Chapter Text
“Stanford, are you sure about this?” A man sat at a work desk, his gray face turned to a city skyline. In his hands sat a scientific marvel, something he knew would one day be recreated and used for good, for things that were never meant to happen, not so a bitter, selfish old man could make his one selfish dream come true.
He no longer looked like Stanley's spitting image, even after Fiddleford invented the cell destabilizer, there was no way for him to turn back the clock without physically going back in time. His eyes where foggy and his hair was stark gray against the blank night sky, his skin sagged with age, his glasses reflected the flare of light from a flying car as it passed by his window, the bright red paint painfully reminiscent of a car that he had ridden in countless times, the same car now sat in a museum, the keys safe under Stanford's bed.
“I have to see him again.” His voice was cracked and tired, every syllable breaking with heartache and fatigue. His assistant's mouth clicked closed.
Stanford Filbrick Pines, our generations Einstein and Nikola Tesla, the man that changed the world, would die tonight.
It had taken years of back breaking work and innovation to get to this point, papers and loose scraps littering the marble floor with lost leads and broken stepping stones, anything to get here, Stanford had done.
Paths were foraged, bridges were burned, deals were made and broken, all for this night to come to pass.
The man looked around his condo, he thought it was fitting for someone like him to be here, it looked like one of the superhero apartments that he and Stanley had seen in cartoons and comics when they were kids.
White walls that were shrouded in darkness with the night sky over them, covered on all sides with his accomplishments, millions donated to helping the homeless, Nobel awards for his research in weirdness and in his work in the medical field. He could probably turn on the light, or ask Fiddleford to do it but there was something about the view, watching the flying cars as they shot through the sky, stars he was too late to wish upon. Stanley would have liked it here, he would have supported Stanford until the bitter end.
Now with the tool on his desk, that dream just might come true,
“Are you sure you won't come with me?” Stanford stood up from his chair, sending a smile Fiddleford's way. “You always said you wanted to meet him.” His old collage buddy spared him a smile, but shook his head. His hair had gone stark white over the years, foggy blue eyes looked back at Stanford with the same love and admiration he'd had the day they met.
“Someone needs to stay here Stanford, no one will like that you left.” Stanford scoffed, walking around his desk, pocketing the tool and stopping in front of the window.
After the phone call, Stanford had thrown himself into his studies, focusing on making the world a better place, on making the kind of world that Stanley would have wanted to see, when nightmares of ocean depths and Stanley's cries kept him up, he spent the rest of the night finding the cure to cancer, when therapy ended in screaming matches, he’d turn his attention to world hunger. Now, the world he stood in was a utopia, and he stood above it all, the pillar on which everyone's happiness hinged on.
In his arms, Fiddleford held a thick journal, a six fingered hand sitting in its center, but it didn't have a number, simply a symbol that Stanford had once seen plastered on Filbrick's hat one time, Stanley always loved that hat. The journal held enough scientific innovation and instructions to keep this world as it was for generations to come. Fiddleford would be hailed as a hero who stepped up in the crisis of Stanford's passing. He would be okay.
At one point, he had almost convinced himself that one day, he would be content in this. He would look at the world and know that he changed it for the better. He would be able to look at the city skyline and feel accomplished, knowing that he had created a utopia, that no child went to bed hungry, that no one had to sleep on the streets no matter their circumstance.
Now he knew, without Stanley, the world was an empty husk, it didn't matter if no one had to sleep on the streets because Stanley never got that privilege, no child got beaten, but the bruises on his twins arms and legs remained fresh in Stanford's mind, everyone was happy, but Stanley still cried in Stanford's dreams. The dusty picture frame on his desk had never, and would never, be an acceptable substitute for the one person he'd needed to save, for the one person he had abandoned.
“Stanley needs to see this F.” Stanford knew the old nickname would get his old friend going, would likely make him burst into tears, but he needed to say it one last time, to the Fiddleford that had gotten him this far, to the Fiddleford that had coached him through his grief and success to the one that had stayed with him despite all his mistakes.
“Well, tell him I say hi won’cha?” Stanford gave Fiddleford a smile, nodding before reaching back into his pocket and pulling out the tool.
It looked like a tape measure, one arrow pointed back on the rim. He could have made a going forward button but there wouldn't have been a point, besides he needed some way to turn back his physical body. Heaven knows what Stanley would have done if he showed up to Stanford's house and saw him as he was now, old and gray, when he should have been in his thirties at most.
