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friendlycybird · 5 years

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Stanuary 2019 Week Three - Dreams

Stanuary Week Three - Dreams

Summary: Nightmares are nothing new for Stanley Pines. It's just these particular nightmares seem like they just might be cause for concern.

Word Count: 1663

Content Warnings: Nightmares. Suicidal thoughts, sort- of. ...are references to Bill Cipher a content warning?

AO3

When Stan first remembered exactly how his final confrontation with Bill had gone, he’d relayed the memory victoriously. “...and then I punched the evil little nacho chip right in the eyeball!”

“Gotta admit,” Dipper said. “I’m a little jealous.”

“Oh this one…” Stan agreed “This is a memory I’m gonna treasure.”

So he really didn’t mind reliving that memory in his dreams. Just when it happened three nights in a row, it started to feel a little weird. He told Ford on his way to bed the fourth night. “Just hope I don’t dream about Bill again.”

“You’ve been dreaming about Bill?” Ford was clearly alarmed.

Stan sought to reassure. “Just the part where we pulled one over on him and I smashed him to a million pieces.” he didn’t like the way Ford looked at him for a long moment. Seeking out signs of a lie in his face. He wouldn’t find one, as much because Stan didn’t really have noticeable tells as because he wasn’t lying this time. Not really. It was just the one moment over and over again, but sometimes it would distort. There wasn’t a better word for it then that.

That night the distortion happened after the punch connected. He watched Bill shatter. Watched the flames rise higher. There was a glitch, like an old video cassette. Then suddenly millions of gold pieces flew together from the far reaches of his empty mind and re-formed into a familiar, and unwelcome figure.

“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD GET RID OF ME THAT EASILY?”

Stan didn’t bolt upright from dreams often. He had his share of nightmares. With everything he’d seen in his life, the returning memories of times he’d almost died or worse, Stan’s dreams were often unpleasant at best. This was the first time sheer panic had forced him upright upon waking. He gasped for breath a few times before catching it, heart pounding.

He laid back down after a minute, not the least bit tired. That hadn’t happened, he reminded himself. Bill had been destroyed with his memories. The problem was, of course, that his memories were back. So where was Bill? The question from the dream echoed in Stan’s mind, and with it, the faint sound of that monster’s laugh.

Somehow, he fell asleep again. Once again, he dreamed of Bill. This time of the heart-stopping moments right before the deal. When he’d wanted to cough, but he needed the tightness in his throat for a convincing imitation. The slow oscillation between two symbols coming to a stop on a Shooting Star. Ford grabbing him by the jacket and Stan finding a thousand tiny things in his performance that weren’t quite right and the cold terror that Bill would see any one of them. The way the stuffed sixth glove finger sat awkwardly alongside the rest as he offered his hand.

He didn’t remember if the moment that followed was an accurate account of what it had really been like. Maybe he never would and honestly, Stan was okay with that. The feeling of being invaded. Of your very personhood being pushed below the surface and held under, like being drowned in spirit but not in body. The sudden, disorienting, lack of awareness of his body and the even more sudden, reorienting awareness of his mindscape and the high-pitched grating feeling to match Bill’s voice that something here was not his, and not welcome.

He woke when Bill opened the door.

Two dreams of Bill in the same night. That was concerning. He told Ford, who was alarmed for a moment before schooling his features into something calm and patient. “Well, it was a traumatic experience for you. The source of all of the damage your mind has suffered. Given your miraculous recovery, we shouldn’t be at all surprised there are a few lingering psychological scars.”

“Given my miraculous recovery,” Stan answered “Shouldn’t we be worried that’s not all that’s ‘lingering’?”

Ford was tense and pale and silent for too long before he said “You’re worried Bill has returned with your memories.” Stan nodded simply. Ford exhaled, blowing out a long breath and falling silent again. “Stanley, I have to believe your dreams are just that, dreams. Bill is - was, a capable demon. If he didn’t want his presence known, you wouldn’t be aware of him in any capacity. If he did...we’d have more trouble than simple nightmares.”

Stan studied Ford for signs as to whether or not he believed his own words. Ford wasn’t a great liar, but he’d grown up telling half-truths. Typically on Stan’s behalf. If nothing had changed, Stan would know it. Should know it. Instead, he found Ford’s expression unreadable. None of the open honesty of their childhood, of course not. Ford was much too guarded for that now. None of the subtle tells of a lie either. Stan didn’t know where they stood, so he said “Alright, but if they turn out to be more than just dreams…” he hesitated, and turned to go, calling the last over his shoulder so Ford wouldn’t have time to react to it. “You’re gonna shoot me in the head again, this time with a real gun.” and Stan was gone.

That, he was aware, had been a little bit cruel. He didn’t care. He got the message across while conveying it was not up for discussion. Ford was quieter than usual the rest of the day. Stan couldn’t blame him. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t willing to take risks on this subject, and Ford needed to understand that.

In his dream that night, Ford understood that too well. The fear was only there a moment when he woke, before he began noticing the inconsistencies.The panicked way Ford checked his eyes was lifted straight from his first visit to the Shack decades ago. The rough way Ford had grabbed him and pushed him to his knees and the cold of the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head were memories that didn’t even involve Ford. The gun, he noted, had been the wrong shape. Like the normal gun he remembered, not his brother’s triangular one. He wondered if in that situation he really would growl out “Sixer, it’s me.”

