So this was an idea for some FiddleStan that just came to me while writing up some FiddleAuthor. This is a continuation of what went down after Snowed In. This takes place a little ways after Ford falls through the portal and Fiddleford starts erasing his memories. In my idea for this AU is that Fiddleford's memories are not completely severed yet, because he continuously uses his prototype on himself. It's not completely flushed out in this chapter, but because he uses his first model of the memory erase gun, which only separates the connections between neurons in the brain instead of damaging them. So if he stops using the gun for a long enough period of time, his memories can start to return to him. The more he uses it, however, the longer the memory stays dormant. There are a few other details I put in there that are a little different from the books and the show, but it'll be a little more fleshed out later. One thing I'd like to point out is my lack of mentioning Fiddleford's son Tate. Well, I have plans for him, but I'm not going to spoil that.

Feel free to leave a comment and ask questions. I love hearing from fellow fan readers and writers. Have fun! And enjoy the following angst. X3

USELESS

Chapter 1: You Look Familiar

To whom it concerns,

I, Fiddleford H. Mcguket, hereby relinquish my thoughts while I'm still capable of expressing cognitive judgment. Through sound mind and body, I now leave my last thoughts on record.

I no longer possess the strength to face what's to come. I have failed in everything. I failed in helping my best friend come home. I failed my son and the town he grew up in. I failed myself, and worst of all, I failed the man I love. I can't see myself beyond anything but a shell; hollow and crumbling into dust. I have endured the pains of my misery long enough… It is time.

I am sorry, Stanley.

It was snowing outside. One man thought it was weird. It was July, wasn't it? That's when he arrived in Gravity Falls. There shouldn't be any snow on the ground even at this altitude. Wait, was it still July? Or was it February? It can't be…. That long? There was something off, the blonde man knew something was wrong. But what, he couldn't recall… He couldn't remember.

"One more time…" He groaned, fumbling around his living space searching for his desired vice. It would help him forget. He couldn't remember what he wanted to forget, but the feeling was still there. The emotion, the stirring, the pain. Even if he forgot what caused this pain in his chest, he never let the feeling go. Maybe he could somehow forget he was even in pain. He needed his device again, but where did he put it?

"W-Where…? Where is it–? Ah!" He tripped, blue eyes narrowed in the dark after he landed on his chin. This place was so messy. How did it get so messy? Now there was a stain on the floor beneath him. Was that blood? How did that get there? Oh, his chin is bleeding. He could forget that too, but only if he finds his…

"Ah… There it is." Spindly fingers reached under a discarded newspaper for a strange gun-like device with large glass tubing replacing a metal barrel. He stared at it for a while, needing time to recall how to activate it. While fiddling with the knob on the side of the handle, the thin man remembered what to do and turned the nozzle clockwise. What would he load onto the screen above it? What was he trying to forget again? Oh… Right. He was trying to forget his pain. Maybe if he didn't even remember his name he wouldn't remember he was ever hurting in the first place… Somehow that makes sense, so he should load… Fiddleford H. McGucket.

"One more…" Fiddleford heaved, lining the end of the glass tubing against the side of his temple. "One more… Th-That should… That should be enough…"

He was crying. Why was he crying? Who knows, not him and it wouldn't matter in the end. This was the end… That thought made him sad, but also gave him peace of mind. Just pull the trigger Fiddleford, he tried to encourage himself, but his hand was shaking too violently. Stop crying… Stop crying…

"Hey!" An aggressive knocking at his door startled Fiddleford into dropping the device, shattering the glass bulb after it made impact with a random rock. Who the hell put that rock there in the first place? "Open up in there! I know you're here!"

"No…" The blonde gritted, angered at the sight before him. His relief, his escape was now unreachable, and that infurnal pounding outside his home was not helping his migrain. In fact, it was driving him further into his insanity. He stood, a flare of fury glowing beneath his spectacles and marched straight to his front door. Without peeking through his window or even asking who was there, Fiddleford swung the door open so he could spit fire and brimstone… But instead, he froze. A familiar face was there to greet him and he didn't know how to feel about seeing it. Who was this familiar person, and why did he feel angry, distort, and somehow delighted to see him all at once? His name eluded Fiddleford a moment, but he knew he still remembered it. It started with a… S? No, it was a F… Probably.

"F... Ford?" He guessed at first, but he was positive that he was correct. Before he could ask why this man decided to show up at his doorstep, he was grabbed by the base of his collar and yanked forward.

"You're coming with me, nerd." Without leaving room for a good protest, the confused blonde was wretched out of his home, barefoot and without his jacket. It was freezing in the snow, but the brisk feeling beneath his toes jump started his mind and he was able to form words he had forgotten.

