The next day, the Mystery Shack returned to a more or less peaceful status.

This was because Ford stayed in the basement, and everyone else stayed upstairs, and never the twain did meet.

Once, or maybe twice-okay, okay, every spare opportunity they got, Dipper and Mabel went to visit Ford, hoping to get to know him better and learn more about his adventures in the multiverse (and maybe persuade him to take the first step in making amends with Grunkle Stan, since Stan was so tired of being rebuffed every time he tried and maybe it'd work better if they went to the other side)…but every time he was busy working on dismantling the portal, or doing top secret research that he couldn't be pulled away from at the moment so please don't disturb him.

Then, late in the afternoon, they went downstairs to find that the door into the main part of the lab was locked, and no amount of knocking or calling out was enough to make him answer them.

Dipper was crushed.

Not just because he was as tired of all the fighting and tension as everyone else…but also because he'd really hoped that when he finally met the Author of the journals, it would be someone he could connect with on a different level than everyone else, and talk to about all their respective discoveries and the weirdness of Gravity Falls. Finding out that he was not only still alive, but an actual relative, had just strengthened his excitement and interest…only for him to show little to no interest in even talking to him or his sister beyond that brief moment the day after his arrival. And he'd taken his journal back soon after he returned, so Dipper didn't even have that anymore.

Despondently he ignored Mabel's attempt to cheer him up by reminding him about the new season of Ducktective, or even that she was coming up with a new plan to bring their grunkles together and help them talk without fighting, and went up to the roof to mope.


Unbeknownst to him, out in the forest Ford was doing more or less the same thing.

He'd left earlier in the day, after locking up his lab and fixing some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee, and just let himself wander the familiarly unfamiliar woods in the hopes that it would help him come up with a solution to the problem whose seriousness he had been greatly underestimating.

Not Bill; he had a decently good idea of how big of a problem the little monster would be if he was unable to find a more permanent method of containing the rift.

The other problem, the one whose seriousness he hadn't realized the extent of until last night.

It was one thing to be able to rationalize that "Stan brought this on himself," or "he'll be fine," or "I'm just taking back what's rightfully mine, if he's upset about it he's just not accepting that it's his own fault."

It was harder when everyone else seemed to think he was a monster for it.

Or when he'd had to hear Stan's thoughts about him, about what he thought he felt.

(He didn't want to think about it too hard, but they also put a rather horrifying spin on when Stan had refused to relinquish the house, and had basically dared him to kill him-except he hadn't meant it like that, had he?

…Had he?)

It wasn't true, though.

Ford was sure that it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true, because just the thought of Stan being dead created a hollow aching sensation in his chest that he hadn't even realized he was still capable of.

The problem, however, was how to convince Stan of that.

Words probably weren't good enough, since Stan didn't seem interested in listening to anything he said, and even less interested in believing it.

Logically that meant he should try to think of actions that would express his feelings instead, but what could possibly be good enough?

He walked and pondered, walked and pondered…but by evening he had still failed to come up with an answer.

And to add insult to injury, he was out of coffee and down to one sandwich.

Ford thought about eating it…but then it occurred to him that there might be someone who would appreciate it more (and possibly it could make progress as a peace offering?).

After some hesitation, he headed back towards town, and the junkyard.


There was no sign of Fiddleford when he climbed through the gap in the fence, but he could hear something large rummaging around in a heap of rubbish.

Nervously Ford walked up to it and cleared his throat.

"...McGucket? Is that you?"

The rustling noises stopped, and Ford's ears picked up the sound of a small, nervous squeak.

Carefully he reached into his coat, and pulled out the sandwich, which he held aloft. "I have food." He looked at the sandwich, trying to remember if Fiddleford had any food allergies or special dietary preferences. "It's not baked beans, sorry, but…I like to think roast beef's nothing to sneeze at?"

After a long second a cluster of old tin cans and a rusty tractor hood were pushed aside, and Fiddleford's head and shoulders hesitantly rose into view, with a bunch of wires clenched in one bony fist. He peered at Ford suspiciously through his glasses, and then at the sandwich.

Hesitantly he crawled onto the cab of the rusty old car in front of him, sitting up on his haunches like a squirrel (the way he held his hands curled up at his chest only adding to the mental image), and craned his neck, sniffing. Ford thought about stepping closer, or saying something else, but didn't want to risk scaring him off.

At last Fiddleford smacked his lips, and a second later he had snatched the sandwich from Ford's hand and crammed half of it into his mouth in one bite, barely taking the time to chew and swallow before devouring the rest of it.