“Is it?” Ford hissed, his voice sounding just like a burn felt. “How can I know? You don’t even know! You asked for this!” Stan could hear his brother’s pitch rise, his words speed, panic setting in.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright…” he said softly. How was he, the one on the ground with a gun to his head, the one doing the comforting? “It’s alright, Ford, you gotta protect the kids.” and why would he say that? He would never say that, he reflected. Not while it was still him. Not without damn good reason. He’d said it though, so that could only mean there was good reason. “Do what you gotta do.”

Ford was breathing like he’d been crying and Stan wanted to offer comfort. But there was a gun to his head and even though he’d personally just given permission to fire, instinct kept him from moving his hands. “Goodbye, Stanley.”

Before he could say it back, everything went black. He didn’t even hear the shot.

“Okay.” he admitted to Ford in the morning. “I crossed the line yesterday, I’m sorry.”

Ford looked startled, then relaxed. “Was your comment malicious? Or were you merely trying to prepare me for an ugly possibility?”

Stan grumbled a moment, then “That second thing, yeah.”

“Then there’s no need for apology.” Ford stated. He looked at Stan. “If anything, I should apologize. I’m sorry, Stanley. I won’t be following your demand. Regardless of the circumstances.”

Stan looked at him, then laughed. “You hear yourself? You’re apologizing for not being willing to murder me. What are we?” he laughed again, and Ford cracked a smile. Stan was still smiling when his laugh died down. “Don’t get me wrong.” he said, serious despite the smile. “I’m still scared. I know too good to be true when I smell it and our little happy ending here reaks. So be careful. Don’t...go outta your mind careful or go shooting without notice but. If it’s ever...you know. A choice. You know what I want.”

The way Ford looked at him then was uncomfortable. It was soft and open and something right on the edge of a smile stayed on his lips and Stan felt the weight of it. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Ford said after a moment. Stan decided he didn’t want to dig into whatever led to that comment and mumbled something about cooking for them.

Stan still had nightmares after that, but they were about other things. Sometimes, they were memories. Sometimes they blurred memory and intangible fear. Bill was a subject sometimes, but often enough he wasn’t that Stan began to feel his anxiety about that particular series of dreams ease. Then one night, he had a good dream.

The kids were back for another summer. Dipper was noticeably taller than Mabel now, and made a show of rejecting Stan’s offer to mock her with him. Soos in the Mr. Mystery suit, but still sitting on the floor at Stan’s feet as they all watched an episode of Ducktective together, which proceeded to take over the dream and give Stan the exact series of plot twists he hadn’t realized he wanted from the show. For some reason, he still woke up startled. Breathing labored. It was only with a moments reflection that he realized he’d spent the entire dream anxiously waiting for something to go wrong.

He knew what to do to keep that from coming true.

Stan laid back down, lesson learned for the moment. Then, after several moments silence, he groaned aloud.

For the life of him, even minutes after the dream ended, Stan couldn’t remember those Ducktective twists his subconscious had made up!

#stanuary 2019 #stan pines #ford pines #stanuary week 3 #cybird writes

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invisibletinkerer · 6 years

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Fic: 30 Seconds Later (chapter 13)

Chapter 1 – Chapter 2 – Chapter 3 – Chapter 4 – Chapter 5 – Chapter 6 – Chapter 7 – Chapter 8 – Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14

Length: ~5700 words

AO3 Link

Stanford went into the car still reeling from Dipper’s game – and as irrational as it seemed, he found that he now looked forward to something other than Bill’s demise. Two days ago he would have called that impossible, the very idea unthinkable. But if the rift was secured and he himself stayed inside the warded room for the game—

The rift was the priority, though.

He didn’t even care that Stanley insisted on driving, even though Ford was the one who knew where they were going, and the likelihood of him falling unconscious while driving was close to zero at this point. He’d slept enough for a lifetime by now, even when accounting for a few unpleasantly panicked midnight awakenings. Bill had failed to reach him, and that gave him a better ground to stand on than he’d had since he’d first discovered the demon’s true intentions. Even the various aches seemed quite negligible this morning.

Of course, it was just like Stanley to still be possessive about his car – some things never changed. But they were going on small forest roads at relatively low speeds anyway, so the unnecessary hassle of giving directions was rather minor, all things considered. Besides, the passenger seat was comfortably familiar.

As he settled in, déjà vu struck him like a heat wave to the face. This car. The smell of leather and gasoline. A bumpy road. Stanley on his left.

It had been over a decade, and they had both been mere children, but the feeling was strong enough that he had to shake his head to dislodge it. He could practically taste the toffee peanuts.

Wait a second. He glanced at the old man in the driver’s seat – grey hair, shorts, and a printed shirt gaudy enough to be Fiddleford’s – presently looking nothing at all like the wide-eyed sixteen-year-old who had once been so proud of this very vehicle. It had been more than four decades.

“I can’t believe you still have the same car,” he said, running his fingers over the glove compartment.

Stanley grimaced. “Yeah, well. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t believe it. It’s not the same car.”

Ford blinked, taking another look around. “It’s not?” Lacking photographic memory, he couldn’t be absolutely certain down to the details, but— “I do remember this car quite well from our childhood, Stanley. I know I saw the ‘Stanleymobile’ vanity plate outside, too.”

Stanley’s face might have looked pained for a moment, but then he chuckled. “That’s right. Confused the hell out of a buncha people when I got it.” He raised his voice in mock concern. “’But Stanford, why would you want the wrong name on your plate?’ Heh.”

Ford pursed his lips. The reminder that Stanley had been using Ford’s name for all these years stung, but it only made the present question more puzzling. “This is a replica, then. A copy.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment that you fell for it, Poindexter. It’s not like I’ve shown it to anyone else who remembers the original.”