"Ford!" He struggled, trying to wrench his left wrist free after the man in the red jacket clamped onto it. "What are you doing to me?! Let go of me, Ford?!"

"Call me Stan." The man ahead of Fiddleford replied sternly, and increased his pace in frustration.

"Stan…?" The blonde narrowed his eyes, and managed to finally yank his hand back. The man turned around to glare at Fiddleford with his familiar looking brown eyes. The stranger hesitated moving forward towards the smaller man when he finally noticed something wasn't right. He was so skinny and pale, and the way he shivered was indifferent to the cold, appearing unnatural. His thin fingers raked through his hair so he could hold his aching head. He cradled it like he was trying to screw it back on shoulders correctly, and this might have helped him focus better. "Stan…? Stanley? You're… You're his brother… Ford's twin?"

"Oh great, he talked about me." Stan crossed his arms over chest, and huffed in a returned annoyance in his mood. "I'd be flattered if I wasn't sure he didn't mention anything good."

"Why are you here…?" Fiddleford finally managed to mumble, remembering he was outside his comfort zone and hating it. "What do you want from me?"

The scrawny blonde sneezed over his shivering form, and decided he would stop talking and would just ignore Stan. This was just an obstacle that would eventually go away if he did what he always did in confrontation. Make himself look small, stay still, and say nothing. Stay quiet long enough and the problem would eventually disappear. However, the stranger named Stan didn't leave or say much of anything. He did take off his jacket and wrapped it around Fiddleford's shoulders. The fabric had a distinct smell, heavy with motor oil and cigarette smoke. Most would be put off by such a combination, but for the former engineer it felt familiar. Like home… Like himself.

"That's right…" Fiddleford pressed his nose to the fur collar of the jacket, sniffing softly at the intoxicating musk. "Motor oil… I was a… Mechanic. An engineer."

"Are you on something right now?" Stan asked gently, not intending to sound judgemental. "Can you even tell me your name?"

"F-Fiddleford…" The thin man answered sleepily, his eyes suddenly feeling heavy as large hands cradled around his arms. The warmth wrapped around him so sweetly his knees felt weak and he stumbled forward against the taller man. Stan was startled a moment and over corrected his hold on the frail form in his jacket.

"Ah!" Fiddleford jolted when one of the large hands repositioned itself on his right forearm. He hadn't noticed how much it was hurting him until he was reminded of his injury, yet he didn't remember how he hurt himself in such a way. Carefully, Stan maneuvered the arm out from under the coverage of the large coat. He could clearly see the forearm bent forward and was discolored.

"How long has your arm been broken? And your chin…" Again, being careful and cautious, Stan gently pinched his thumb and index fingers around a very small chin. "It's split open. What did you do to yourself, Fidds?"

"I…" The smaller man whispered while his sight began to blur. He questioned if he was still wearing his glasses, but he didn't have the strength to lift his hand and check. "I don't know… I'm so tired…"

He could hear a heavy sigh, but Stan was now just a haze of brown hair and a grey t-shirt. Fiddleford was struggling at that point to keep his eyes open, and he was certain he was going to fall asleep standing. He was continuous enough to notice he was leaning into the stranger, who scared him in the beginning, but now sought him out for comfort.

"I can't leave you here like this…" Stan whispered while he braced Fiddleford by his shoulders again, making sure he didn't fall over. "Not that I didn't plan on taking you back to the cabin in the first place."

"Cabin?" The word revived the tired blonde for a moment. Cabin? He wasn't talking about…? No. No, not that place! "No…! Not there! I can't…! I can't go back there! It's too dangerous!"

"Woah, okay. Calm down a minute." Even Stan surprised himself with how patient he was being. He had a whole plan in his mind when coming here, expecting a fight or an argument to get information from anyone who was friends with his brother. He wasn't expecting to find a malnourished man going through what was obvious withdrawal. Withdrawal from what exactly, Stan couldn't tell from where he stood, but even to him it was obvious no good would come from being forceful. "Tell me, what's dangerous about it? Why are you afraid to go back?"

"The… Cellar…" Fiddleford muttered, falling back into his drowsiness. "The… Portal… In the cellar…"

"Okay, I can work with that." Without asking permission or waiting for further explanations, Stan scooped Fiddleford up into a bridal carry. The blonde only gasped once, but even if he wanted to, he couldn't fight back. He was just too exhausted. "I won't take you to the cellar. You don't need to go anywhere near it, and you will stay up stairs the whole time you're there. I will keep you safe."

"Promise…" Fiddleford tucked his still bleeding chin towards his chest. He couldn't do much else but surrender to this situation, and trust what this familiar yet strange man was telling him.

