Work Text:
Rarely, Ford traversed a dimension so like his own that he could forget, for a moment, that he was not in fact home. He would stand on green grass beneath a pale blue sky and for the briefest of moments, he would entertain the thought that it had all been a dream. That he was standing on a hill on the outskirts of Gravity Falls, and all the terror he had witnessed, all the days, and months, and years of wandering had all been in his head, a vivid dream he’d had after falling asleep under a tree in the forest.
He stood, on this particular morning, gazing up at the hazy wisps of clouds above him. In the pale blue of the sky, he could see the crescent moon just over a range of snow-capped mountains. And below it, another moon, nearly full, following the first into the sky.
Ford breathed in the sharp chill of morning air and let it out again slowly.
Two moons.
Not Earth.
Not home.
He bent down and lifted his battered old satchel over one shoulder. Reflexively, he ran his hand along his belt to make certain that his handgun was holstered at his hip. He could feel the weight of his rifle on his back. He kicked up the ashes that were left from the fire he’d had the night before and did his best to hide the signs that anyone had recently camped in the small grove of trees. Then he turned away from the mountains, his back to the moons, and started walking.
He’d read plenty of science fiction novels in his youth, though he’d grown out of them as he became interested in real scientific phenomena. Still, he remembered many of the stories, the cheap drugstore paperbacks he’d picked up with his allowance when he could. But for all those authors’ imaginative ideas, no description of otherworldly planes ever could have prepared him for for the real thing, for REAL interdimensional travel.
For example, none of those authors ever mentioned just how strenuous and ultimately exhausting interdimensional travel was. Hour after hour on your feet, day after day without food, and week after week without a proper shower...
He could see signs of civilization a ways ahead of him, though the type was difficult to tell. It was definitely no major modern city; it looked more like a small town, the likes of which might be the setting for some 1950s American sitcom.
Approaching any form of civilization was a double-edged blade with Stanford. On the one hand, it held the possibility of replenishing his supplies: food, water, ammunition. As well as the possibility of a bed to sleep in and a shower (or whatever form of cleaning-oneself the locals prefered). On the other hand, it also held the possibility of crossing paths with Bill’s henchmen or bounty hunters who could recognize him on sight...But, being in the position that he was, there were times when he had no choice but to seek out civilization. And at the moment, he was particularly limited of supplies.
...
Ford sat at the counter and ordered what appeared to him to be a kind of breakfast. The names of the foods were unfamiliar to him, but there was no real way to convey his constitution to the bartender, who appeared (nearly) human, except for the greenish hue of his skin, and the ever-so-slightly too large violet eyes. In most cases, Ford found, he had little choice but to eat whatever was most acceptable to the locals and worry about the consequences later. The same went for paying for his food: Always easier to eat first and hope his money was accepted after.
The bartender stepped away from the bar and Ford turned his head to do a brief sweep of the room. It was a small establishment, and the sunlight gave it a rather homey atmosphere. It reminded Ford of the sort of places that showed up in old fashioned Westerns, except that it was patronized by more of the same green-skinned, violet-eyed creatures as the bartender. No one seemed to be paying much attention to him, despite his difference in appearance. He thought they must see unusual travelers here frequently enough for the novelty to have worn off. In fact, a couple of humans were seated in a corner of the room, a man somewhat older than Ford and a boy in his early teens. Ford watched them for a while, wondering where they’d come from, if there was any chance at all that they were from his particular patch of the multiverse. The man glanced up and met his eyes with a wry grin and Ford looked away quickly.
Unlikely. True interdimensional travel was rare in the multiverse, so rare that he doubted if there were more than a handful of Earths where it was ever achieved. The sort of technology just didn’t exist to allow anyone else from his dimension to BE here. The only way to the multiverse from his Earth was through the now-defunct portal in the basement of his lab, and Ford himself would never have been able to build that without--
Ford breathed in sharply and released the tension in his clenched hands.
He noticed movement and glanced up to see the man and the boy rising from their seats. He turned his face back to the bar, scratching at his neck and listening to their footsteps amid the general murmur of the other patrons in the room. Ford had the distinct sensation that the footsteps were approaching him, that the man was closing the distance between them, coming unnaturally close to him...
“Word of advice,” the stranger muttered close to Ford’s ear and Ford grimaced at the stench of alcohol coming off him. “There’s a bounty hunter in town gu-unnin for ya. Might wanna hurry along.”
Ford glanced over his shoulder with a frown. The stranger was tall and lean, dressed in a t-shirt and lab coat (that had seen better days), and he reeked of alcohol, despite the earliness of the hour. The young man who was with him was approaching slowly, his demeanor meek and nervous. Ford shifted his weight slightly, trying to keep his attention on the both of them. If there was one thing he’d learned since falling into the portal, it was not to underestimate anyone or anything.