“I didn’t ‘fall’ for anything,” Ford bristled. “I merely didn’t think you’d go to the trouble of making a replica of your first car, especially not when you were claiming to be me. I’m sure there has to be better cars on the market in the 21st century.”

They were interrupted by an especially bumpy stretch of the road – it was even less well maintained than last time Ford had seen it – making the car jump and come dangerously close to going off-road. Ford rolled his eyes at Stanley’s reckless driving, but assumed he could handle it like he always had.

He took the moment to take a closer look at their surroundings, looking for landmarks in the forest. There was still a bit to go, and there were no people in sight, which was expected, but also a relief. Other people meant other possible pawns of Bill, especially now that Ford himself was somewhat less available to the demon. It was fortunate that nothing required them to go into town, at least not today.

“There’s never gonna be a better car on the market than the old El Diablo,” Stanley said eventually, bringing him back to the conversation. “Got my hands on one of the same model in workable condition a few years back, so I touched her up a bit.” He patted the wheel affectionately. “She’s a good car. Feels like home, ya know?”

Of course Stanley would bring something back just because he missed it. Ford wasn’t sure if he wanted to smile or scoff, so he did neither. “It is a good car,” he admitted. “And it certainly brings to mind late sixties New Jersey, if that’s what you’re going for.”

Stanley grinned. “Sixties New Jersey, the glory days.”

Ford closed his eyes briefly and tried to recall the strong sense of déjà vu he’d experienced. “I won’t argue that,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“You don’t say.”

Fair enough, but Ford shrugged it off. A question danced on the tip of his tongue until he finally gave in and asked it. “What happened to the original?” It didn’t matter, especially not when Stanley had acquired such a decent facsimile, but somehow he still wanted to know. “Did you lose it when you—when you were on the road?”

Stanley smiled wryly. “No, I still had her when I got here. But, well – told ya Stanley Pines died, didn’t I? Car crash, horrible wreckage, almost nothing left of the body. The car was identifiable, though.”

“Oh.” Stanley had really destroyed his own identity thirty years ago. It was hard to wrap his mind around, to get a grip on as something that really happened. He should have been okay. He should have had twelve years not to get tangled in his own dreams and desires into dealing with demons, but instead he’d done that. As if Stanley Pines was nothing. As if Stanford Pines was nothing, as if they were interchangeable. It hurt, in more than one way, but mulling over it would only be detrimental to the current mission.

There were a few moments of awkward silence, but fortunately Ford found they were approaching their destination, or at least as close to it as they could get to it by car. They would have to hike the last few miles cross-country. He told Stanley to pull over and park where the road widened slightly.

“This is the magical part of the forest?” Stanley said doubtfully as they got out of the car and locked it. “Doesn’t seem very magical to me.”

“That’s right,” Ford replied, back in his element with navigating the Gravity Falls valley. “The most magical part of the forest is further to the west, where I sent Mabel and her friends yesterday. This part is in fact relatively mundane, but it’s got a few secrets of its own, the biggest of which is our destination.” He checked the compass that Stanley had found for him in the attic, then charged ahead through the pines.

He quickly fell into a walking rhythm. The clear forest air, the smell of pine needles and leaves, and the brisk walk towards a clear and obtainable goal was invigorating. For once since long before going through the portal, Stanford felt truly alive. Perhaps he shouldn’t be enjoying something so simple when so much was at stake, but the sunshine filtering through the trees seemed to warm him down to the marrow, and he’d been cold for so long.

Stanley grumbled a bit about his speed, but he kept up. In fact, Ford was sure he caught him smiling several times.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registered that the hike was more tiring than it should have been. Brief spells of dizziness was nothing to worry about. The sensation of limbs trembling with exhaustion had been such a common occurrence for the last few weeks that it hardly seemed worth acknowledging. Stanford was used to walking and even running for far longer distances with little to no trouble. This was nothing.

When Stanley pointed out that he looked winded, it was just annoying.

“I’m fine!”

“Dammit Ford, slow down!” Stanley repeated. “You’re heaving like a bellow! Your face looks like a boiled lobster!”

“We’re almost there,” Ford panted, evading Stanley’s attempt to grab his arm. And, in doing so, unbalanced himself into putting his foot down wrong on the uneven ground, falling on his face.

He caught some of his weight on his arms, but still ended up with a faceful of pine needles and a hard root smashing into the wounds on his chest, scratching something open and knocking a groan of pain from him.

He rolled over on his back.

He really did need to catch his breath.

The sky above was blue, partly concealed behind foliage and tree trunks. Right in his line of sight was a large birch. On it was – fixing him in its gaze – a large, otherworldly eye.

He could have sworn it blinked.

Trying to run from me, smart guy?

No. Panic pushed him back on his feet in an instant. Every instinct screamed that he had to get away, that Bill was doing something to him, but as soon as he found his feet he stumbled backwards, almost falling again. Blood was pounding in his ears and black spots threatened to take away his vision.

He couldn’t see. He was going to black out.

“Stanford!”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, blinking hard. A flailing hand found something to hold onto, keeping him from falling over. He was fine. There was air and he could breathe – too hard, too fast – and all he had to do was make his body catch up with him. He felt nauseous and could still hear Bill laughing in his ears, but he was fully awake and Bill couldn’t hurt him unless he fainted. Bill was watching, yes, but he couldn’t do anything. Ford was still in control. His hands were shaking independently of his struggling lungs, but he was alright.