"I promise… Now sleep. The sooner you sleep off whatever you're on, the sooner I can ask for your help."

"Help… Help…" The heart beating beneath his ear was another soothing instrument that lulled him into a slumber. Fiddleford repeated himself until he finally gave into his needs and passed out in the strong arms carrying him away. Stan was confused by the tone of the weak man's voice. Was he just establishing that he heard Stan and understood he was there to ask for Fiddleford's help? Or was he actually asking for help for himself? Perhaps in the end it didn't matter because eventually the voice dissipated into shallow breaths and Fiddleford allowed himself to safely drift away.

"Answer the damn phone, Fiddleford!" The answering machine blared through the engineer's apartment. His soon to be ex-wife had been calling him repeatedly for the past three days, non-stop. This was blatant harassment, but Fiddleford was going to have to endure it for now, since the police in Gravity Falls couldn't do anything about it. The laws were pretty straight forward in Oregon, and as long as he and Emma May were still married, she had the right to call him whenever she pleased. "Pick up! You owe me that much after the shit Christmas you put me through this year! And I know you're home! Not like you have any friends up there in that inbreed backwoods town!"

He almost caved in on his resolve and he would have finally answered the call, but instead he just took a deep breath and grabbed his coat. The only reason the mechanic left the machine on was for his work. If he unhooked his phone or unplugged his message machine, he might miss a call or message from his friend. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was only an hour from his usual commute to Stanford's cabin. Maybe he wouldn't mind if the shorter scientist showed up to help set up for the day.

"I don't know why that fruit boss of yours puts up with someone as useless as you?! Unless he did find a use for that big mouth of yours!"

Her voice rang out even as Fiddleford slammed his own front door shut. He certainly had his fill and now it was time to take a break from her abuse. He was practically running to the trail leading up to his friend's cabin, but he slowed his pace when he reached the border of the town. It was almost noon and the last thing the shy mechanic wanted was to attract unwanted attention from the townsfolk. Fiddleford used to be more sociable. Not by much, but he did have some semblance of confidence before he married Emma May. He did love her, still did, but she broke his heart too many times. Now he no longer had the patients for her jealousy, constantly hovering over him and asking to describe every moment of his day. Even before he commuted to Gravity Falls her personality changed so drastically after they married. It came to the point that the threat of disownership from his own family no longer scared him, and Fiddleford was ready to start a new life for himself. Too bad his wife was having difficulty moving on for herself.

"Fill!" A voice called out to him, and he knew exactly who it was without turning his head upward. There was only one person he allowed to call him Fill, and he was very happy to see him that moment.

"Hey, Ford!" Fiddleford replied a little more excitedly than he intended, but he couldn't hold back his relief. Seeing Ford was so refreshing after the morning he had. The sight of his friend coming to greet him wasn't strange, but the brunette scientist strode up to him slowly.

"I was just coming to greet you at your apartment." Ford smiled after he reached his assistant and stretched out his hand to shake Fiddlefords' as he always did. "I tried to call you but your line was busy."

"Oh, sorry…" The blonde blushed while engaging in Ford's greeting, embarrassed that Emma May called so much she held up his line. "A lot of telemarketers today, I guess."

Lame excuse, Fiddleford realized that too late, but Ford just smiled brighter and lightly chortled. "Anyway, I was going to see if you wanted to check on the plaidypuss burrow I found a few days ago. The little guy hasn't come out for a while, so I think he might be in the middle of a torpor hibernation."

"That actually sounds like a good way to spend the afternoon." Fiddleford smiled back. He wasn't expecting to go on a hike today, and shirk their duties on the portal, but it sounded like a pleasant enough outing with his friend. "I'm very glad you came to get me. I could use the company today."

Ford blushed lightly. The way his friend tilted his head made the thick of his blonde hair bounce, and it was oddly satisfying to witness. "Of course, but how about lunch first? At the diner?"

"Sure!" Fiddleford patted Ford's arm gleefully, then readied himself for a sprint. "Race you there?"

"You're on! One, two, three, go!" Ford let his friend get ahead of him, then he reached out with his large hand for Fiddleford's jacket. His big six fingered appendage clasped the fabric of the mechanic's coat then yanked him backwards into a snow drift. "Last one there pays the tip and the drinks!"

"No fair, ya' cheater!" Fiddleford didn't even brush himself off. He just leapt to his loafers and dashed after his cunning friend. "Ford! Wait up! Ford! Ford!"