Stanford didn't look away from Fiddleford as he pulled out the tape of the tool, ten, twenty, thirty, forty… eighty
“Goodbye Fiddleford.”
“You'll be seeing me soon enough, Goodbye Stanford.”
Fiddleford tried keeping his eyes open, heavens he wanted to soak in the sight of Stanford one last time, but even with the advancements they’d made in orthopedic work, there was only so much light you could take.
One second, his best friend was standing in front of him, the next, he's blinking away spots in his eyes and he's staring at their shared apartment, alone. Only the sound of passing traffic and car horns to keep him company.
***
The tape snapped back into the tool, Stanford’s visabley softer hands allowed the machine to fall to the floor, before his boot came down on it. Small white sparks danced at his feet for a moment before disappearing.
Stanford leaned down and scooped up the remains of the machine. It was too dangerous to keep in one piece, even if he kept it with himself at all times, the idea of going back to undo a mistake was too tempting even for him. No matter what happens from here on out, if Stanley didn't make it home, he’d simply have to remake it, but if he kept it, he didn't trust himself to not use it to end petty arguments in his favor.
He was standing in his house, no longer the heart of a utopia, now a simple cabin in the woods. His long ended experiments sit undone on a large wooden table that he had long since sold to a man he’d seen with a large family. Now it sat in his cabin once more, maybe he would be able to find that man again.
Stanford shook his head, scrambling across the house to his bedroom, snatching the calendar from the wall, he stared for a moment with wide eyes. 1980 staring back at him in black and white.
Stanley was alive, he was on the streets and from what he saw at the funeral probably malnourished to high heaven, but he was alive. Fiddleford was probably out grocery shopping right now, but he wouldn't mind Stanley coming over to stay during the winter, telling Fiddleford about him would be awkward, of course, but it couldn't be more awkward than what happened in his timeline, explaining to his best friend through tears that the twin brother he never mentioned was now dead and he was going to be eating ice cream and watching soap operas for the foreseeable future.
Stanford sighed softly, slowly placing his calendar on the desk where he would normally put his glasses.
It was strange being thirty again after so long of being physically stuck at sixty, everything came through his ears crisp and clear, his eyes no longer had the technological advancements that he and Fiddleford had made for him, but they also went fuzzy, and the black spot to the left that he’d spent so long trying to get used to was gone.
Ford made a mental note not to look at the solar eclipse this time, if he managed to recreate the cell destabilizer again. He never could figure out how he made it work.
A long time ago, he had looked at this room for what he thought was going to be the last time, the day his lab was demolished to make room for his condo, everything had been cleared out so he wasn't losing anything important to him, but there had still been an underlying sadness, like he was losing something no matter what he did.
Now, he was in his room again, long before they had called the wrecking ball in, and that feeling still lingered in the back of his mind.
The universe was strange, he had done some test runs with the tape before this, going back a day and changing small things just to see what would happen. Small things seemed possible, but there were some fixed things that seemed bound to happen unless something else was exchanged, and there was no way of knowing what would be sacrificed until it was too late.
There was also the delay to some of these things, he could save Stanley from the car accident, only for his brother to be mauled to death by a gremloblin.
“Stanford, I got them thingamajigs for the portal!” Ford placed the calendar back where he’d grabbed it, clapping his hands together as he moved back through the house into the living room.
Fiddleford was there, the white in his hair gone, and his eyes as bright as day. He was standing in front of the table, grocery bags laden with food and some parts for the portal. The scene had happened forever ago, granted at the time Ford had been in the basement working on the finishing touches for the portal before they turned it on today. Fiddleford had simply run back to the alien spaceship to grab some last minute parts.
“Thank-you, Fiddleford!” Ford walked up to his friend, eyeing the machinery that now sat on the table next to a neat stack of refried beans, “but I’m afraid there has been a change of plans.”
Fiddleford seemed shocked that he was in his room. Stanford wasn't sure, but he may have been in the basement before Fiddleford left. Perhaps he’d caught himself post bathroom break or something.
“What kind'a change Ford?” Stanford clasped his hands behind his back as he looked anywhere but at Fiddleford, the jar of eyes they had collected a while back suddenly seeming far more interesting.