Stanley. He’d grabbed onto Stanley, and somehow he was steadier than any tree. Ford leaned on his brother and finally the world stopped spinning.

“I’m fine,” he repeated after a moment. “It was just a headrush.”

Stanley made a non-committal noise and pushed him off so he could look at him. Meeting Ford’s eyes and confirming Bill’s absence, he relaxed visibly. “I did tell ya to rest another day,” he grumbled.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Ford managed, still panting. “I also recall—recall that I told you we have no time to lose.”

Stanley produced a plastic water bottle from his bag and handed it to Ford, who took it and drank gratefully. His lungs were starting to get back to an acceptable level of labor, but his heart was still racing, and his limbs were trembling uncontrollably. Exhaustion, still, despite eating and sleeping. Ridiculous.

“So, what just happened?” Stanley asked, before taking the bottle back and taking a swig himself.

Ford bit his lip. What just happened was weakness. He had no more excuses to succumb to that. He’d stumbled, and Bill had taken advantage of the moment to startle him. “Bill is watching us,” he said simply.

“Well.” Stanley grimaced. “He would be. But he can’t do anything to ya unless you’re unconscious, right?”

“Right. He has no means of attack, no pawns, not here.” He had to believe it. Trees were just trees, even if Bill could see through them. “I suppose— I suppose I stumbled because I overexerted myself. I had no reason to believe this particular hike would be strenuous. Considering I’ve walked it many times in the past.”

“Except in the past you weren’t recovering from being a half-dead wreck. I figured as much when your face changed color.”

Ford let go of Stanley completely and crossed his arms. “I am not a half-dead wreck!”

“No, you’re only a quarter dead now.” Stanley smirked briefly. “Seriously, are you okay? Can you tell me honestly that you won’t fall over if a deer looks at you the wrong way?”

“Deer are rarely dangerous, Stanley. Unless perhaps it’s a peryton, in which case the wings would give ample warning of its true nature.”

“That wasn’t—” Stanley sighed. “Look, are we gonna turn around and go back to the Shack, or can I really trust that this won’t happen again?” He sounded sincerely worried. Perhaps even afraid.

Ford clenched and unclenched his hands. Carelessness and weakness could lead to disaster. He might have been a hair’s width from blacking out just now, and that thought made him tense up all over again. He couldn’t stop Bill from watching, but he could make sure he was unable to do anything else. All he had to do was to get a hold of himself. He wasn’t—

He wasn’t doing this alone.

He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. “It won’t happen again,” he promised. “I’ll take it slower from here. And I’ll have one of those chocolate bars you packed.”

* * *

It was almost midday when they finally reached their destination, which turned out to be a clearing on a hill. The opening in the trees gave the place a good view of the local landmark hanging cliffs, so if it hadn’t been so out of the way, Stan figured it would have been a nice spot for sightseeing tours. Other than that, he couldn’t see anything special about it.

Ford sat down on a convenient rock with a sigh, wiped his glasses on a sleeve and motioned for Stan to come closer. His face was still a bit darker than it should have been, but it probably looked worse than it was because he was so ghostly pale in general. Alive, though. He was very much alive and would very much stay that way if Stan had anything to say on the matter. He had taken it slower on the last bit of the hike, at least.

“Are you gonna tell me what we’re locking for yet?” Stan asked. “Still don’t see any metal to use those sci-fi weapons on.”

“They’re not weapons, they’re tools. And yes.” Ford raised his chin. “Perhaps you can make a guess if I tell you we’re looking for an adhesive stronger than anything on Earth?”

Stan grimaced. “I really hope it doesn’t mean you’re gonna break the rift open and pull something out of there, because then I have to tell you that’s crazy reckless.” Not that he was always opposed to crazy reckless, but that rubbed him the wrong way.

“What? No!” Ford shook his head and got back to his feet. “No, guess again.” He pointed at the landmark. “Take a look at the shape of those cliffs – doesn’t it remind you of something?”

Stan narrowed his eyes. He had seen those cliffs thousands of times, and the unnatural-looking indentations in them were hardly news. He had no idea what Ford was going for. “It looks like Paul Bunyan took an axe to them to open up the valley,” he said. “At least that’s what I tell the tourists.”

Ford pursed his lips. “That’s an explanation I never considered,” he mused. “It is, however, wrong. Behold.” He held out a closed hand above Stan’s eyes, then dropped a small keychain charm to dangle in his field of vision.

A plastic UFO.

“Wait a minute.” Stan snatched the charm out of Ford’s hand. “Where did you get that?” Sure enough, it was the same kind that he sold in the gift shop. No keys either, just the charm.

“Seriously, Stanley?” Ford threw both hands up in exasperation. “Does that really matter?”

Stan glanced from Ford to the charm and back, feeling more confused than anything else. “Look, Sixer, I appreciate that you still have it in you to shoplift! But you could have just asked.”

“I would have used my own if I had been able to find it,” Ford said stiffly.

Stan winced with guilt. That’s right. He’d taken everything from Ford. No legs to stand on getting stingy about a keychain charm. “Nevermind.” He handed the charm back to Ford and took a deep breath before he could say anything he’d regret. “Keep it if you want it. I promise we’ll get everything straightened out as soon as—”

“It’s unimportant!” Ford interrupted with some fire, though he still took it back. “You’re looking at the trinket and fail to see the big picture. Look again. Look at the cliffs.” He dangled the charm in front of Stan’s eyes again, and this time Stan actually looked.

