On the bright side, Ford's helpless rage was an excellent fuel source in helping him dismantle most of the portal that night, until he finally collapsed from exhaustion and fell asleep right there on the floor (frankly, not the most uncomfortable sleeping arrangement he'd had in the last thirty years).
The next time he opened his eyes, for a moment Ford couldn't remember where he was. Was he in another dungeon? Or was he back in the Incredibly Uncomfortable Hard Surfaces Everywhere Dimension (not a very popular tourist spot, for obvious reasons)?
Then he saw the shattered portal a few feet away and thought he was dreaming again…before the events of yesterday came trickling back to him.
He was back in his own dimension, and technically he was home.
Except he couldn't even call it that anymore.
With a groan Ford sat up and rubbed his face, before he got up and began pacing, in an effort to collect his thoughts and simultaneously work some of the stiffness out of his limbs.
The worst part about Stan's defiance was that he was absolutely right.
If Ford really wanted to reclaim his house and put an end to this ridiculous tourist trap, then he would have to find someone who could verify his identity.
His parents? They were somewhat dubious as a possibility, since Stan had been able to fool them for the last thirty years, but surely if he went to them and showed them the indisputable proof of his hands-
Then again, were his parents even still alive?
Ford felt a sudden, unexpected sinking feeling in his chest.
He immediately felt foolish for it; he was an old man now, so had he really expected them to be? Considering they hadn't exactly been in the prime of youth when he left this dimension, the odds were not high.
Shermie, then?
Stan hadn't indicated one way or another if he was alive…but if he was, surely he would have known better than to entrust his grandchildren with him, since he'd always been good at telling them apart even if they switched places for the day.
Besides, it would be better to find someone who knew for certain that Stanford had lived here once…
Eyes brightening, Ford headed upstairs to find a telephone.
Fortunately, he managed to find one without encountering anyone else (namely, Stanley). It took him a moment to draw it from the depths of his memory, but he dialed a number, and then tugged the cord nervously between his fingers as he waited for it to finish ringing, wondering how best to address his old friend and possibly make up for the last time they'd seen each other.
After a couple of rings, a woman's voice said, "Hello?"
Emma May? It doesn't sound quite like her voice…but then again, I haven't heard it in years, I could have just forgotten…
"...May I speak to Fiddleford McGucket, please?"
There was a pause, and then the woman said, "I'm sorry, sir, I think you have the wrong number."
The sinking feeling came again, with interest. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, there's no one here with that name."
"Oh. I apologize." With an unhappy sigh he hung up, and buried a hand in his hair.
Perfect. Just perfect-
"Great Uncle Ford?"
Ford spun around to see his great-nephew standing behind him, looking even more nervous and sweaty than the last time he saw him (yesterday evening, to be specific). And, of course, as soon as he made eye contact with the boy his pupils dilated and he looked seconds away from throwing up (again); out of courtesy he directed his gaze towards the pine tree on his hat, ignoring the newest flash of déjà vu the symbol brought him, and said politely, "Can I help you, Dipper?"
Dipper made a muffled squeaking noise at the sound of his name, but then cleared his throat and said quickly, "Sorry, sorry! I'm fine! I just…who were you calling?"
…Well, it was doubtful that he'd be able to give him the information he needed, but sometimes a long shot was better than none at all, and besides, he did seem genuinely interested in helping. Ford managed to smile, and said, "I'm trying to gather news of an old friend of mine. Fiddleford McGucket? I mentioned him yesterday in the basement."
Whatever reaction he'd been expecting, it definitely wasn't for Dipper to cringe, and suddenly become very interested in the floorboards.
Ford frowned, and knelt down to be on the boy's level. "Dipper? Do you know something about him?"
"Me?" His voice cracked. "Uh-no, I just-um-you probably don't wanna-nothing!"
His eyes were practically all pupils now, and Ford could see his pulse throbbing frantically in his skinny little neck. Just in time he realized that he was about to make a break for it, and caught his shoulder (which caused another squeak to emanate from his larynx).
"Dipper." Ford kept his voice firm, but gentle. "If you know something, please tell me."
A fresh kernel of worry in his chest had him wondering if maybe he was dead too. If the last thing they'd done was quarrel, and he would never have a chance to make amends.
"...Kinda, yeah," Dipper admitted. "He's still around, but-"
"Excellent! Where can I find him?" The relief was slightly overwhelming, but Ford quickly got to his feet and turned for the door.
"He's probably still in the dump, but-Great Uncle Ford!"
Too late; Ford was already striding off the porch towards the road into town.