"F-Ford… Ford…" The image of Ford's coat furling in the wind began to fade in front of him, and Fiddleford reached out for it, as if his hand could touch the edge of the coattails if he tried hard enough. His hand did reach something, when his vision had darkened to nothing. It was obvious now that he was only dreaming of a memory, and fortunately it was a good memory. This time. "Ford… Wait…"

Still mumbling, Fiddleford felt around the scratchy surface in front of him. Was that stubble? Was that a face? Ford's maybe, and maybe he was the person dabbing a cold towel over his forehead. Did he bring Fiddleford back to the cabin? Why didn't he say anything yet?

"Ford?" Finally he opened his groggy eyes, and he was able to see the hazy blur of a burly man's figure. His hand was stroking the side of the man's face, and it felt like they were smiling. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"For what?" Ford's voice sounded different. Gruff and not quite as deep. He must have a cold, the poor thing.

"For leaving…" Without his spectacles he was hopeless in fully seeing his friend, but his hands could feel around his face. Clearly, Ford hadn't shaved because his stubble was thicker than it normally was. His sideburns felt longer too, but they were soft, and moving closer towards him. Or maybe he was pulling the brunette closer, it was hard to tell while he was still half asleep. "Oh Ford…"

Soft whispers were smothered by two chaste kisses, but after the second one, something felt off. Ford's lips tasted like tobacco… Since when did Ford Smoke? He didn't smoke, he hated cigarettes. "Ford…?"

"Hold on a sec…" The man above him muttered while shifting to his side. "You'll probably need these."

While he squinted his eyes tighter, Fiddleford could feel the braces of his spectacles slip past his ears. Blinking heavily, his eyesight slowly readjusted to his surroundings. He could see Ford properly now, with his mullet-like haircut, rough patchy facial hair…? And did he gain weight?

"Oh my God!" Fiddleford gasped, realizing the man he just kissed wasn't his best friend. It was a confused look-a-like, blinking back at him with the same amount of shock etched over his expression. "G-Get off me!"

"Ah!" The stranger shouted as Fiddleford struggled and swung his fist. A very strong left hook landed on the side of the stranger's face, and he hunched

backwards to protect himself. "Hold up! Hold up a minute!"

"Ow!" Fiddleford stopped, but not because the strange man told him to. His right arm began to twinge and his head spun from the sudden excitement. "Ow, ow, ow…! What…? My arm…?"

"I wrapped it for you." The stranger claimed, lowering his hands believing it was now safe to do so. "Do you remember me now? I found you alone in the junkyard, and I told you my name is Stan."

"Stan…" The scrawny blonde shook his head, embarrassed by his reaction. "Yes… It's coming back to me now. You're Stanford's twin brother. Oh my gosh, I hit you. I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I'm actually a little impressed." Rubbing the side of his face, Stan smirked lightly, trying to keep the atmosphere light. After all, he didn't need to lose any more teeth due to his ass getting beat again. "How do you feel right now? A little less… Twitchy?"

"Um… Yeah… Things are… Becoming clearer now." Fiddleford admitted as he rubbed the right side of his temple. His brow tweaking with every swipe of his very thin fingers. He even noticed the bandage on his chin, and he sighed sadly. "Geez, how did I hurt myself like this?"

"You can't remember? You must've been on something strong."

"I didn't take anything!" The blonde man shouted so forcefully he scared Stan into a jolt. Feeling guilty again, Fiddleford bit his bottom lip before apologizing. "Again, I'm sorry. I don't take any drugs, it's just… I have this 'condition'. It flares up when I'm stressed or sick and messes with my memories."

He was lying through his teeth, Stan, being an expert liar himself, could tell that much right away. But there wasn't an easier way for Fiddleford to explain how he was addicted to continuously wiping his memories. Not that it mattered much now anyway. Without using his memory gun on a regular basis, his mind would slowly recover on its own. It always would if he only used his first prototype, but now he remembered he accidentally broke it. Without it, he couldn't continue suppressing the painful thoughts that plagued him. Fiddleford did make a better constructed gun, but it was constructed too well and he couldn't remember what happened to it after he used it only once. Maybe it didn't matter in the end, as long as it wasn't in the wrong hands. "Where…? Where am I?"

"Back in my brother's cabin." Stan nodded while setting aside the damp cloth in his hand. He also decided he wouldn't push the issue of the ill man's 'condition'. If he wasn't ready to talk about it, then he wasn't ready, and forcing a discussion over it wasn't going to help. "Don't worry though. I made sure to put you in the room furthest from the cellar entrance."