The shape of the UFO fit the hole in the mountain pretty well.

Stan’s eyes widened. “You’re saying a freaking UFO crashed through that mountain?”

“Exactly!” his young twin exclaimed, looking awfully smug about it. Then again, smug shoplifting nerd Sixer was a whole lot more relatable than terrified wreck Sixer, so that was a win. “According to my research,” Ford continued, “the entire valley of Gravity Falls was formed when an extraterrestrial object crashlanded here millions of years ago.”

“Not Paul Bunyan, then.” Thinking about it, he should probably have known something like that was up. It did make a few things about the portal make more sense. “The wreck is still here, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question. “You’ve been there before, and that’s where we’re going now.”

“Indeed.” Ford put the keychain away and bent down to push at the rock he’d been sitting on. It slid a few feet to the side surprisingly easily, revealing a dirty metal surface underneath. “Sometimes the strangest things in the world are hidden right under our feet. Stand back.” He took out his magnet gun and aimed it at the metal, and the next moment a square slab of the stuff flew out of the ground and attached itself to the gun’s muzzle. Below was a dark shaft into the underground.

Stan was fascinated in spite of himself. Somewhere inside him a little boy was screaming excitedly about treasure hunting. Together with Ford, even. He swallowed.

“I used to raid this place for parts for years,” Ford was saying. “Some of the more exotic materials for the portal came from here, too.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Some of that shit just wasn’t in any literature I could get my hands on.” He was still staring down at the hole. “And your notes weren’t exactly complete, especially not when I only had that one journal.”

“You still figured it out, though. Frankly, Stanley, that’s amazing.”

The compliment caught him by surprise. “Meh,” he said, waving it away. “Took me long enough.”

There turned out to be a wire ladder made from perfectly normal aluminum already hanging from the edge of the shaft, making it possible to climb straight down into the darkness. Ford took the lead, claiming he’d been there countless times before, and besides, all the aliens had been dead for millions of years. He sounded a bit like he was trying to reassure himself, but it definitely made sense to Stan that there wouldn’t be any living aliens onboard a spaceship that crashed an eternity ago. Something else making their lair there, maybe – this was Gravity Falls – but probably not aliens.

Stan was glad he was more or less over his fear of heights, because as they climbed, the narrow shaft soon widened into a large chamber that made it extremely obvious how high above any kind of floor they were. The sunlight from the shaft caught the walls and pillars below and turned into an eerie glow, illuminating something that could almost have been a giant cavern. Stan only looked down once, then kept his eyes on the ladder until he could step out on the floor, but the sight that awaited him was more than worth it. Reflected pearlescent glow on gently curving walls and pillars faded into the distance. Cracks, rubble, stray roots and patches of half-dead moss littered the ruins between alien symbols and long-broken equipment. The air was chilly, but felt strangely clean. It was the kind of sight people would pay a fortune to see.

“Whoa.” Stan’s voice echoed slightly in the large space. He glanced at Ford, and said, straight-faced, “This is the greatest thing I ever saw, and I once saw a gnome bathing in squirrels.”

As he’d hoped, Ford cracked up. His face split into a grin that he was obviously trying to suppress, head bowed and shoulders shaking in muffled laughter. “What’s wrong with you?”

Stan couldn’t help himself. “Bad genes, I suppose.”

“You—” Ford took a deep breath and rubbed his temples. “This is serious, Stanley!”

“I know.” Stan shrugged. “Let’s go get your glue.”

“This way.”

Ford led the way through the big chamber, past piles of rubble and patches of pale grass – hard to tell if it was normal plants taken root down here or alien ones. The faint patch of sky from the shaft above gave a surprising amount of light, almost like the gleaming walls and pillars were made to reflect back as much light as possible. That had to be marketable.

“Fiddleford and I used to come down here all the time, studying their technology and language,” Ford said, an odd wistful tone in his voice. “I haven’t been here since before—before he left. A couple of months, give or take thirty years.” He sighed softly and rubbed his own arms like he was cold. “It’s the kind of place that time doesn’t seem to touch.”

“Fiddleford,” Stan repeated. “Fiddleford McGucket.” Dipper had mentioned it earlier, but it was still hard to imagine that the crazy old man had once been a genius on par with Ford. Weirder things had happened, though. “He was really your assistant?”

“Yes, and my friend. We met in collage.” Ford kept going for a few more steps, then stopped. “Did you know him at all? Did he ever talk to you?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘talk’,” Stan dodged. It had very seldom been a coherent conversation, after all. Thinking back, though – “The first time I met him he ran from me screaming. That might have been a clue that you didn’t really part on the best of terms.”

“No, we didn’t.” Ford looked down at his feet. “Never mind. Of course he would have avoided you.” He kept walking, and Stan followed in silence.

Would’ve been nice if he’d known about McGucket sooner – if he’d worked on building the portal originally he might even have been able to help repair it. But hey, it would have been too much to ask for Ford to mention his friend’s name in his notes. He’d have to tell Ford at some point, but right now did not feel like the time to say ‘by the way, the guy’s completely insane, lives in the dump, and doesn’t remember you at all’.

Suddenly Ford halted by a precipice – the floor simply stopped with no warning and gave way to a pitch-black chasm. It didn’t seem like it was broken or anything either, more like the aliens just decided to have a hole there for some alien reason. It was empty except for a smooth round pillar, going straight down into the darkness some four or five feet from the edge.

