Chapter Text
Everyone waits with baited breath, watching to see if their last ditch effort and the horrible sacrifice it had entailed was made in vain.
A great groaning noise, deep and echoey like that of a cavern beginning to collapse on itself can be heard. Alarmingly, it seems to be coming from all directions at once; though faint at first it grows louder by the second. The sound of stones grinding against one another joins it, accompanied by a cacophony of distant shattering and crashing.
Mortar from between the bricks that compose the floor begin to wriggle like a liquid disturbed, undulating by the force from faraway shockwaves. The movement sends some particulates flying. Instead of falling back down they float aloft like dust motes, shining in the red beams of skylight that poke through triangular glass windows.
The ground rumbles fiercely.
The mortar’s dancing becomes so tumultuous that the material begins to escape from its confines entirely. Ribbons of the stuff begin to snake upwards, twisting towards-
The Rift.
The Rift which is now visible due to the fact that the ceiling has disassembled itself brick by brick. Each piece swimming in spirals, caught up in an invisible cyclone, being pulled up into the giant ‘X’ which mars the sky. The bricks beneath their feet are evidently soon to follow.
It's chaos all around them as objects both strange and mundane sluggishly levitate towards the hungry Rift. Vases, debris, columns, ornate doorknobs, rugs, paintings, books, bowls of time punch, fire stokers, chains with cuffs, streamers and party hats, disembodied tentacles and tails, objects that should theoretically only be able to exist in the fourth dimension, loose obsidian stones, red plastic cups, and candles all looming in the air which is streaked by streams of mortar and shards of broken red glass which flow like veins. A glance through one of the multitudinous holes in the walls shows that all of what has borne of the nightmare realm is returning from where it came. Shimmering rivulets of popped bubbles of pure chaos that once infested the skyline can now be seen in shreds which slither back into the Rift from afar, streaking across the dark, sanguine sky like comets.
Stanley Pines, though still out cold and still as a ragdoll, suddenly moves. An intangible force tugs him upwards, almost seeming to pull him up by the scruff of his neck. His legs unfurl as his body gently rises. When he fully straightens out it leaves him hanging limply in the air like a hanged man, head lolling off to the side, only the toes of his brother's muddy boots still scraping the ground. It makes for quite the macabre sight.
The screams of anguished aliens can be heard as they are torn from their promised land and hurled back into their dying dimension. Monsters, demons, and nightmares incarnate alike are vacuumed up remorselessly, despite any of their protestations or valiant efforts to cling to their unending party.
With them, one lone human drifts up. Borrowed trench coat billowing in the psychic breeze. As he is swallowed by the closing Rift, his family safely flits down back to a healed earth.
✶
It doesn't make any sense. That doesn't stop Ford from thinking up a thousand and one theories as to why his brother had been stolen from him- most of which crumble under the slightest amount of critical pressure. His failure only spurs him on further. Assuredly, this is not a question that will stay unsolved for much longer.
Every single citizen of the town and denizen of the forest had been accounted for in the week since Weirdmageddon ended except for one obvious outlier. But why? Clearly it had something to do with Bill having died inside Stan's head, but knowing that hardly clarifies any of the finer details. Substantial details if one was looking to save Stan. It stands to reason that Weirdmageddon wouldn't have ended the way it had until Bill was fully dead. By the time the rift had begun to invert, he couldn't have existed anymore and therefore wouldn't have been in Stan's head anymore, so it can't have been Bill being pulled back and happening to drag Stan with him. And anyhow, Ford is certain that if Bill was somehow still alive in there, hanging on by a thread, he would have just been pulled out, leaving Stan behind. If it was caused by Bill having ever been in his head, then Ford and Dipper would have surely been pulled up too. Did Bill realize what was going to happen to him, and do something to Stan with the last of his withering power as recompense? The thought is terrifying to Ford, and if this is the case then it's entirely possible that being dragged into the rift could be only the beginning of Stan's problems. God knows what else Bill had managed to curse him with before kicking the bucket.
He had (mostly unwillingly- paranoia will do that to a person) considered the possibility that this scenario was an elaborate dream or holographic world in which he'd been immersed, just other round of torture. At times he feels almost certain that at any moment he'd wake up to Bill's wicked taunting… ‘So, IQ, ready to give up that equation yet? I’ve got more bad dreams where that came from if not! It can still get a lot worse from here, Sixer!’ At these times he tends to remind himself firstly that if there's any chance that this dilemma IS real, it is crucial that he wastes none of his precious time fretting over ‘what-ifs’ when he could be working on saving his brother. As such it's horribly frustrating to him when he finds himself as he does now- curled up over the toilet, heaving, gasping for air, sick with nerves, imagining that not only is the world still at risk of ending, but he's the only thing standing between Bill and the rest of this dimension. It's entirely possible that in resolving to not give up the equation Ford had doomed himself to an eternity of unfathomable torture.
