Chapter Text
Stan’s fingers tapped nervously on the wheel as he drove. If that gas station attendant was right, he should be within 30 minutes of the town. If he wasn’t speeding, anyway. But since he was speeding, he didn’t know how soon he’d be there.
Before you say anything, he knew it was a bad idea to go speeding down unfamiliar country roads. Especially in a snowstorm. Especially in deer country. In his defense, though, you’d probably be rushing too. Getting contact from your twin you haven’t seen in ten years will do that to you. Especially when his usual smooth, precise handwriting is scribbled and frantic. Especially when the only words he writes are “Please come.”
So, Stan was speeding. On an unfamiliar country road. In a snowstorm. In deer country. He knew it was a bad idea, but he was doing it anyway. He didn’t have time to waste.
And then he saw the silhouette in the road. He didn’t have enough time to stop. He barely had the time to swerve and avoid hitting them dead-on. He clipped them with his bumper. He tried to stop the car, stop the slide on ice and snow, but the car kept going. It ended up buried in the drift on the side of the road with a whoomph.
Stan didn’t even turn off the car before he scrambled from his seat. He hurried through the snowfall towards the shape in the road. As he approached, he could make out more specifics about them. They wore a long white coat, which looked far too thin for the weather. Their long dirty blond hair hung over their face, hiding their expression. They only had one shoe. He didn’t see the other in the snow around them.
They were curled up, hands pressed tightly to their side. Something dark splattered their coat and fingers in uneven splotches. The large stain under their hands spread slowly as Stan approached.
He crouched over them, hands hovering nervously. “Hey man, are you okay? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-” As he spoke, he reached out to touch their shoulder.
The person lunged forward. Teeth clamped down on Stan’s hand. On instinct, he lashed out, punching the stranger in the temple. They lurched back, and Stan screamed as flesh went with them. He stumbled away, landing on his ass in the snow.
He clutched his bitten hand to his chest, staring at the stranger. They stared back. Dried blood trailed from their eyes and down their cheeks. Against the crisp white snow, it almost looked black. A dark bruise was already forming on their temple. Fresh crimson stained their lips.
Stan could feel blood seeping from his wound, soaking the fabric of his glove.
A dark tongue flicked out of the stranger’s mouth, cleaning Stan’s blood from their lips.
The instincts that slept in his chest kicked into action, and Stan bolted.
Stan had never been more thankful for his time on the streets. It had been awful; constant paranoia compounded by the fact sometimes the danger was real. But at least it had taught him how to run. The breath puffing from his mouth was smooth and even. His pace was steady.
Stan thought he heard a snarl behind him and had to remind himself not to look back. Stay focused, keep running.
On a good day, he could run for around two hours without a break.
Today wasn’t a good day. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday, he slept for maybe three hours last night, and he’d been driving non-stop for eight more. And then there was blood loss to consider. He didn’t have time to stop and care for his hand, so it would probably keep bleeding. At least his glove would mitigate it somewhat.
Then there was the storm. The snowfall made his steps slippery and slowed his pace, but it would at least cover his tracks.
All in all, his running time was at least halved.
He wasn’t sure how much farther the house was. He’d been speeding, and the storm meant he couldn’t see road signs. He didn’t know if he’d made it to Gravity Falls. He didn’t even know if Gopher Road was in town, or if it was on the outskirts somewhere.
His fingers were freezing. His heart pounded in his chest; the rapid ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum reminded him he was still alive.
He didn’t know how long he’d been running. He couldn’t hear anything behind him.
There was a turn-off up ahead. Covered over with snow, but empty of trees in that distinct way of a human-made path. He didn’t hesitate to take it. The thick drifts were unmarred by footsteps or tire tracks, so his dash turned into a slog. He glanced behind him. He couldn’t see anything move through the storm. He trudged onward.
He passed a mailbox, but its address was coated in white. He didn’t bother to check it. A house meant people, and people could get him to his brother’s place. He trudged forward. The only sound was the howl of the wind.
Now that he wasn’t running, the biting cold made itself known. It dug wet claws into his soaked boots, rubbed his frozen glove against his injury. He trudged onward.
He reached the end of the path. Through the drifting snow he could see a house looming, surrounded by a tall metal fence. Signs peppered the clearing, the words hard to make out through the weather. He squinted at one as he passed and hesitated.