A little part of him wondered if he should have asked Dipper for further clarification on Fiddleford's current state, and if he knew why on earth he had chosen to stay in Gravity Falls after the portal incident, but he reasoned that he would figure it out when he got there.
For now, he was just happy to know that there was at least one person in the area (even if he was a little confused about why he hadn't gone back home to his family) who could help him deal with this problem, so he could focus on the far more important one of dealing with Bill!
…Assuming, of course, that Fiddleford would have any desire to speak to him after what had happened.
But-well, Ford was more than willing to admit that he should have listened to him when he had the chance, and that he had been arrogant and foolish and inconsiderate, and that had to count for something, right?
Heh; Ford wondered if Fiddleford enjoyed frequenting the dump because it was the perfect place to scavenge for spare parts he could then use for his inventions. He'd done that quite a few times in college whenever he needed to relax, just found the nearest area with discarded machinery and grabbed seemingly a random collection of parts, which he would then use them to build the most creative-
As he reached the dump, Ford heard the achingly familiar sound of a banjo playing.
He pulled open the gate, slipped inside-
-and froze in his tracks when he saw the wizened old man having a hootenanny in the middle of the rubbish, next to an old hunk of tin that barely qualified as a house.
For a second he wanted to ask him if he'd seen Fiddleford McGucket around, because he'd heard that he sometimes came here.
He didn't want to believe that the hunched, dirty, thick-bearded sack of bones held together with old overalls and filthy bandages sitting in front of him was all that remained of his friend, even if he was playing a very familiar banjo and had some kind of device sitting in front of him that was boiling and bubbling and flickering with strange green electricity in its wires.
But then he got a good look at his face through the unkempt facial hair, and there was just enough of his friend in there for him to recognize.
Ford's boot knocked against a tin can lying on the ground as he took a hesitant step forward; Fiddleford immediately stopped playing and spun around with a start, lifting his banjo by the neck like a club, until his eyes met Ford's.
His face relaxed into a delighted smile, and he waved to him happily.
"Howdy, feller! C'mon in, Ah was jes' cookin' up some grub!" He indicated the device in front of him, and picked up an old tin mug which he dipped into it; it came up filled with some kind of greasy red-brown liquid that was distinctly on the gloopy side.
Even though he'd learned to eat things that looked far more unappetizing out in the multiverse, Ford didn't have enough of an appetite to accept. Instead he stepped forward and asked hesitantly, "...Fiddleford?"
Fiddleford blinked, and squinted. "...Yeah, how'd ya know that?" He tilted his head to one side, and then fumbled in the front pocket of his overalls, withdrawing a pair of large green glasses that he slipped onto his nose. "Do Ah know ya?"
"Yes. It's me, Stanford. Stanford Pines." His heart dropped into his stomach as realization set in; it appeared that Fiddleford hadn't destroyed the memory gun when he told him to after all.
"The feller what works at the devil hut over yonder?"
Just the mention of the so-called Mystery Shack made Ford's fists clench, and it took him a moment to steady his tone at least a little. "No. I'm-we used to be friends back in college. Don't you remember?" After another second of hesitation, he lifted one of his hands so Fiddleford could get a good look at his fingers.
Fiddleford squinted at them, looking confused-and then he turned white.
"When gravity falls an' earth becomes sky-no!" he croaked hoarsely, backing away. "No, I-I ain't ready fer rememberin' that-no, no, no git away!"
A second later he'd dived headfirst into one of the piles of rubbish.
"Fiddleford, wait!" Ford tried to rush after him, only to narrowly avoid getting knocked senseless by a wrench that came flying out of the pile towards his head.
"GIT AWAY, GIT AWAY!" Fiddleford shrieked with increasing incoherence as he dug his way further into the dump; a boot, a broken golf club, and several pieces of dismantled car came flying towards Ford, a few of them actually landing successful blows, as his friend continued to shriek.
…Ford took the hint, and made his exit.
Once he was actually outside the junkyard, Ford sank down on the curb and buried his head in his hands.
Not only did he not have someone to support him in his troubles with Stan, but it was entirely his own fault because he'd been too wrapped up in the portal to pay attention to his mental state, and therefore had allowed him to drive himself insane.
And the only other people he could think of who might possibly remember him were Boyish Dan Corduroy (but considering he had no qualms about allowing his daughter to work for Stanley, it was unlikely), or Preston Northwest (after a moment of thought, Ford decided that he wasn't nearly that desperate yet).
Eventually Ford got up and trudged back to his former home, feeling even more alone.
I figured that Fiddleford's memory is still coming back, and seeing Ford again was kind of an unexpected, nasty shock.