Refocusing on his intellect, he once again runs through the list of logical reasons that the reality he’s living is probably real. Ford can rule out the possibility of being in a dream by doing a few simple checks. These include testing the palpability of physical sensations which would be dullened even in the most vivid of dreams, trying to manipulate his mindscape (which he would be able to do effortlessly in any dream as soon as he was aware that he was in one), or even simply counting his fingers or reading an analog clock. It also stands to reason that Bill wouldn't be able to manipulate his mindscape to this great an extent anyhow- he only has extremely limited access to Ford's mind due to his metal plate implant. If this weren't the case then there would be no reason for Bill to be torturing information out of him in the first place. On top of that, Ford notes that even within the context of deliberate deception for the purpose of torture, Bill’s ego is too inflated to craft even the illusion of defeat, especially one including his own death by the hands of piddly human Stanley Pines. It’s not impossible- but highly uncharacteristic, not as much a solid piece of evidence, but still one worth considering. Ford has also generally taken to thoroughly scrutinizing the world around him and its inhabitants for any ‘wrongness’ or incongruence with his memory or the way things reasonably should be, as it is possible that he is awake but within an elaborately crafted facsimile of the town. Bill did -or does?- have complete control over space, time and matter, so it’s not such a farfetched idea that he’d be able to stick Ford in a torture dollhouse. But would Bill, Godlike as he is, truly be able to recreate his world and its people to this degree of accuracy? Being all-seeing has never precluded him from being quite out of touch with humanity in the past. The ‘spelling out his name in dead rats as a birthday present’ incident comes to mind.
That being considered, talking to his dear sweet niece and nephew has served to be quite grounding for him. But It’s so hard to go upstairs to interact with anyone anymore when all they want to do is mourn. They’re up there planning a funeral for fuck’s sake. He’s been forced to make himself scarce after it started being discussed openly around the house. He’d made a nasty hole in the kitchen drywall when the children and Soos had initially brought up the topic directly to him. They’d asked Ford what Stan would've wanted. Ford had said that Stan probably wants them not to give up on him so quickly… in more words than that. Regretfully he’d used some considerably more profane language to say that… in front of the children, which he felt quite guilty for. But it had made him so sick, the way they were talking about Stan like he was dead. If he was dead, Ford surely would have known, it would have killed him too.
Ford has been tumbling through quite a broad, and frankly agonizing range of emotions since his brother was torn from the world where he belongs. Grief is pointedly not one of them, and he truly resents all the mourning happening around here as if Stan is dead. As if Ford is wasting his time working to get him back. As if he’s incapable of saving Stan. But he’ll show all these faithless soon enough, it won't be long at all until his brother is home with them.
‘It probably wouldn't have taken this long in the first place if you could just get it together instead of floundering around like some pathetic troglodyte’ Ford thinks to himself, forehead resting on the porcelain toilet seat. A memory hits him out of nowhere, the ghost of a hand firmly rubbing comforting circles on his back once before when he'd been sick with nerves. They were in high school, Ford had been so focused on nailing his accelerated chemistry classes upcoming final, feeling like he’d had to study like a madman to really cover all his bases. He knew his teacher was going to try and throw him a curveball, she didn’t like him and consequently was always trying to take him down a peg. Pa would be furious if he brought home another B… or worse! And such a bad grade would surely mar his record- what would a college recruiter think?
“There, there Sixer… What tha' hell's got ya so nervous bro?”
“Hey Ford, I made you some grub, but you can only have the jellybeans if you promise to take a damn nap. Don't make me haveta’ sit on you again. Those bags under your eyes are so dark it looks like Crampelter gave you a nice pair o’ shiners. Wait- He didn't, right? Cus’ if he did I’ll go track him down and give ‘im three! Wait- two for now and then I’ll give ‘im a third when he least expects it. Ha!”
“Sixer- you’re gonna ace this test. You’ve been doin’ advanced nerd shit like this since we were like, seven. Let’s go hangout at the boat or mess with some tourists or somethin’...”