“Thanks for the advice,” Ford said, stiffly. “But I’ll take my chances.”
The man shrugged, straightening up and reaching into his coat. Ford tensed and moved one hand to his holstered gun. But the stranger withdrew a silver flask and brought it to his lips, tilting his head back for a swig. “Suit yourself,” he said with a belch and Ford wrinkled his nose at the stink. “But, if you’re willing to pay, I could help you outta town in a hurry.”
“Excuse me?” Ford asked, raising a brow.
“Aw c’mon, Rick,” the boy muttered, “he hasn’t got any money…”
“Sure he has, Morty, look at that gun.” Ford tensed a little more as the man gestured to the rifle on his back. “That gun’s from Dimension K-254, they cost an arm and a leg, Morty--literally. So seeing as Mr. Stanford Pines here’s still got all his limbs, I’m thinking he paid in cash.”
Ford’s stomach twisted. There was nothing quite like the unnerving feeling of being addressed by his name by strangers in unfamiliar places.
Ford looked from one to the other sharply, finishing on the one whose name, apparently, was Rick. “...what are you getting at?” he finally managed.
“I’m just sa-aying,” Rick said, “for the right price, I can get you outta here real quick, ‘fore that bounty hunter gets here and starts shooting.”
Ford frowned. His heart had begun pounding in his chest. Either this stranger was telling the truth and Ford was, in fact, in danger, or he was lying, in which case, he was likely after Ford’s bounty himself. But even if he was telling the truth, he might very well still be after Ford’s bounty, and simply hoping to snag him before a competitor appeared on the scene.
Morty crept nearer, gesturing toward him awkwardly. Ford’s hand closed on his holstered gun. “Aw c’mon, Rick, h-he’s down on his luck, look at him. He hasn’t got any money. Let’s just help him.”
Rick shot the boy a look, “What’s in it for me then, Morty??”
“P-please, Rick? I feel bad for him. He’s like a sad homeless guy.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Ford spat, looking at the young man sharpy. Morty cringed a little, taking a step back. Ford turned his glare back on Rick, who seemed, if anything, amused by Ford’s snapping. “Nor am I looking for help from a stranger who’s more than likely after my bounty himself. Thank you but no thank you.”
Rick snorted and took another swig of his flask. He belched as he put it away in his coat and shrugged, withdrawing an unusual looking gun from his pocket. For a moment Ford’s gut went tight with fear, then it eased as he stared at the device. It somehow didn’t appear to be a projectile weapon like any Ford had ever seen, despite its uncanny resemblance to a gun. Ford turned slightly more in his seat to look at it, interest flickering in his eyes. “What...is that?”
“Nothin’ much,” Rick replied. “Just an interdimensional portal gun.”
A strange, unfamiliar feeling rose up in Ford’s chest. “A-a what?”
“A gun. Opens portals to other dimensions,” Rick said, glancing back at Ford now, smug victory written on his features. “Could get ya outta here real quick, and to just about anywhere you please. Fo-or a price.”
Ford stared at him, his heart still pounding. “Anywhere?” he asked.
Rick grinned. “Got you-ur interest, Stanford?”
Ford stared at this man, knowing full well that he had no reason at all to trust him. But the possibilities--the portal gun, a device that made interdimensional travel not only possible but convenient, a device that allowed you to control and direct your path…
Ford dragged his eyes from the gun back to Rick’s face. “What sort of a price are we talking?”
…
Ford sunk into the backseat of the little ship, breathing deeply, staring out at the stars drifting by around him. His two ‘rescuers’ were still bickering in the front of the ship, but Ford got the impression from listening to them that this was the general tone and intensity of all their interactions. He turned toward the glass once more and caught a glimpse of himself, hazily reflected in the glass. His hair was greyer than he remembered it being. His face dirty. His stubble thick and wiry.
In the end, Morty had been right. Ford did have significantly less money than Rick seemed to have thought. Though Rick was right about the value of Ford’s gun, he had been mistaken in assuming Ford had purchased it. In the middle of a shootout he’d unwittingly stumbled upon, Ford had filched the gun off a dead man without even realizing its value at the time. Rick made a show of his disappointment (it involved quite a lot of cursing) over Ford’s lack of funds, but once they’d begun discussing the possibility of taking Ford with them, Morty--whom Ford came to suspect was Rick’s grandson--stubbornly insisted they not leave ‘the pathetic-looking space hobo’ in the hands of a bounty hunter.