Fiddleford could see that from where he now sat. He was in Ford's favorite room, his living area and it was a relief to be there. He was lying on the lounge couch that Ford slept on more often than he slept in his own bed. The room was messier than the thin man recalled, even if it had been a long time since he was inside it. Glancing over his shoulder, Fiddleford could see a tall stack of papers and manilla folders scattered over the lounge of the couch. All of this askew papers, turned over waste baskets, and disheveled books laced over the floor was obviously the genius handy work of Stanford Pines. Whenever he went off the deep end of his own research, he often neglected to clean up after himself. The state of the den worried the former engineer, because Ford never neglected his cleaning duties to this extent.

"Where is your brother?" Fiddleford whispered, crossing his legs under the red jacket draped over his lap. "Why did you even bring me back here?"

"I…" Stan stammered, fear catching in his voice. After a long and sad silence he eventually reached around his waist and pulled something from his back pocket. "He's missing…"

He handed what he pulled from his jeans to Fiddleford, and the timid blonde took it with a slight suspicion aching in his fingertips. It was a pair of thick black framed glasses. Ford's glasses and his primary pair. He wouldn't leave anywhere without them unless he was given no choice. "No… He didn't?"

Flashes of the portal down stairs stirred in Fiddleford's mind, and though he couldn't remember what was beyond that vale anymore, he remembered he was terrified of it for a reason. If what he was starting to believe happened, did happen then it was obvious Ford was in extreme danger. If he was even still alive.

"You're right, he didn't." The depressed twin lowered his eyes, shame shrouding his shoulders as he powered through his explanations. "I… I pushed him. We fought and at the end I… Screwed up like I always did and…"

Unable to look up any more, Stan placed his elbows over his knees and encased his head in his hands. He took a few deep breaths before digging into his pockets again. This time he pulled out a photo, an old one that was folded twice.

"I tried figuring out how to restart that hunk of junk in the basement for two weeks now. When I burned through that journal he left behind I became even more desperate and started digging through his files, his bookshelves, even his underwear drawers. I stumbled upon this by accident."

Stan handed the photo to Fiddleford who held it gently over the glasses. It was a picture of Ford and himself while they were still in college. He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. He was saddened by his best friend's absence, but by God, did the sight of him in those gaudy green short-shorts bring back memories. He was delighted that these good memories came back to him so quickly.

"The message on the back says 'F and me - Best roommate and greatest mechanic in the world." Stan wiggled in the pockets of his jacket this time, searching for his cigarettes and lighter. "Knowing my brother, he asked you to come up here to help him build that… Thing in the basement. Definitely looked like a minimum two person job and despite my brother's annoying talent for being good at anything he puts his mind to, he's still not the most sociable guy. He tends to stick to people he likes over having to risk widening his inner circle. I bet hiring the construction crew to build this place was giving him constant heartburn."

When he fished a half gone pack out of his jacket, he quickly lit one then returned to holding his head with one hand. Fiddleford watched Stan exhale a large plume of smoke from his nose. It was then he noticed the hand holding the cigarette was shaking.

"I had to ask around town for you. I had a hunch you were here, and almost everyone said you lived in the condemned complex by the junkyard." Stan sighed before taking a long drag. "Long story short, Fidds… You're my only lead into figuring out how this thing works."

Not understanding what processed him that moment, Stan put his hand on what he assumed was Fiddleford's knee. It might have been a little forward of him to do with someone he just met, but he couldn't help feeling the need to seek comfort. For some reason, reaching for Fiddleford's hand seemed too intimate at the time, and lucky for the grifter the other man didn't push him away. "I know you don't feel safe here, but I need… I need to get my brother back. I need help."

Fiddleford closed his eyes, letting the tears collecting in his lashes bead down his cheeks, but he quickly wiped them away before Stan could see. Then he took the cigarette which was half lit now, and brought it to his own lips. He grimaced a moment, not a fan of menthol, but still he enjoyed the bite of warm tobacco on the back of his tongue. Stan watched him in silent melancholy. Fiddleford's features were highlighted by the night sky glowing through the window. It was nice, and Stan even went as far as to think the small blonde was even kind of pretty.

"Do me a favor." The pretty blonde finally spoke up, his thick southern accent slightly singing while he placed his hand over Stan's. "When Ford gets home… Don't tell him we were smoking in his den. It was one of his biggest pet peeves."

He was unprepared for Stan's sudden movements, and he gasped feeling fearful he might drop the cigarette while being wrapped in large, and surprisingly muscular arms. But he accepted the embrace and hugged the heartbroken Pines twin back. Stan didn't cry, but he shivered over Fiddleford's shoulders.

Technically, the forgetful scientist didn't say yes to helping him. However, hearing him mention Ford coming home, even if it was a joke, ignited whatever embers of hope that were dwindling in his chest. He needed to hear it, even if it turned out to be an illusion in the end.

To be continued…