“Finally! After all these long years of waiting, you’re finally here! Brother!”
CRACK
Ford hits his brother with a solid right cross to the jaw smacks his forehead on the toilet seat hard. That’s enough ruminating for one day. Or week. He’s allotted himself more self pity in one day than he can afford in a month. Truly, it's irresponsible for him to be letting himself sulk for even a moment.
“Grunkle Ford? Was that you in there?” The bright voice of his Great niece chimes from the other side of the bathroom door, startling him only slightly.
“Yes, my dear, give me a moment.” He croaks, clearing his throat when he realizes how gravelly his voice is. How much like Stan he sounds. Pushing himself up on his knees, Ford stands and turns towards the sink to rinse his face off with cold water and spit the dregs of bile from his mouth before he leaves the bathroom to face Mabel. He opens the door to find the concerned girl, looking more tired than her years and as if she hasn't been taking much care of herself. Ford would be a hypocrite to mention it.
“Sorry to bother you Grunkle Ford.… But me and Dipper found something in the woods you might wanna see.”
✶
The children had led Ford to the alarming anomaly they had seen, each kid holding on to one of their Grunkle’s hands. Mabel was quietly surprised to see her brother deign to indulge in something as ‘childish’ as holding an adult's hand, but she supposes that after all that's happened even he'd be hard pressed to reject any sort of comforting gesture. They all would be.
They didn't have to walk far to get to it, and once they did there was no need to point it out. The crackling blue fissure which was suspended in the air resembled nothing of this Earth. The thing seemed like a flat object until one moved around it and could make out the depth that it held. The tear only occupied a paper thin amount of space, and yet seemed to contain an endlessly deep field of iridescent miasma inside. Its form buzzed with energy which seemed to build until it would snap into a different jagged, lightning-bolt like shape, white sparks jumping off of its frazzled edges as it did.
A wide smile spread across Ford's face as soon as he saw it, squeezing both of the children's hands which were held in his own.
“My stars-” Ford breathes out, marveling at the sight before him.
“What is it, Great uncle Ford? Should we be worried?” Dipper asks, anxiety making him sound small.
“It's a rift, my boy! A tear in the fabric of reality, allowing for the connection between one dimension and another! These things don't occur naturally in this dimension, but can be quite common within others- it all depends on stability. This one must be a residual product of Weirdmageddon. I became quite familiar with these puppies during my time spent dimension hopping, in fact I wouldn't have gotten very far at all without them. This thing is a veritable gateway to the multiverse at large! It's much like my portal, except completely unstable, uncontrollable, and unpredictable. I've dove headfirst into more of these than you can imagine, not at all knowing where I would've ended up.” Ford explains in a strangely chipper tone, truly smiling for the first time since before Stan had been taken. The sudden shift in his mood is so jarring it seems uncanny to the children.
Dipper makes a scrunched up face at his uncle's words, evidently irked by Ford's past flippantness in blindly jumping into what very well may have been his death, and apparently frequently. Dipper from a week ago would've been starry eyed and eager to supplicate his uncle for more details on his epic rift hopping escapades. Now though, that curious spark was completely snuffed out. Having learned from experience that his uncle is not as invincible as he had seemed to be before, Dipper is much less keen on hearing of his daring and perilous adventures. In fact, thinking about the multiverse at all made his stomach turn, as the train of thought naturally lends itself to wondering about what horrors both his uncles had faced. It made him imagine what Ford might not have survived. And then he'd wonder about what Stan might have gone through when he floated off. He might have woken up alone and scared and confused, his mind already totally blown to bits by the memory gun only to be immediately exposed to the horrors of the nightmare realm, likely rending it ineffably further. Dipper tries very hard not to think about this. He hopes deeply and futilely that his uncle had passed quickly. That thought subsequently fills him with enough guilt to make a person retch.
“So… how do we get rid of it, Grunkle Ford? It can't be safe to leave it here, right?” Mabel asks, not wanting anyone else falling in and meeting the same fate as her Grunkle.
“Close it? Mabel, my dear, we can't close it! This is just the opportunity I've been vying for all week! This is- and as a man of science I do hesitate to use such language, but I must call it what it is- a miracle!” Ford replies, laughing as he does.
“And… why's that?” she says, worry more than curiosity coloring her uncharacteristically flat tone.
“This is a gateway to the multiverse, therefore it's also a gateway to finding Stan!” Ford states triumphantly, “I'd been worried I would have to rebuild that entire blasted portal… but no- this is perfect!”