It was only after Rick agreed to taxi Ford to another dimension for the low, low cost of almost nothing that the bounty hunter (whom Ford had begun to suspect was entirely fictional) burst into the saloon, very much real, and started shooting. With no time to discuss the specifics of their travel plans, Rick plugged something into the gun and fired it at the nearest wall. Ford had a brief awareness of a large, swirling green vortex, and then he was dragged through it with a sensation like having his entire body disassembled and reassembled in the space of 0.05 seconds.
It was not unlike the experience of falling into his own portal all those years prior...
“HEY!”
Ford jumped, jolted back to the moment at hand. He turned toward the front of the ship to see Rick was glaring at him in the rearview mirror. “You decide where y-you want dropped off yet?”
Ford knew he was being ungrateful, but he had spent approximately forty minutes now in Rick’s presence and had already come to find the man detestably annoying. “Excuse me?”
Rick’s frustration was evident. Ford suspected the sentiment was shared. “In which dimension,” he asked slowly, with a tone like he was speaking to an idiot, “can I drop your sorry ass?”
Ford stared back at Rick’s reflection in the mirror, indignance making him even more stubborn than usual. “I don’t know yet.”
As it turned out, Rick’s gun had its limitations, altho Ford should have realized that himself. You had to know where you were going--exactly where you were going--or you wouldn’t be going anywhere at all. There was an infinite number of dimensions in the cosmos with more than a few Earths in tow, and Stanford Pines, for all his time in the multiverse, had no idea which particular one was his own. So an interdimensional portal gun while still an invention of singular interest to Stanford Pines, was of little use to a man who had no idea where it was he was trying to return to.
Rick cursed and belched and leaned forward in his seat such that Ford could no longer see his face in the mirror. “Morty, goddammit, you made me into an interdimensional taxi driver!”
Morty was fidgeting in the seat beside him. “Geez, Rick, he’s lost or something, don’t be so hard on him.” The young man twisted around in his seat to face Ford and Ford frowned at him. “H-hey buddy, I’m Morty Smith,” he said with a smile. Ford once again got the impression that he was being spoken to as though he was an idiot. Morty leaned over the side of his seat to offer his hand and Ford regarded it with discomfort.
“Stanford Pines,” he answered, pointedly ignoring the offered hand. After a moment, Morty withdrew it.
The boy was still smiling (pityingly) and if anything it only made Ford more testy. Down on his luck as he was, he was still capable of taking care of himself (for the most part). And even if he did occasionally need help from strangers, he certainly didn’t need their pity. “R-Rick says you’re an outlaw,” Morty said, hopefully.
"Geez Morty, you're making it sound like a fucking big deal. We’re all outlaws if you wanna get fucking technical about it."
Ford frowned at the back of Rick’s head for a moment before glancing back at Morty again. The boy looked apologetic and awkward, and Ford felt his nerves were being tested. These people just saved your life, Stanford, even if you had to pay them to do it. You’d be on your way to the Nightmare Realm right now if not for them. Be grateful.
Ford took a deep breath and let it out again, doing his best to turn off the part of himself that wanted to lash out. “I’m just trying to stay alive,” he said finally.
Rick barked a laugh and it made Ford’s anger flare up once again. “Yeah, not something you need to worry about, Six Fingers,” Rick remarked. Ford subconsciously curled his fingers into the palms of his hands. “Cipher wants you alive--for the time being, at least. Anyone who delivers you to him dead is gonna see their own head roll.”
Ford tensed at the mention of Bill and sank a little deeper into his seat. “In that case, can I ask why you aren’t delivering me to him yourself?”
Rick smirked smugly in the rearview mirror. “Because I’m not stupid enough to make deals with Cipher.”
Ford grimaced and folded his arms across his chest, looking outside the window once more. The stars continued to drift past, distant and otherworldly. Morty glanced at his grandfather, then back at Ford again. The silence was heavy and awkward.
“Who’s--”
“It’s not important,” Ford snapped.
Rick chuckled and Morty glanced at him, but to Ford’s relief, the man didn’t elaborate on the identity of the...creature he’d mentioned.
Morty slowly turned back around to look at Ford again. “Uh...s-so...d-do you really have six fingers?”
“Yes,” Ford answered flatly, though he made no movement to show them.
Morty lapsed. After a moment, he tried again, “That’s pretty cool.”
“Jesus Morty," Rick snapped, "THAT'S impressive, is it? Six fingers?? You’ve seen stranger things without ever leaving the fucking garage, will ya calm down?”
Morty twisted back around in his seat, defensive. “I-I’m just making conversation, Rick! I’m trying to be a good host! Since w-we’ve got this guy in our ship and we’ve gotta take him somewhere now, t-the least we can do is be nice to him!”