“We’re going down there?” Stan asked, pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Yes,” Ford confirmed. He was standing on the edge, one moment of lost balance away from falling to his death, which was a bit unnerving. He also seemed to seriously consider jumping, too, at least if the way he looked at the pillar in the gaping hole meant anything. Stan resisted the urge to drag him away immediately, but stayed close just in case. “This used to be some form of elevator shaft to the next level of the alien craft,” Ford explained. “The mechanism is long defunct, but there is no staircase route, so this is where we’re descending.”

“How?”

Ford looked at the magnet gun in his hand, which seemed to be trembling very slightly. “Normally I would simply jump over to the pillar and attach the magnet gun to it, holding on and allowing gravity to pull me down at a convenient speed.” Stan shuddered – there was absolutely no way he himself was doing that, fear of heights mostly cured or not, and it sounded like it could go wrong in a thousand ways for Ford, too. He was not recovered from all the shit he’d put his body through.

For once, Ford seemed to have realized that on his own. “However,” he continued, “after the minor incident on the way here, I’m no longer certain I can trust my body to hold up to that kind of stress. An accident at this point would spell disaster.”

“Yeah, I’d say.” Stan paused, since Ford still didn’t move from the edge. “Look, I really hope you’re gonna say you have an alternative.”

“Yes! Of course!” Ford nodded, hesitation gone, and finally turned to walk along the edge to their right. “Fiddleford insisted on installing a ladder here as well, just like at the entrance,” he explained, pointing at the start of another wire ladder attached to the edge close to a solid block of ancient alien who-knows-what.

Stan slapped a hand on his face. “If you had a ladder here all along, why didn’t you just say so?”

“I just did.” Ford raised his chin. “It’s not my preferred method of descent, but it will have to do.” He hurried down the ladder before Stan could argue the point. “Come on.”

The light from above didn’t reach the lower level of the spaceship, but Ford brandished a flashlight that reflected on the walls in a similar way, giving more than enough light to see their surroundings. Ford seemed to know his way around, but Stan couldn’t help dragging his feet, trying to take it all in. The urge to go back here at some point and collect as much sellable loot as was humanly possible was only increasing. There was the skeletal remains of an actual alien still slumped near a control board. Anyone would have a field day with that.

Anyone except Ford, apparently.

“So,” Stan said slowly as they walked. “I’m pretty sure this place’d be a giant breakthrough in at least a dozen academic fields. You never thought of releasing the news to the world? Becoming rich and famous?”

Ford looked back at him, a strange glint in his eyes. “No,” he said. “By the time I first found this, I was already working with Bill.” He turned away again. “The portal was the priority at that point. Nothing else seemed to—Everything else seemed insignificant compared to what he claimed the portal would do.”

“Hm. Infinite alternate universes, right?”

“Yes. Let me make this clear though – it did not lead to anything of the sort.”

Stan swallowed, feeling an accusation in those words. “Well,” he said, “the alien spaceship is still here, and no one has published it yet. It’s not too late, ya know. You could change the world with this.”

For some reason, Ford flinched visibly at that. “Perhaps,” was all he said, not sounding convinced at all.

There seemed to be nothing more to say, so for a couple of minutes the only sound to be heard was two sets of softly echoing footsteps. Eventually they reached a dead end.

“Is this a door of some kind?” Stan guessed.

“Yes, it is.” Ford pointed the magnet gun to a spot on the ceiling, causing a small lever to pull downward. At the same time, the wall before them split neatly in half, leaving a gap of less than an inch in the middle. Ford grabbed the left edge and pulled to the side, slowly widening the opening until Stan took the other side and pulled the whole thing open in one go. Muscles, he still had them.

Ford gave him a nod of acknowledgement, then carefully stepped inside. “This is the storage facility,” he explained. “Now all we have to do is find the adhesive. I believe I know where it is.” His eyes flicked nervously around the room as if half expecting an ambush, though Stan couldn’t make out either movements or sounds other than their own.

He wasn’t sure exactly what they were looking for in here, but there was a bunch of small, flat six-sided boxes scattered in heaps on the floor. All of them were the same size and shape, and any one of them could contain anything. Actually, any one of them would probably count as treasure if you looked a little closer. The thought was inspiring; pocketing a few random ones was more or less a reflex.

Ford had quickly found his way to a curved nook in the wall lined with some kind of control panels, whatever a cargo hold would use control panels for. He’d put the flashlight aside, relying on the reflected light from the walls, and was working on taking out even more of the six-sided boxes from an opening under the controls, frowning at them one at the time.

“Any idea what these are for?” Stan asked, tapping something that might have been a dead monitor screen.

Ford grunted, still going through the boxes. “I believe these compartments were meant to be a secure storage space for extra valuable or volatile substances, though many of them were broken and tossed around during the crash.” He scowled at a container as if the design on it had insulted him. “The rest are the security systems, of course.”

“Of course.” Stan idly flicked a switch back and forth. “Wait, security systems?”

“Yes, the cargo would have been heavily guarded back when the vessel was up and running.” Ford glanced at Stan and added: “Don’t worry, though. Everything’s defunct by now. Most of it has been busted for millions of years.”

“Geez, way to give me a heart attack.” Stan snickered and rummaged through a few more of the little boxes in the heap closest to the panel, not getting any wiser about what was in them. “Hey, wanna tell me exactly what it is I’m supposed to be looking for, here?”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Ford showed him the nearest box. “They’re marked with these symbols, see. The symbol for the adhesive is two concentric circles flanked by two smaller circles on opposite sides, each connected to the larger circle with a straight line.” He sketched the design over the unrelated box with a finger. “It’s still unknown what the alien thought process behind the symbol was, but like a lot of their symbology, it’s easy to remember memetically! If you imagine the center as—”

Stan was viscerally reminded again that Ford was there. Not dead, not a fever dream, but right in front of him and nerding out about some alien weirdness. Still young, like the past thirty years had been nothing but a nightmare. It hadn’t sunk in yet, if it ever would. It was over, and Ford was there.

