it. You're a bright boy, Dipper; I have faith that you'll do well."

"Thanks, Grunkle Ford."

"And if all else fails," Stan added, "you can always fake your death."

"Stanley!"

Ford's chastising didn't much matter; the kids and his brother were laughing too hard to pay attention. When their mirth died down, Dipper piped up again.

"So where are you guys now?"

"Still in the north Atlantic; we're in Orkney at the moment," Ford said. "Just for the night to weather out a storm."

"We're heading out today in search of a moving island of some kind or another," Stan added brightly. "A whole island of things to bring back to the Shack."

"You wouldn't want to bring any of that nonsense back to Gravity Falls."

"What's on the island? Oh! Oh! Is there a beast in a castle that's really a prince transformed by a sorceress' spell?" Mabel bounced around Dipper, too thrilled at the idea to walk properly.

Dipper rolled his eyes. "He said Orkney, not Orleans—there's no prince."

"Not with that attitude, there isn't."

"Hm. I don't know about any princes, but Sean said there's a lot of fairies." Stan rubbed at the back of his neck. "Will that work for you, pumpkin?"

Mabel squealed, delighted. "Bring one home for me, Grunkle Stan! Can their magic fairy dust make me fly?"

"Doubtful," Ford murmured, considering. "Though I haven't had much of an opportunity to research fairies. Their physiology doesn't lend itself to flight by any natural laws of physics…"

"Wait, who's Sean?" Dipper's brows knit in confusion. For her part, Mabel was too busy celebrating the idea of fairy-induced flight to pay attention. "Did you guys meet another monster hunter?"

"Nah." Stan waved the question off. "He's a local kid, says he can help us find the place. Plus, your Grunkle Ford needs all the help he can get. He's old, you know, can't do all the things he used to."

"We're the same age, Stanley! And it's not like you know how to find the island, either."

"Not really my department, Poindexter."

Ford punched his brother's shoulder. Not the most eloquent way to win an argument, but a victory nonetheless.