“Look, you can drop me wherever is convenient for you,” Ford said stiffly. Morty turned and looked back at him, looking rather defeated. Rick’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. Ford continued to stare outside. “I don’t seem to stay anywhere for long so it doesn’t make much difference to me where you leave me. I won’t be there long.”
Rick made a grunt and punched something into the controls on the console. Morty glanced at him, then looked back at Ford again, but this time, mercifully, the boy didn’t attempt to coax Ford back into conversation. After a moment, he turned back around in his seat and stared down at his hands in his lap.
Ford watched the stars for a moment longer, then he settled back into the seat once more, and finally closed his eyes.
…
“Yeah, I got ‘im with me. He’s sle-eepin in the back.”
Ford breathed in slowly. It was quiet. The air was cool.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s him. His poster’s all over the fuckin’ multiverse.”
Ford squeezed his eyes shut tighter as consciousness returned to him slowly. Rick belched in the front of the ship. Ford could hear the muffled sound of another voice through a tiny speaker; distant, indistinguishable.
Rick was on a phone call.
“Alright, look,” Rick said, “I’m not delivering him all the way to you, he’s a pain in the ass, and yo-our place is a pain to get to. Send someone to come take ‘im off my hands.”
Ford swallowed, opening his eyes slowly. He could see the back of Rick’s head in the low light. They weren’t in space any more. They were parked on land beneath a dark, night sky. Clouds drifted across a moon far too large to be Earth’s. The ship’s glass dome was open, and a cool breeze, smelling like rain, was drifting through.
Rick had a small comm device up to his ear. Morty’s seat was empty.
“And I’ll be compensated for turning him over?” Rick asked. The voice on the other end responded, muffled. Rick chuckled. “So-ounds great. It’s a deal.”
Ford twisted in his seat and shoved himself up, vaulting over the side of the ship and hitting the ground running. He took off into the night, having no idea where he was or where he was going, only knowing only that he had to get away.
Rick shouted something after him, a string of curses, but Ford ignored him and kept running, diving into the underbrush and onward into what felt like a forest.
Trust no one.
Trust no one.
Trust no one.
…
Jheselbraum listened to the sound of Rick’s cursing on the other end of the comm. She sighed quietly. She had known it wasn’t going to work, and yet some small part of her had still hoped that she’d been wrong. “Jhes, dammit,” Rick’s voice came through, “he’s off runnin, I’m gonna have to chase the son of a bitch down--”
“It’s fine, Mr. Sanchez,” she said gently. “Let him go.”
“What??”
“He’ll find his way here eventually. Fear not, you’ll be paid.” Rick began to sputter out questions on the other end. “Thank you, Rick Sanchez, your assistance in this matter is appreciated. I will forward the funds to your account. That will be all.”
She set the communicator down, ending the call.
…
Ford collapsed at the foot of a tree, gasping in breaths, tugging at the scarf around his neck, desperate for air. He had heard no sign that Rick had followed him, but he could hear nothing now over the sound of his pounding heart. He hugged his knees to his chest and choked out a sob that had suddenly risen out of nowhere. His body was shaking, his mind racing. He’d let his guard down for one minute and he’d nearly been delivered into Bill’s hands…
He sat for a long while at the foot of the tree, choking back sobs and listening for the sound of footsteps in the brush. They never came. Slowly, his heart rate calmed, and his adrenaline faded. He stretched out his legs and tugged his rifle off his back, holding the gun in his lap and leaning back on the tree, still catching his breath.
A cold rain began to fall, softly, and he huddled up once more in the shelter of the tree he’d collapsed under. With his adrenaline fading and his eyes adjusting, he took a cautious look at the dark forest around him. It was...inarguably alien. The trees twisted and curled in unnatural ways, their bark smooth and dabbled. The underbrush, shivering under the rainfall, was made of soft, fluffy plants, almost featherlike, and deeply colored in the hazy moonlight attempting to break through the foliage above.
He wondered what dimension he was in, what planet he was on...He had no idea whatsoever where in the multiverse he was, and that thought, desperate and disoriented, began to fuel another spark of panic deep inside him.
Ford stuffed a hand into the interior of his coat and fished around in the pockets in the lining til his fingers closed around a brittle piece of paper, which he tugged out and clutched in his hand.
A photograph, badly worn; himself and his brother, aged 9, standing on the deck of their ramshackle boat on a New Jersey beach in the sun...What year was that again…?
He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, clutching the photograph in one hand, the rifle in the other.
Trust no one.
Trust no one.
Trust...