“KEEP OUT” it read, in thick red strokes.
Was he more scared of being shot for trespassing, or of freezing to death?
He started moving forward again. At least if he got shot it’d be quick. Plus, you can reason with a guy holding a gun. You couldn’t say the same about the weather.
The huge metal gate opened easily when he nudged it. Its hinges didn’t even squeak.
He nudged the gate shut behind him. The click as it shut was quickly swallowed by the storm. He let out a sigh of relief. At least he was safe from the guy who bit him. He turned to face the cabin. It was covered thoroughly in snow, as though the homeowner hadn’t left since the snow started.
Stan noted, with a surge of nerves, that there wasn’t a car in the driveway. Well, there wasn’t really a driveway , either, but Stan couldn’t see a car anywhere around the house.
He could see smoke puffing out of the chimney, though. He hoped that meant they were home. Well, if they weren’t he could always break in. He remembered, with a surge of regret, his lockpicks were in his duffle bag. The bag safely in the trunk of his car.
If they weren’t home, he was out of luck, it seemed.
He started through the heavy snow towards the house. He thought he saw movement in a window, but when he looked up the curtains were drawn.
He trudged onward.
He hesitated for a moment at the base of the stairs.
“Last chance to back out.” Stan muttered, then sighed. “Like that was ever a possibility.”
His boots thudded on the wooden steps as he climbed onto the porch.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, but didn’t make contact before it creaked open. He couldn’t see anyone on the other side. He could see, however, the flash of light off something metal.
“Uh, hey.” Stan’s throat felt suddenly very dry. “I’m sorry for trespassing, I just-”
The door opened further. His own face peered out from the darkness.
Stanford looked terrible. His hair was ruffled and greasy, his chin was scruffy and unshaved, and even his eyebags had eyebags. His eyes were restless, scanning the snow outside. His glasses were off-kilter, as though Ford had been rubbing his eyes. The metal flash turned out to be the bolt of a crossbow, primed to fire and clutched in one tense hand.
“Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?” Ford’s voice was rusty and raw from exhaustion.
“Nice to see you too, pal.” Stan replied.
Ford's free hand shot out from the darkness and clamped down on Stan’s wrist. Stan bit back a shout of pain as Ford dragged him inside. Despite his current state, Ford’s grip was so tight Stan could feel his bones shift. The grip sent waves of agony through his injury.
When Ford released him, Stan clutched his hand to his chest. Ford had turned back to the door- locking it, Stan assumed. With Ford distracted, Stan turned his attention to his injury. He flexed his fingers, letting out a hiss of air through gritted teeth. Painful, so no nerve damage , Stan thought. No clicking or catching, so no broken bones.
He looked up from his inspection to see Ford staring at him. He’d set the crossbow down beside the door and taken a few steps towards Stan. “Are you okay?” Ford’s words were hesitant.
“Fine.” Stan replied. “I got hurt on the way here, is all.”
Ford seemed somehow to get even more tense. “How? Did someone attack you?”
“It’s fine, Poindexter.” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “Just get me your first aid kid and I’ll deal with it.”
Ford looked him up and down, then swept from the room, trench coat flaring dramatically behind him.
Stan barely held back another eyeroll. He sat on the ground and turned his attention to his glove. He carefully began to peel the fabric from his hand. The blood soaked into it had frozen in some places and dried in others, gluing the fabric to his skin. He moved slowly, especially around the actual wound.
When he’d finally gotten the glove removed, he stared down at his hand. His skin was stained dark red with blood. Some of his skin was missing where the stranger’s teeth had scraped it away. The wound bled freely into his lap, staining his pants with crimson.
The adrenaline had ebbed away, but Stan realized he could still feel his heart racing. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing.
In. Ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum. Out.
His fingers still felt frozen, despite the warmth of the house. Had his nails looked bluer than usual?
In. Ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum. Out.
His breaths were slow and steady, but his heart still pounded in his chest.
“Alright, Stanley. I got some supplies.”
Stan didn’t even jerk at Ford’s sudden return. His eyes drifted open, and it took several slow breaths before his gaze focused on his fingers. The edges of his nails were dusted with blue. “Hey, Sixer.” He said, smiling lazily. “I think I’m going into shock.”