It wasn't his table manners that turned Ford's stomach, so much as the fact that his kind, brilliant friend had been reduced to this…and he hadn't done enough to stop it.

As Fiddleford finished and licked his fingers clean, Ford asked, "...So, um…do you need more? I don't have anything else with me, but…maybe I could bring you some?" Unconsciously his hand rose up to rub the back of his neck. "Or…even just some shoes?"

Fiddleford harrumphed and shuffled back an inch. "Don't need no foot prisons."

"Okay, okay, that's fine. I was just wondering." Think of a more comfortable topic think of a more comfortable topic think of a more comfortable topic- "...The children tell me you've built quite a few robots." Ford tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "Are any of them as good as the thesaurus bot?" It had been his most impressive creation their sophomore year, as well as the thing that nearly got Fiddleford expelled if it hadn't been for some fast talking on his part and the part of his extremely proud (if more than a little eccentric) robotics professor.

Fiddleford blinked…and then snorted out a surprised laugh as his eyes lit up in a painfully familiar way. "...Heh. Ah don't wanna brag, but lotta them are even better."

The smile became more genuine. "Is that right?"

"Indeedy-do. Ya wanna take a gander at what I'm workin' on right now?"

Ford was taken aback…but it was better than him screaming and throwing things, so he just nodded. "You have my undivided attention."

Fiddleford whooped, as he slung the wires over his shoulder and snatched up some pieces of what looked like the car's dashboard; then he scampered off towards the old hut in the center of the dump and ducked under the ragged blanket that served as the door.

A second later his hand reappeared and waved to Ford. "C'mon in!"

Cautiously Ford approached the hut, and stepped inside.


When he saw the dilapidated conditions his friend was living in, with dead possums and dented pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, broken electronics in every corner, and a raccoon curled up on a pile of rags that clearly constituted his bed…it was yet another reminder of how big a part Ford had had in completely ruining his life.

Fiddleford appeared oblivious to his sudden turmoil, as he bounded through the mess and lifted an object lying on the table. When he turned around, Ford saw that it was a massive hand, big enough to trap him if it wanted to and with long, jagged metal claws.

He shook himself out of his despondency enough to smile weakly. "...Very well done."

"Aw hush, this is jes' the tip o' the iceberg! Ah still gotta make the head, the tail, the whole dang thing!" Fiddleford produced one of the wires he'd found, and began attaching it to the circuitry already inside the hand; it spasmed, nearly snapping on the end of his nose, before relaxing again. "Problem is figgerin' out how Ah can use it ta get Tate's attention, cuz the kidlets asked me not ta do massive property damage no more." His tinkering slowed, and he gave a thoughtful frown to the device. "...An' in retrospect, doin' it in the furs' place wasn't quite right o' me." For a moment his shoulders slumped, before he shook his head and went back to work.

"...Yes, well, it's not nearly as heinous a crime as inviting an omnicidal maniac into our world by building him a portal, ignoring your friend's repeated requests that you not do so."


Ford hadn't planned on saying the words, but once they actually left his mouth, it was too late to take them back. Besides, it seemed better to rip the bandage off.

Fiddleford's hand slipped, and he made another startled squeaking noise, looking up at him with wide eyes. For a moment it looked like he was going to start shrieking again, so Ford quickly backed up, giving him space if he really needed to flee, even though he hoped he wouldn't before he got the rest of this out. When he didn't run, Ford screwed up his courage and resumed speaking.

"...I know it's thirty years too late, but I am so, so sorry, Fiddleford. I was a fool for not listening to you, and for not trying to help you handle your trauma better. A stupid, arrogant fool who I wouldn't blame you for hating and never wanting to see again."

He was mortified to feel tightness rising in his throat, and closed his eyes in an attempt to preserve whatever dignity he still had.


Silence dragged by for a minute, then two.

Ford was just beginning to think that this was all a mistake and he should have just left Fiddleford in peace, when he felt a hand on his elbow.

He opened his eyes, and saw Fiddleford smiling gently up at him, eyes clear and understanding but not terrified or repulsed. He gave his elbow a soft pat, and then said, "...Thank ya kindly, Stanford. Ah needed ta hear that." Then he held up the robot claw in his free hand. "Ya wanna help me get started buildin' the rest o' this? Sounds like you're a man with a lot on his mind, an' Ah find workin' while Ah talk helps."

Ford sniffled, and rubbed his face. "That sounds perfect."


...Well, at least he's making progress with one of the people he needed to apologize to, right?