“I thought it would be right here, though,” Ford continued, a stressed edge to his voice. “The other one we found was in this very unit.” He made a frustrated grimace. “If it’s not here, this might take longer than I hoped. It could be anywhere.” He waved his arm around the room.

“You sure there’s more of it at all?” Stan couldn’t help asking. Could it be that they were down here for nothing?

“There has to be!” Ford slammed the container he was holding down on the control panel.

“What happened to the last one, anyway?”

“It was almost empty to begin with. We wasted it on useless experiments, and now that I need it, there isn’t any more?” He leaned on the panels, looking down at his hands with a frustrated grimace.

“Hey, I was just asking. Don’t give up yet. Like you said, it might take some time to look though this mess, but that’s why you brought backup, am I right?” He gave Ford a pat on the back, earning him an unreadable glare.

“You’re right. I’ll go through this pile, you start over there,” Ford directed with a gesture.

Stan sat down on the floor by the pile and started shuffling the boxes like bricks. All of the designs included circles, stupidly similar, but he’d find the one Ford had described if he put his mind to it. It couldn’t be harder than—

Ford must have heard something before Stan did. Stan’s first indication that something was wrong was Ford spinning around, back stiff and ramrod straight, staring into the darkness on the far end of the area.

For a moment there was nothing there, but then it was like a light switch was turned on. The walls didn’t just reflect the one flashlight any longer, but there was some kind of light source in the distance, bouncing off the walls and making the whole place look like the electricity bills had not been neglected for the past million years.

Two giant, floating bubbles were approaching.

In hindsight, Stan should probably not have been surprised. Then again, long-dead alien security systems had been pretty far down the list of credible threats. A stray dragon finding its way down here and hoarding the six-sided treasure boxes, or a herd of manotaurs picking the place for their man-cave – sure. But million-year-old automated systems? It was like someone who died before humanity was a thing was deliberately trying to call him out for being a burglar. He decided he hated those aliens.

“Damn,” Ford said quietly from a few feet away, clearly on the verge of hyperventilating. “It’s—it’s okay. Stay calm. They’re not with Bill. They’re just security droids. They won’t even touch us unless we—” He broke off, raising his magnet gun in a tightly clenched, trembling fist.

“You’ve met these before?” Stan got to his feet and took a protective step closer to Ford.

“Yes, once! I thought it was the last one! They work by detecting fear, so all we have to do is—all we have to do is not to—” He was struggling with himself, breathing too fast and shallow again. “Shit.”

One of the bubbles extended a small brick-like piece in Ford’s direction, and Stan had seen guns ready to fire before. He reacted on instinct, without thinking, throwing himself at Ford.

#gravity falls #fanfic #it writes #30 seconds later #stanford pines #stanley pines #in which the stans spend some time together

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shootingstarcipher-blog · 7 years

Text

Like Mad (Chapter One: Break Me)

That noise… A blaring siren that attacked his senses every goddamn morning, always with the same result – a unbearable feeling of grogginess and a throbbing headache that made him wish more than ever for his life in there to end. And sometimes, on particularly bad days, he wished his life would end altogether. This was to be expected from most individuals in his position but for Dipper Pines it was a completely foreign experience, at least until those particularly bad days stopped cropping up once or twice a month and started to take over his life entirely. Now every day was a particularly bad day.

And those particularly bad days had gotten even worse over the last few weeks. Now that his sister was no longer visiting him every day like she used to – he knew it was because of school work and not because she’d stopped caring about him, but the idea that they were growing apart was too compelling to ignore – loneliness and isolation were well on their way to consuming him. It was no surprise that his dreams were plagued with the demons of his past, taunting him, reminding him they would always be there. In his mind, they were all he really had.

Nobody believed a word of what he said. There were no such things as demons, they told him. There were no such things as ghosts or monsters either, or journals that told of the details of those mystical beings. It was all just a story. It was all in his head. And his head felt as though it were about to explode.

The siren didn’t help.

His eyes were practically glued shut and every muscle in his weak, slender body insisted on him refusing to get up. He did as they instructed until another command came along, this time in the form of a pair of iron fists banging against the metal door beside him. At this point he yawned, forced his eyes to peel themselves open, and stood, leaving the intolerably uncomfortable bed behind and stepping onto the even harder, even less comfortable floor. As per usual, a hatch opened at the bottom of the door and a voice called out to him, though he never did manage to catch what it was saying. Then, at his feet appeared a bowl of grey, ambiguous sludge that didn’t smell as putrid as it looked but certainly wasn’t pleasant. Breakfast. He sniffed at it and then gulped. The hatch swung shut with an almost silent clang.

During the first few months of his time there he had eaten every last mouthful of whatever food the nurses put in front of him, simply out of hunger and fear of what would happen should he ever refuse. Now he just poured it out behind his bed (making sure to save a small amount to purposely spill down the front of his clothes so as to continue the façade that he was eating it all) and cleaned it up when he was next given the chance.

That day, the chance never arose.