“I was in the basement, when I got to thinking about what you said in the diner yesterday…” Fiddleford perked up at that, “the portal has been consuming me inside and out, I’m surprised you were able to get me out of the house yesterday with how bad things have gotten.” His friend didn't say anything but Ford could feel the tension in the air, his palms becoming sweaty at his normally eccentric assistant’s silence. “What I’m trying to say here is, I think you should publish the paper, and I’ll continue my research on the oddities of gravity falls!.”
“What about the portal?” Fiddleford straightened up, hands coming up and tapping against each other softly, hope slowly echoing in his voice.
“Eh, I’m sure SOMEONE will get around to rebuilding it,” Ford waved dismissively “but for now I think it would be best to dismantle it and use the parts for some of the machines you were talking about making.” Fiddleford looked at Stanford like Christmas had just come early, which was ironic seeing as how Christmas was quite recent.
Ford felt his heart lurch in his chest, where had Stanley been this Christmas? Had he been cold, lost, alone?
“There's something else…” Stanford turned around to look at Fiddleford, his assistant straightened up, seeming to sense the shift in Stanford's mood. “I don't think we will be able to take apart the portal by ourselves and take care of the house at the same time.”
Fiddleford looked around, his eyes landing on the window to the back yard where some gnomes were getting into the trash, screeching at a raccoon that had been scavenging before swiping at it. The racoon landed on the ground before scattering underneath the house.
“Point taken,” Fiddleford shrugged and looked back up at Stanford, “What do you suggest we do?” Stanford wiped his palms off on his pants, they came back just as sweaty as they were before.
“I know a guy, I want him to live with us for the foreseeable future.” Fiddleford brought his hand up to rest on his chin, squinting as his foot tapped against the floor.
“Who?” Fiddleford brought his eyes back to Stanford, who sucked in a breath.
“My brother, Stanley.” Fiddleford brightened up at that, his hand dropping from his chin as his mouth split off into a small grin.
“I thought you two weren't speaking anymore.” Stanford felt his chest tighten with guilt, but he just shrugged.
“Mom wants me to keep an eye on him for a bit, at least until it starts warming up.” Stanford half lied, Mom had been practically begging him to check up on Stanley, she had also been the only other person at Stanley's funeral in his previous timeline that actually cared about the passing of his brother. Her eyes were dull and lifeless as his brother's withered body had been lowered into the ground.
She hadn't lasted long after seeing his brother like that, but she was alive now too, she would be happy if Stanford and Stanley made up in her lifetime.
“So, when is he getting here?” Stanford shook himself out of his thoughts, Fiddleford was looking at him expectantly.
“I haven't sent him anything yet, but I will be sending him a postcard.”
Now, sitting on his desk and looking at the same postcard he had sent Stanley in the previous lifetime, Stanford was less sure of what he would put on it. What were you supposed to say to the one person that you’d abandoned all those years ago? He could probably write a trilogy of apologies to Stanley, but that would mean nothing if he couldn't tell him in person, apologizing on paper felt cheap.
“Still looking at the postcard Stanford?” Fiddleford had changed into his pajamas, giving Stanford the same look he’d given him when he caught him pulling an all nighter for their finals. “What's your bother like anyway?”
“He’s… like me, but… strong?” Stanford tried pulling up his last memory of Stanley before he had called him in his last timeline. Anything came up fuzzy, anything but that unrelenting smile Stanley always gave him, that had never left his mind.
“If he’s anything like you, he would probably come over no matter what you put on that card.” Stanford nodded, Stanley would scramble at the first sign of contact from Stanford, didn't matter what he said, all he had to do was say hello, put his address on the postcard and Stanley would jump into action.
At the same time, the idea of his brother still scrambling for him felt wrong, not after all the revelations Stanford had had about their situation, not after the screaming match with Filbrick, or the nights on the phone with his mom sobbing for hours, not after the decades of guilt coming up his throat any time he accepted an award and saw an empty chair at the front row where he knew Stanley would have been.
He wanted Stanley to know that he was sorry, that he wanted to protect him as much as Stanley had protected Stanford when he’d needed it, but there was something in the back of his mind that told him that his brother wouldn't believe him.
“Please come.” Stanford felt tears appear at the corners of his eyes, desperation making his hands shake. He had to see him alive and breathing for him to believe it, he had to make sure he was somewhere warm and he had a place to sleep.
In the back of his mind, he couldn't imagine going back to the forest without Stanley, someone that could fend off a gremloblin, someone to break Fiddleford's fear of exploration. He knew Stanley could do it, he didn't know how much he needed him until he was dead.