The twins make eye contact, their expressions mirrored with furrowed trepidation. The look they give communicates the same thought two ways, it's heard loud and clear by both parties.
‘We can't lose him too.’
“Children-” Ford begins, startling the kids out of their silent conversation, “-We must return home post haste! I need to begin recalculating my approach based on this new revelation. I must ask- or rather demand that you do not return here and that you inform me immediately should you find anything else like this. Do you understand?” Ford lowers himself to kneel in front of the kids while he speaks, placing one firm and wide palm on each of their shoulders as he makes unflinchingly firm eye contact with them both. The twins glance at each other one more time before they nod in unison.
“Good!” Ford chirps with a smile, rising to his feet and offering his hands to both of the children, “That being said and done, shall we?”
✶
Before the sun set that day Stanford had returned to the rogue rift to cordon off the vicinity using yellow police tape, (Stan had some for Halloween decorations… probably. He'd somehow managed to snag a roll of the real stuff at some point. Not really surprising at all.) several magical barriers and wards, and an abundance of animal repellent which all together should do well enough at keeping anything away from the thing in the short term. Ford is determined to work quickly, having no way of knowing when the rift might randomly collapse in on itself and disappear. Luckily for the sake of his ambitions, the hope that came with this discovery has reinvigorated him greatly. He's not sure if it's the excessive amount of coffee he's consumed, or the sickening mixture of tentative yet powerful hope and uncertainty tempesting in his gut, but he could swear his heart hasn't stopped thudding against his ribcage for hours, even as he works calmly at his desk, quietly writing in his journal as he works through his present dilemma.
Tracking down an entity in the multiverse at large is an easy feat (for Stanford) when you know their genome and dimensional signature. Luckily for Ford both of these are things he shares with his brother, being identical twins and all. One of his own hairs should suffice well enough to glean this information, and subsequently his location. All that's left for him to do is assemble a portable version of the needed tracking equipment (which Stan had used to find Ford), and he'd be damn near ready to jump back into the great beyond. Unfortunately, Ford won't be able to locate his brother until he passes through the rift into the greater multiverse, as the dimension he resides in now is too stable for his tracking technology to permeate its bounds without necessitating a quite frankly obscene amount of energy. There's also the troublesome matter of ensuring their safe passage home, something he'd been sure was impossible for him to do during his original thirty year stint in the wild infinite yonder. His current plan is to stabilize the already existing rift the children had discovered and simply return home the same way he left. But the task of stabilizing the rift was formidable, along with the fact that he still can't be sure where it will lead until he jumps through. He'd loathe to have to drag Stanley through some sort of highly volatile environment.
Ford was rapping his six fingers on the table, staring into the middle distance rather than the schematic for a rift stabilizer that was splayed out in front of him when a meek voice interrupted his reverie. He hadn't even heard anyone enter his study.
“Great Uncle Ford, you're coming to the wake, aren't you?”
Ford spins towards the unexpected voice to find his nephew wringing a handkerchief in his sweaty hands. He was dressed up in a little black suit and his hair was combed down neatly. Dipper startles a little at his uncle's sudden movements and the crazed look about him.
‘No,’ Stanford thinks, ‘I will not be attending a funeral for my living brother.’ The very idea of it makes his blood boil. In lieu of actually speaking, he stares at his nephew for a few long seconds, lips pursed into a thin line. Thinking.
Plotting.
“When's the last time you slept, Grunkle Ford?” Dipper asks when Ford doesn't say anything.
“Not since before you showed me that rift, my boy. I haven't had time after all… I've been quite busy… when was that… last evening, yes?”
“Ohmygosh, that was three days ago! The wake is in a few hours,” Dipper approaches Ford and places a hand on his forearm. “Please get some sleep and please… please come to the funeral. You'll regret it if you don't, I think. And… me and Mabel need you to be there.” Dipper looks at his uncle with glassy red eyes as he pleads with him. Ford stares back blankly, eyes equally if not more bloodshot and shadowed with bags so heavy one would think they were painted on.
“And what time would that be at, my boy?” Ford asks in a cold tone of voice.
“Eight o’clock. It's eleven-thirty now.”
“I'll be ready by then,” The ghost of a smile plays on Ford's lips, his nephew doesn't pick up on it. “In a situation like this, I'd like to try and do what I'd imagine Stanley wants, yes? He'll hate for me to miss this.”
What would Stanley want?