He would usually be let out of his room at some point during the afternoon to allow him to socialise with the other patients for a short while, though he hadn’t bothered to use that time for what it was meant for in over a year. But on that day, the monster no-one would believe existed came back to haunt him before he had even had the chance to croak out a word to one of the other patients.

He sat there in the corner of his room for hours, his usual morning routine automatically sending him into a series of virtually comatose episodes of crying and occasional screaming – the type of emotional outbursts nobody who had only known him before his incarceration would have expected from him. Only Mabel had witnessed him like this. Bloodshot eyes, reddened cheeks, tear-stained skin and hair that was halfway to be being pulled out by his fists. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t him; well, it wasn’t the old him.

This was what Gravity Falls had turned him into. This was what Bill Cipher had turned him into. And worst of all, this was what his own family had turned him into.

Paranoia thrived within him and each night the ghosts of his past materialised as his nightmares, resurrecting themselves with every waking moment of his life. He lived in fear of the darkness that crept up the padded walls of his cell and into his mind, creating the nightmares he so desperately wanted to erase.

He scratched hard at the back of his head, frantically trying to burrow his way into his brain. Maybe, if only he could find a way to reach it, he could remove those memories from within him once and for all. If only. If logic hadn’t deserted him a long time ago, then the voice of reason would have told him how absurd he was being. But it had and so the voice of reason fell deaf on his ears.

When he eventually opened his eyes after squeezing them shut for nearly an hour, he caught sight of his one and only possession staring at him from across the room. On top of his small, much too firm bed, was a journal: Journal 3 – the very same journal that had got him locked up there in the first place, the one they had been unable to prize away from him since he’d recovered it from its hiding place.

Moving at a speed faster than he’d imagined himself able to achieve, he scrambled across the floor on his hands and knees and snatched the book from its place on the bed, hurling it across the floor in a sudden eruption of hatred and frustration. And which page should it fall open to as it landed, but the one he despised the very most? The one which tormented him in his dreams and taunted him in his waking life?

He scowled at it in derision, glaring with more callousness than a more innocent version of him would have thought possible. The image in the book stared back – ominous, unblinking and worst of all, mocking.

And then, it stopped staring. It blinked.

Colour flooded the image, the off-white triangle becoming completely golden within seconds. But the reddened cover of the book turned to grey, indicating the reality of Dipper’s greatest fear. Bill Cipher was returning.

“Only with your help, Pine Tree.” There it was. That disdainful, sadistic laughter. He never had been able to stand it. And that nickname, too, made his stomach churn. “That’s just the butterflies, kid. Don’t worry about it.” Dipper did nothing but blink, his gaze remaining fixed on the page the book had fallen open to.

“Why are you here?” he choked out eventually, gaze gradually lifting to meet with the demon’s scrutinising eye. He didn’t trust Bill one bit and never had – save for the time he had foolishly allowed himself to fall for one of the monster’s tricks. Bill’s proposals were always bad news and he doubted that he’d come from another universe just to exchange supposed pleasantries with him.

Apparently, he was right. “You got me there, kiddo,” the demon grinned with another blink (or wink, as it was difficult to tell with beings which only had one eye to call their own). “I didn’t come here just for a chat, although you are my favourite little mortal… You know that, don’t you?” He didn’t, but Bill didn’t pause long enough for Dipper to even think up an answer. “You don’t belong here,” he suddenly blurted out, making the mortal question the demons intentions yet again.

Dipper shook his head but stayed silent, eyeing the demon in suspicion. But you do, he answered inside his head, momentarily unaware of the monster’s ability to access his most private thoughts. And true to his strange, chaotic nature, Bill seemed to find an unsettling solace in the human’s unspoken words.

“Thank you,” he said as his eye squinted into a wide, disconcerting grin. It sounded so genuine that Dipper struggled to believe he had really said it. “And as for why I’m here… You don’t belong here, and I don’t belong where your uncle sent me. That place…” he trailed off and shuddered, though Dipper assumed it was more of a theatrical shudder than an expression of sincere distress. “I can get you out of here, kid.” He lowered his voice, floating closer to the mortal so that Dipper was forced to shuffle backwards and press himself up against the wall to avoid him.

After just a moment, things became clear. Making a deal with Bill Cipher was never a smart choice because they never really benefit whoever was agreeing to demon’s terms but, that being said, this time it seemed like Dipper really couldn’t lose. “Where would you take me?” he asked cautiously, wary of the demon’s aptitude for playing (and winning) the most sinister mind games. He would of course have preferred to be anywhere but the hospital he was confined to, but making a deal with a monster he had already learned first-hand not to trust seemed irresponsible. Still, they all thought he was crazy already. Why not play along?

“I like the wat you think.” A blush crept onto Dipper’s face as his cheeks turned a bright shade of pink. Compliments weren’t something he was used to hearing and so even one from a trickster like Bill Cipher was enough to create an aura of happiness and pride that had simply been absent for over a year. “Somewhere you feel at home,” Bill went on, elaborating on the terms of his proposal. “Not here, that’s for sure. Now, you know the drill, Pine Tree. All you have to do is shake my hand” – he held out his hand (a bit too close for Dipper’s comfort) and a small blue flame appeared above his palm – “and then you’ll have what you want and so will I. Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”

“And what exactly do you want?” Dipper growled in response, his teeth gritted and his hands coiled into fists.

“Just… a body.” Dipper raised an eyebrow; of course that was what he wanted. “Temporarily. I’ll give it back to you after twenty-four hours.”

Less than a minute later, Dipper swore he felt himself break.

#billdip #fanfiction #gravity falls #bill cipher #dipper pines

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