He wouldn't be dead this time, Stanford would make sure of it.
The post card looked eerily similar to the one that he’d sent Stanley the day he unknowingly sent his twin to his untimely death, maybe that's how it would always look no matter the timeline, maybe another Stanford knew how to put his sorrow into words, but he didn't, he left the card with the post office and prayed on his way back home that it made it to Stanley, and that Stanley made his way back to him the way he had last time.
His house had many rooms, Stanley could stay in the attic, it was mostly full of Bill Cipher memorabilia, but the idea of his brother shivering in the attic under the threat of a snowstorm nearly sent Stanford into a spiral, no, if he wanted to bring Stanley here, he’d need his own room, preferably one as close to Stanford as physically possible.
“Stanford… are you okay?” Fiddleford was standing at the stairwell, Stanford was standing in front of the wall across the hall from his room in front of a wall, or what used to be a wall, now all that stood there was a gaping hole in the house, Stanford's arms ached under the weight of the sledgehammer, his face burning with the cold of the snowstorm outside, but his heart was warm with his progress in his impromptu demolition.
“Never better Fidds!” Stanford looked over his shoulder at his best friend, who was looking at him with eyes wide as saucers. “Just making a new doorway, Corduroy should be here in an hour and I wanted a head start!”
“Couldn't your brother just stay in the attic?” Stanford rolled his eyes, explaining to Fiddleford about how Stanley had been homeless for an indeterminate amount of time, and the dangers of high altitudes on the immune system, he wasn't fully convinced that he heard all of it through the sound of wood being crushed under the sledgehammer but he hoped he got his point across. “What about the parlor?”
“That's the other end of the house, Fiddleford!” Stanford looked at his assistant like he’d just grown a second head, “I don't want him to think I’m trying to avoid him!”
“You're acting like we just adopted a child that was going to die in three months…” Fiddleford trailed off.
“He might!” Stanford looked away from the remains of the wall, his eyes sparkling with mania as Fiddleford took one last drink from his coffee and placed it on a small table next to him.
“Alright, looks like someones ready for bed.”
Sometimes, it was hard to appreciate common sense.
That's how Stanford ended up back in his room, staring blankly at the small streak of color that stretched across his ceiling from his reflective prism, fiddling idly with his extra finger on both hands. He’d tried leaving when he’d heard boyish Dan arrive in the house, only to realize that there was more than likely a chair on the other end of his door. Now he was forced to wait and stare at nothing while he heard Fiddleford explain to Dan exactly what he wanted the room to look like.
Stanford wasn't worried about the room, Fiddleford knew him well enough to know what he wanted the room to look like, and more than likely already knew how to use his grant to expand his house.
There was no telling what he would do to the room if Stanley didn't want to stay, or what he would do to the room if his brother didn't make it here. A memorial room felt wrong, he didn't have enough memorabilia of Stanley to do something like that, and there was no way they would be able to make a room that could fit a car.
What would Stanley think of all this? Would he assume that his brother had finally lost it and book it back for the streets, to the ocean… down down down… Stanford slapped himself before he went back down that rabbit hole, that was forever ago in his lifetime, and he knew Stanley didn't blame him then, and he’d have no reason to blame him now.
Stanford stood up from his bed, footsteps ringing across his room as Fiddleford walked down toward his room. Something scraped across the ground before three soft knocks rang through the house and his door was opened.
“Dan and his family finished the room if you want to come look at it.” Stanford raised an eyebrow. He knew that Dan was good, but the estimated time was supposed to be around two weeks, not a couple hours.
Now, he was standing in an entirely new room, the air crisp with that fresh cut wood smell as light filtered in through the window to his right. The room was a carbon copy of his own, Fiddleford told him that they would be able to go furniture shopping once Stanley came over and they would be able to make him comfortable as soon as possible,
The ground was a dark pine color, the fresh stain glittering under the sunlight as Stanford moved through the room. The walls were still barren, and installation had yet to be put up but he didn't think Stanley would mind, worst case scenario, he takes Stanley to town and pays Fiddleford to put the installation up himself.
Ford breathed a sigh of relief, everything was almost set up, he and Fiddleford had enough food to last them until next week, so they didn't need to worry about going into town any time soon, They had plenty of time to tie up any loose ends before they could even think of welcoming Stanley into their home.